THE CURSE OF LUST
Guilt clung to me sometimes when I thought I might have shattered his heart, and I resented myself for it, bitter and unyielding.
But it was Professor Ashford who lingered. He haunted me, relentless, impossible to ignore. Especially at night. My body betrayed me, burning with a hunger I could neither name nor soothe, craving him in ways I had never allowed, never touched, never claimed. Even the faintest thought of him—his gaze, the tilt of his head, the precise way he moved—made my skin tingle, made my fingers roam where I needed. I moaned his name softly, trembling as my imagination traced the heat of him across me, his hands on my body that had never actually felt his touch, and yet felt