All Chapters of Bend me over, Professor : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

“Ahh fuck yeah…”The sound slips out before I can cage it back. A moan, soft and perfectly timed. Measured, rehearsed. Reflex, not real.Not because Evan is making me feel something. Not because pleasure is unfurling inside me. No, it’s because I’ve learned the script. Because that’s what girlfriends do.His weight smothers me, pinning me into the mattress. His chest damp and sticky against mine, his rhythm steady and predictable. Thrust, pull back. Thrust, pull back. A machine could do it better.Evan always starts slow, like he’s seen in some late-night movie where “romance” is supposed to simmer into passion. He thinks it’s foreplay. He thinks it builds suspense. It never does.The room is dark except for the glow of the alarm clock, but my eyes stay open, pinned on the ceiling fan. The old thing creaks with every slow spin, a hypnotic circle I count to distract myself.One. Two. Three.Anything to stop me from noticing the way my body is numb.I don’t think about Evan . I don’t

“Another shot.”The words come out louder than I intend, sharp as glass against the vanity. The empty tumbler clatters against the wood with a satisfying crack, like punctuation on my unraveling.Chantelle lifts her head from where she’s sprawled across my bed, already three shots in herself, eyeliner smudged to perfection. One brow arches in mock warning. “Babe, we haven’t even left yet. What are you trying to do, set a personal record?”“I’m pacing myself perfectly,” I lie, fingers already reaching for the vodka. My pulse thrums with every pour. “This is called pre-gaming with intention.”She snorts, rolling onto her stomach to watch me line my lips in the mirror. “Intention to what? Black out before eleven?”“Intention to forget the five years of my life I wasted on that asshole.” My mascara wand trembles in my grip, betraying more than I want her to see. I drag it upward anyway, blinking through the sting. “Is that too much to ask?”“Fair point.” Chantelle sits up, gaze sharpening

The train back to campus always feels like surfacing from a three-day drowning.I'm sprawled on my bed, staring at my color-coded planner like it's going to spontaneously combust. My phone's been buzzing all weekend—two days of this dangerous texting game.Every message felt like he was still making me come apart with those ridiculously skilled fingers. Still no clue how he got my number or what his actual name is.I kept responding like some kind of addict. Yesterday I finally cracked and asked what I should save him as in my contacts.Me: How's your mysterious life of crime?Unknown: Thriving. Your parents lecture you about responsible choices?Me: Obviously. Speaking of which, what should I save you as in my phone? 'Random Hookup #3' feels a bit harsh.Three dots. Forever.Unknown: ‘Private Room Service’.I actually choked on my coffee. Arrogant bastard knew exactly what he was advertising—and exactly what he'd left unfinished.Me: You're unbelievable.Unknown: But accurate. Five-s

“You’re smiling at your phone again,” Chantelle said, stabbing her fork through a pile of syrup-drenched waffles like it had personally betrayed her. “Let me guess. Mystery Daddy?”I froze the mid-sip of my coffee.“It is him.” She gasped. “The man who made you orgasm through a keyboard. Jesus Christ.”I threw a piece of toast at her face. She caught it with her mouth like a gremlin.“Don’t say it like that,” I muttered, cheeks burning.“Why not?” she grinned, chewing obnoxiously. “You look like you’re blushing from the inside. Is he texting you right now? Gonna tell you when to touch your nipples next?”“Chantelle!”“What?” She shrugged, all innocent eyes and red nail polish. “I’m just proud of you. My little academic virgin turned emotionally damaged erotica princess.”“I’m not—” I paused. “Never mind.”The truth was… she wasn’t totally wrong. Our texts had shifted. Grown deeper. More specific. More raw.He still hadn’t told me his name. He

My brain short-circuits. Like, completely fucking flatlines.Because here's the thing about having your carefully compartmentalized life explode in your face: there's this moment where you either run screaming or lean into the absolute insanity of it all.I should leave. Walk out. Report him. Pretend this never happened and transfer to a different section. Instead, I'm calculating how long it's been since someone cleaned this office carpet."You're insane," I whisper, but my knees are already starting to buckle."Probably." His voice carries that same dark amusement from our texts. "But you're still here."Fuck. He's right."This is—" I start, then stop. What is this? Inappropriate? Illegal? The hottest thing that's ever happened to me? All of the above?“This is you getting exactly what you asked for,” he said, voice rough and low, like gravel wrapped in silk.His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair—not harsh,