2. Fuck Me, Professor!

Luca stepped in front of me, which was either brave or stupid.

Probably both.

"Nothing, sir." His voice was cold. "We were just leaving."

He reached back for my hand, but Professor Ferraro moved faster, one long stride, and his hand closed around my wrist, pulling me clean out of Luca's grip.

"Hey—" Luca started, but one look from Ferraro shut him up completely. Not even a word or threat, just those dark, unreadable eyes settling on him like a verdict, and Luca went still.

"My office, Miss Benson." Ferraro's accent wrapped around my name like a hand around a throat. Gentle, yet commanding. "Now."

He didn't wait; his grip moved from my wrist to my lower back as he steered me forward, and all I could do was throw Luca a small nod over my shoulder that said I was fine while my entire body screamed the opposite.

I was totally not fine. In fact, I was on fire.

His hand burned through the thin fabric of my blouse, every point of contact between his palm and my spine felt like a brand, and I was acutely, miserably aware of how wet I still was from the hallway. 

From the dream before that, and from three years of wanting this man from the third row of his classroom, and never once believing it would lead me here.

His office door opened, and he guided me through it, then clicked it shut behind us.

The lock turned. Oh god.

I stood in the middle of the room and tried to look composed while my thighs pressed together under my skirt.

His office smelled like him, dark cedar, something faintly warm underneath it, expensive and understated.

Books lined every wall, and the late afternoon light cut through the blinds in long golden strips.

He walked toward me slowly, hands loose at his sides, and I backed up instinctively until the edge of his desk pressed into the backs of my thighs.

There was nowhere else to go.

He stopped close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to hold his gaze.

Six feet two of a controlled, quietly furious Italian professor, and I was five four with soaked underwear and absolutely no defense.

"What were you doing out there, little bunny?"

My breath stopped. Little bunny. 

The exact words from my dream. From every dream. My knees nearly buckled.

"I—" I tried, but nothing came out; my mouth was useless.

His jaw tightened, and he reached out slowly and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind my ear, his fingertips grazing my cheekbone, and the touch was so deliberate and so gentle that it was somehow more devastating than anything else he could have done.

"You moan in my class," he said quietly. "You look at me like you want to be ruined." His thumb dragged slowly across my lower lip, pressing just slightly until my mouth parted. "And then I find you in the hallway letting another man touch what isn't his."

My heart slammed in my chest. “What—"

He gripped my hips and spun me before I could finish the sentence, pressing my chest flat against the surface of his desk. The wood was cold against my flushed skin, my breasts crushed against it, and my palms splayed on either side, trying to ground myself.

His body pressed against my back with controlled, like everything he did, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.

"You want to be fucked." That wasn't a question. His mouth was at my ear, his accent low, dark, and private. "So badly you dream about it in my class. So badly you let your little friend touch you in an empty hallway."

His hand slid under my skirt, palm flat against the back of my thigh, dragging upward slowly. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not." The words left me in a breath.

His hand reached the hem of my underwear and stopped there, fingers curled at the edge, not moving.

"Who do you want, Seren?" The use of my first name almost undid me completely. His voice was strained now, all that careful composure cracking at the edges. 

"Say it."

"You." My fingers curled against the desk. "I want you. I've always—"

His fingers pushed my underwear aside and stroked through my center without warning, and the sound I made wasn't dignified or quiet. It was desperate and raw, and I didn't care.

"Cazzo," he breathed against my hair, the Italian slipping out like he hadn't meant it to. His fingers moved slowly, parting me, learning the shape of my cunt with devastating patience. "You're soaked."

"Please…" My hips rolled back against his hand. "Please, I need…"

"I know what you need." Two fingers pressed inside me in one slow, deep thrust, and I gasped so hard I nearly choked on it, my walls clenched greedily around him as he curled them precisely, finding the spot that made my vision go white at the edges. "I've known for a long time, little bunny."

He worked me open slowly, no mercy in his pace, his thumb circling my clit in tight controlled strokes while his fingers fucked me deep and steady.

My hips moved without my permission, riding his hand shamelessly against his desk while the sounds filling the room made my cheeks burn.

"That's it." He growled, low with approval. His free hand fisted in my hair, turning my face to the side so he could see my expression. "Look at you. All that innocence and you fall apart so easily."

"Vincenzo," His name left my mouth before I could stop it, and I felt him go rigid behind me.

"Again." His fingers drove deeper, harder, punishing and perfect. "Say it again."

"Vincenzo! Please…" I begged, my orgasm building as he increased the pace of his fingers, thrusting deep inside me.

"Brava ragazza." His mouth pressed to my temple, my cheek, and then the corner of my jaw. "Come for me, bunny. Don't hold it."

The orgasm cracked through me like something breaking loose, long and rolling, so intense my legs stopped working entirely.

I cried out against the desk, his name dissolving into a wordless murmur, his fingers working me through every aftershock until I was trembling, limp, and completely undone.

He withdrew slowly, pressed his lips to the back of my neck once, and then his weight lifted from behind me.

I heard him straighten, composing himself. When I finally managed to push myself upright and turn around, he was already behind his desk, jacket back on, expression unreadable.

Like nothing had happened, and his fingers weren't wrist deep inside me. 

"Sit down, Miss Benson." He gestured to the chair across from him, his voice entirely calm. "We need to discuss your academic performance."

I stared in stunned silence, my heart still racing.

The ghost of a smile crossed his mouth, just barely, and it was gone before I could be sure I'd seen it.

"Siediti." Sit down, and I sat.