Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 208

Sophie’s POV

I find Adrian in our bathroom, standing at the sink with the first aid kit open, attempting to clean the cut above his eyebrow with shaking hands.

He's still drunk, his movements uncoordinated, and he's only succeeding in making the bleeding worse.

"Let me," I say quietly from the doorway.

He looks at me through the mirror, his expression guarded, defensive. For a moment I think he'll refuse. Then his shoulders slump slightly and he sets down the alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

I take the first aid supplies from his hands and guide him to sit on the edge of the bathtub. Position myself between his knees, close enough that I have to steady myself with one hand on his shoulder.

He smells like whiskey and sweat and blood.

Neither of us speaks as I work. I clean the wound carefully—antiseptic first, dabbing gently despite how it must sting. Adrian flinches but doesn't pull away.

The cut isn't as bad as it looked with all the blood, but it's going to bruise spectacularly. I apply butterfly bandages, pulling the edges of the split skin together with steady hands.

My nursing is methodical, practiced. But my mind is racing. Three days until the wedding. Three days and everything is falling apart—secrets about Lolita, fights in alleys, confessions I never asked to hear.

When I finish with the eyebrow, I take Adrian's hands in mine. His knuckles are split, raw, already swelling from where he hit Bellamy. I press gentle kisses to each one, feeling him tense beneath my touch.

His breath catches. "Sophie."

"I love you," I say quietly, looking up at him. "I'm marrying you in three days. That hasn't changed."

Adrian's eyes search mine, looking for cracks, for doubts, for evidence that Bellamy's confession shifted something fundamental. I keep my expression steady, certain. Even though inside I feel anything but.

"Bellamy has protected us for months," I continue carefully. "He's been loyal, been there when we needed him. Firing him, banning him from the wedding—it's not necessary."

Adrian's jaw tightens immediately. "He's in love with you, Sophie. He admitted it to my face. How am I supposed to just…"

I shift closer, cutting off his words by sliding my hands up his thighs. His breath hitches. I lean in until my mouth is near his ear, my voice low and intimate.

"Please. For me. Let him come to the wedding, let us end this properly, with grace instead of bitterness."

I kiss his neck, just below his ear where I know he's sensitive. Feel his pulse jump beneath my lips. Move to his jaw, the corner of his mouth, teasing without giving him what he wants.

"I'm yours," I whisper against his lips. "In three days I'll be your wife. Legally. Permanently. Yours."

My hands slide higher on his thighs, not quite touching where I know he wants them. "But I need you to show me you're better than jealousy, better than vindictiveness."

I pause, let the next words carry weight. "Better than your father."

Adrian flinches like I've struck him. The comparison to his cold, controlling father—it's the nuclear option and we both know it. But it works. I feel his resistance crumble, his body softening beneath my hands.

"Fine," he says, voice rough with surrender and want. "He can come to the wedding. But after the wedding, he's gone. Completely. No more security detail, no more proximity. He walks away and stays away."

"Yes," I agree immediately, relief flooding through me. "After the wedding. I promise."

I seal the agreement with a kiss, my mouth finally meeting his. What starts tender quickly turns urgent, desperate.

Adrian's hands find my waist, pulling me fully against him. His fingers tangle in my hair, holding me in place as he kisses me with an intensity that tastes like whiskey and possession and fear of losing me.

I respond in kind, pouring everything into this kiss—reassurance, commitment, apology for feelings I never meant to have. My hands frame his face, careful of his injured eyebrow, and I kiss him like I'm trying to prove something. Maybe I am.

We're both breathing hard when we finally break apart. Adrian rests his forehead against mine, his hands still gripping my waist like I might disappear if he lets go.

"I don't want to lose you," he says quietly, vulnerability cracking through his usual control. "The thought of you wanting someone else, even a little—it makes me insane."

"You're not losing me," I tell him, and I mean it.

Whatever complicated feelings exist with Bellamy, whatever doubts have crept in—I'm still here. Still wearing Adrian's ring, still planning to marry him in three days.

"I chose you. I'm choosing you. That's not changing."

He pulls me closer, burying his face in my neck. I hold him, running my fingers through his hair, feeling the tremor in his shoulders that might be emotion or alcohol or exhaustion. Probably all three.

"Come to bed," I whisper after a long moment. "It's late. We both need sleep."

Eventually we make it to the bedroom. Adrian strips off his clothes and collapses onto the mattress with the graceless exhaustion of someone who's drunk and emotionally wrung out. I change into pajamas, moving through the familiar routine on autopilot while my mind spins.

I turn off the lights and slide in beside him. His arm comes around me immediately, possessive even in his near-unconscious state. His breathing evens out within minutes, the alcohol and exhaustion pulling him under.

I lie awake in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, listening to Adrian's soft snores.

And I remember.

Emma at the spa, mentioning the art gallery. Adrian with an elegant older woman, clearly close, deep in conversation. Wednesday night—when Adrian told me he had a department meeting that ran late.

Lolita. It had to be Lolita.

I meant to confront him about it. Meant to demand answers about why he lied, what they discussed, what secrets they're keeping. The entire drive to the club tonight was fueled by that need to know, that growing certainty that Adrian is hiding something significant.

But then I found him bleeding in an alley. Found out about Bellamy's confession. Got caught up in damage control and manipulation and trying to hold together a wedding that feels increasingly fragile.

The questions about Lolita sit heavy in my chest now, unasked and unanswered. I should wake Adrian up. Should demand the truth right now, tonight, before we lose another day to avoidance and secrets.

But I look at him sleeping beside me—the butterfly bandages on his eyebrow, the split knuckles, the vulnerability in his face when all his careful control is stripped away by alcohol and exhaustion. And I think about the fight we just had, the fragile peace we just negotiated, the manipulation I just engaged in to get what I wanted.

I don't have the energy for another confrontation tonight. Don't have the strength to hear another revelation that might crack our foundation further. The night has already taken too much from both of us.

Tomorrow, I tell myself. I'll ask tomorrow. Or the next day. We'll sit down properly, calmly, and I'll ask about Lolita and the gallery and whatever he's been hiding. We'll clear the air before the wedding. We'll go into our marriage with honesty.

The lies I tell myself to get through the night.

Adrian's arm tightens around me in his sleep, and I close my eyes. Try to quiet my racing thoughts. Try to convince myself that letting this go for now is wisdom rather than cowardice.

Three days until the wedding: plenty of time to ask the hard questions, plenty of time to demand the truth.

So I let it go.