Chapter Six

Adrian barely remembered the walk home.

He moved through campus like a man half-awake, the crisp air biting against his skin, doing nothing—absolutely nothing—to cool the heat still coiled low in his body. His hands were shoved deep in his coat pockets, fists clenched, jaw tight. Anyone who passed him probably thought he was just preoccupied with work.

If only it were that simple.

By the time he reached his apartment, the tension in him had become a physical weight. His keys barely settled onto the table before he braced both hands against the wall, bowing his head as a harsh breath tore from his lungs.

This was… untenable.

He’d spent years building his life around control—predictable habits, firm boundaries, a mind ordered around logic and restraint. And now? One woman—one student—had reduced him to something unsteady and painfully human.

Eden Marlowe.

Even thinking her name made his pulse stutter.

His body was still hard. He hated how quickly it returned every time her image sparked behind his eyes: her soft laugh in the library, her fingers brushing his, the way she’d whispered “you always know exactly what I need.”

He swallowed, throat dry.

He wasn’t a fool. He knew exactly what this was. Biological. Chemical. Stress paired with attraction—it happened. It was normal. Manageable. And the fastest way to break the hold was—

He exhaled, long and slow, as though preparing for something shameful.

It’s just physical.

Just release.

Just getting it out of your system, so you can think clearly again.

He repeated the lie because he needed it to be true.

He walked to his bedroom, undoing the buttons of his shirt with sharp, frustrated motions. The fabric hit the floor, followed by the rest of his clothes. He didn’t turn on the light—darkness felt safer, less like a confession.

He lay back on the edge of his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, forcing steady breaths into lungs that refused to calm.

But the moment he wrapped his hand around himself—already thick, already heavy—his breath broke.

There was no denying the truth then.

No intellectual barrier strong enough to hide behind.

His body wanted her.

He stroked himself slowly, deliberately, trying to frame it as simple, mechanical, practical. A remedy. A reset.

But his mind betrayed him instantly.

He pictured her in the library aisle, reaching above her head, the hem of her sweater lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. He imagined stepping behind her, sliding his hands along her hips, lowering his mouth to her neck—

His hips jerked involuntarily.

He bit back a sound.

This is just to calm down, he told himself, stroking harder now, his breath coming faster. Just a release. Nothing more.

But the lie dissolved as quickly as his restraint.

His body reacted too quickly, too fiercely. He was already hard—aching, flushed, heavy in his palm—and no matter how tightly he shut his eyes, Eden filled the darkness behind them.

This wasn’t passive wanting.

It wasn’t her doing something to him.

It was what he wanted to do to her.

And the moment he stopped fighting it—let the images slip in—his breath broke on a ragged exhale.

He imagined her in his apartment.

Not nervous.

Not shy.

Just… present. Standing in the doorway, sweater sliding off one shoulder, watching him with that steady, curious gaze.

He imagined crossing the room to her—slow, controlled, a mere shadow of the hunger coiling in him. He’d stop in front of her, close enough that he could feel her breath warm his throat but not close enough to touch.

Not yet.

He would lift a hand to her face, his knuckles grazing her cheek, tracing down the line of her jaw. She’d lean into the touch—God, he knew she would. She’d close her eyes for one small second, that soft surrender tightening something deep inside him.

His hand tightened around himself as the fantasy sharpened.

He’d lean forward, breath brushing her ear, and whisper, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

And she’d whisper back, “Then show me.”

His hips jerked at the thought, his pulse hammering so fast he felt light-headed.

He imagined backing her against the wall, caging her in with his body, one hand braced beside her head while the other slid down—slowly, deliberately—over her waist, her hip, the curve of her thigh.

He’d feel the warmth of her skin under his palm as he lifted her leg around his hip, her breath catching as his body pressed fully against hers.

He stroked himself harder, matching the imagined pace of grinding her against the wall, feeling the heat of her body, the softness, the way she would arch into him with a helpless little sound that no fantasy could do justice.

He imagined kissing her—finally fucking kissing her—rougher than he intended, unable to hold back. His mouth would claim hers, his hand sliding into her hair, tilting her head just the way he wanted. She’d kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers curling in his shirt, pulling him closer.

He groaned out loud, hips lifting off the bed.

But it got worse—better—when he pictured lowering to his knees for her.

Not because she asked.

Because he needed to.

He imagined spreading her thighs apart, kissing the inside of one, then the other, her hands threading into his hair as he looked up at her with the kind of devotion he’d never allowed himself to feel.

He’d drag his mouth over her—slow, reverent, unbearably hungry—until she trembled, until she begged, until she came undone against his tongue. He’d hold her through it, gripping her hips, tasting every shudder, every breathless sound.

His fantasy spiraled, unstoppable now.

He imagined lifting her onto his bed, her body soft beneath his palms, her voice breathless as she whispered his name—the way she’d whisper it when she wanted more.

He’d push inside her slowly at first—painfully slowly—just to feel that first deep stretch, that first grip of heat around him. Her legs would tighten around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him harder.

His hand moved faster, his breath breaking.

He imagined fucking her the way he dreamed of:

slow, deep, consuming…

then harder, faster, his mouth on her throat, her nails in his back, her body clenching around him as she shattered beneath him—

The orgasm slammed into him with a force that tore a choked sound from his throat.

It left him shaking.

Breathing hard.

Ruined.

When the wave finally subsided, he collapsed back onto the mattress, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin.

He wiped his hand mechanically, but the ache remained—not in his body, but somewhere deeper, heavier, more dangerous.

Because what he imagined wasn’t casual release.

It was intimacy.

Intensity.

Possession.

Worship.

Desperation.

He hadn’t gotten her out of his system.

He’d etched her deeper into it.

And God help him…

He knew this was only going to get worse.