3. Fuck Me, Professor!

I lasted exactly four days before I broke.

Four days of sitting in his classroom with my thighs pressed together and my pen moving across my notebook on autopilot while Professor Vincenzo Ferraro lectured about Renaissance literature like he hadn't had his fingers inside me on his desk.

Like I hadn't cried his name while I fell apart.

Like none of it had happened. He never looked at me. Not even once. He called on every other student, moved through the room with that controlled, unhurried grace, and treated me like I was invisible.

A mere piece of furniture.

It was the most effective torture I'd ever experienced. And Luca noticed on day two.

"You look like you haven't slept a wink," he said, dropping into the seat beside me in the campus café, sliding a coffee across the table without being asked.

"I've slept fine." I countered, putting on my best poker face.

"You have the face of someone who's been staring at the ceiling thinking about something they shouldn't."

I wrapped both hands around the cup and said nothing.

He was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully… "Did something happen? After he took you to his office?"

I stared down at the cup, but my silence answered for me.

"Seren." His voice dropped. "What did he do?"

"Nothing I didn't want." I met his eyes. "Drop it, Luca."

He studied me for a long moment, something moving behind his expression that I didn't have the bandwidth to examine. Then he leaned back and picked up his own coffee.

"You know this is going to destroy you," he said quietly. "He's your professor."

"I know what he is." I shot back.

"Do you?" He looked at me. "Because you've wanted him for three years and now something happened, and he's acting like it didn't, and you're already unraveling. That's not nothing."

It wasn't nothing. He was absolutely right, and I hated him for it.

I hated Vincenzo more for making it true.

I went to his office at 6pm when the building was mostly empty. Telling myself it was about the essay he'd handed back with a single line of feedback and no grade.

Purely academic. Professional.

I lasted about thirty seconds believing that, until I was standing just outside his door. 

He was still at his desk when I knocked. He looked up, took me in with one sweep of those dark eyes, and whatever micro-expression crossed his face was gone before I could name it.

"Miss Benson." He set his pen down. "Close the door."

I obeyed, not moving from where I stood. "You didn't grade my essay."

"No." He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "I didn't."

"Why?"

"Because I haven't decided yet whether I can grade your work objectively." His eyes stayed on mine, leveled, and unreadable. 

"Given the circumstances."

The words landed somewhere low in my stomach. "And what are the circumstances, Professor?"

Something flickered on his face. "Don't."

"Don't what?" I took a step forward, then another. "Don't remind you? Don't make it awkward?" Another step until I was standing at the edge of his desk, close enough to see the slight tension in his jaw. 

"You touched me, and then you acted like I didn't exist for four days. I think I'm allowed to make it a little awkward."

He went very still. "You should go home, Seren."

"You used my name." My heart was slamming in my chest. "In this office, four days ago, you used my name."

"I'm aware of what I did." His voice had dropped. The careful composure was doing that thing again, fraying at the edges, just barely, enough to hear the lust in them. "Which is exactly why you should go home."

"What if I don't want to?"

There was silence, then he stood, slowly, and rounded the desk. I held my ground even though every nerve in my body was screaming. 

He stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my chin up, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he said quietly.

"Yes, I do," I said in a steady voice, and I was proud of that. "I've known for three years. You're the one who keeps pretending otherwise."

His hand came up and gripped my chin, tilting my face up further, his thumb pressing lightly against my lower lip. His eyes dropped to my mouth and stayed there.

"If I do this," he drawled, low and deep, "it won't be soft. And I won't apologize for it afterward."

My lips parted under his thumb. "I'm not asking you to."

He crashed his lips on mine in a demanding kiss, stealing every syllable right out of my tongue, his hand moving from my chin to my jaw to fist in my hair, angling my head back exactly where he wanted it.

His other arm hooked around my waist and pulled me flush against him, and I felt every solid inch of what four days of pretending had done to his self-control.

I gasped into his mouth.

"Dio mio," he breathed against my lips. Then he walked me backward until my thighs hit the desk again and lifted me onto it in one fluid motion, stepping between my knees, his hands pushing my skirt up my thighs without hesitation.

"Vincenzo," I breathed out.

"Sì." He pressed his mouth to my jaw, my throat, the curve of my neck, his hands moving over me like he was relearning something he'd been trying to forget. "Tell me to stop, and I stop. Otherwise…" his teeth grazed my pulse point "...silenzio, little bunny."

I grabbed the front of his shirt with both fists and pulled him closer. His fingers found the edge of my underwear and dragged them down my legs, dropping them somewhere on the floor, and then his hand was between my thighs, and I was already embarrassingly, completely ready for him.

"Four days," he murmured against my throat, stroking through my heat slowly, "and you're this wet for me."

"Four days of you ignoring me," I managed.

A low sound vibrated in his chest, like an almost laugh. "Brava." He pushed two fingers inside me and swallowed the cry that left my mouth with another searing kiss, working me open with slow, deep strokes while his thumb pressed against my clit in tight circles. "You want to be angry at me? Be angry. You can do both."

I could barely do either. My head fell back, his mouth following the line of my throat as his fingers fucked me steadily, curling on every inward stroke until I was trembling and incoherent, grinding against his hand with zero shame.

"Please," My nails dug into his shoulders. "I need more, I need you to—"

"I know." He withdrew his fingers, and I almost sobbed, grabbing at him, but then I heard his belt, and my entire body went liquid with anticipation.

He gripped my hips and pulled me to the very edge of the desk, and then the hot pressure of his dick was right there, exactly where I'd been dreaming about for three years, and he paused.

His forehead dropped to mine. "Guardami." Look at me, and

I did.

Slowly, he pushed inside me, inch by devastating inch, and watched my face the entire time, drinking in every flicker of expression, every hitched breath, every moment I tried to look away, and he gripped my chin and brought me back.

"Tutta. Give me all of it."

When he was balls deep inside me, I made a sound that should have embarrassed me, and didn't.

Then he started to move, and I stopped thinking entirely.