Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 192

Sophie’s POV

I spent all day thinking about my conversation with Cleo. Her words loop in my head on endless repeat: Your heart is somewhere else, even if your body isn't.

The guilt has been eating at me since I left the café, a constant weight in my chest that makes it hard to breathe. Thinking about Bellamy during intimacy with Adrian feels like betrayal—worse than if something physical had actually happened.

At least physical infidelity would be a clear line crossed, a definitive moment I could point to and say "that's where I went wrong."

But this? This emotional wandering, these intrusive thoughts I can't control? It feels insidious, like I'm betraying Adrian from the inside out.

I decide tonight I'll fix it. I'll initiate with Adrian, be completely present, prove to myself and to him that our connection is still strong.

That what we have is real and worth fighting for. That my body and heart are aligned, both choosing him.

I prepare carefully. Shower until my skin is pink and soft, shave everything, use the expensive body oil that makes my skin shimmer.

I dry my hair in loose waves the way Adrian likes, apply makeup with more care than usual—smoky eyes, nude lips, just enough to look polished but natural.

Then I slip into the new lingerie I bought this afternoon on impulse, driven by desperate determination. Black lace, more daring than anything I usually wear.

A balconette bra that pushes my breasts up, matching panties that are little more than strategic lace. When I examine myself in the bedroom mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back.

My heart pounds with nervous anticipation. This will work. It has to work.

I arrange myself on the bed—lying on my side, one leg bent, trying to look seductive rather than awkward. The bedroom door is slightly ajar. Adrian should be home any minute.

When I hear footsteps in the hallway followed by a knock on the bedroom door, my heart races.

"Come in," I call without looking, keeping my eyes on the wall, trying to look sultry and confident.

Silence. It stretches too long, and something about the quality of it makes my skin prickle with awareness.

Then: "Sophie."

Bellamy's voice.

My head snaps up so fast my neck cracks. He stands frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob, staring at me with an expression that makes heat flood my entire body.

His eyes travel from my face down to the black lace barely covering me, lingering on my breasts, the curve of my waist, my legs, before returning to my face with an intensity that steals my breath.

"Oh my God." I scramble for my robe draped over the chair, fumbling with the fabric, my face burning with humiliation. "What are you doing here? Why didn't you knock?"

His response is maddeningly calm, controlled in a way that makes me want to scream. "I did knock. You told me to come in."

"I thought you were Adrian!" I finally get the robe on, tying it with shaking hands, but it's too late. He's already seen everything. "You should have… When you realized… Why are you still looking at me?"

Because he is. Even now, with the robe covering me, his gaze is heavy, heated, traveling over me like a physical touch. There's no apology in his expression, no embarrassment or remorse.

"Where's your remorse?" I demand, anger replacing humiliation because anger is easier, safer.

Something shifts in his face—a slight smile, confident and unapologetic. "I liked what I saw. That's why I watched."

The bold honesty of it hits me like a physical blow. No deflection, no excuses, just raw truth delivered with absolute certainty.

"You…" I can't even form words.

The audacity of it, the complete lack of shame. I launch at him without thinking, fists connecting with his chest, cursing him in a stream of words that would make my sisters blush.

“You arrogant, presumptuous… How dare you!"

Bellamy lets me hit him for maybe three seconds. Then his hands come up, catching both my wrists in a grip that's firm but not painful.

In one smooth motion he spins me around, pressing my back against the wall beside the door, his body close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him.

The reversal leaves me breathless, shocked into complete stillness.

We're inches apart. Close enough that I can count his eyelashes, see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, feel each exhale ghost across my lips.

His hands still circle my wrists, pinning them gently against the wall on either side of my head. Not restraining me—I could pull away if I wanted to. But I'm frozen, paralyzed by the desire burning in his gaze.

"Sophie," he breathes, and my name in his mouth sounds like a prayer and a curse. His eyes drop to my lips, and I see him war with himself, see the restraint it takes not to close that final distance between us.

Then he leans in, his mouth so close to my ear that his whisper sends shivers down my spine: "Adrian is so lucky to get this body every night."

My heart hammers so hard I'm sure he can feel it. I can't move, can't speak, can't think beyond the sensation of his hands on my wrists, his breath on my neck, the barely controlled want radiating from him.

The air between us crackles with everything unspoken—all the tension that's been building for months, all the moments we've pretended don't mean what they mean.

I should push him away. Should slap him. Should do anything except stand here trembling, drowning in the feeling of being seen, wanted, held by hands that ask for nothing but seem to offer everything.

Then Bellamy releases my wrists and steps back, the sudden distance between us like a physical loss. I watch as he visibly collects himself, the professional mask sliding back into place with practiced ease.

But his eyes are still dark with desire when they meet mine.

"You should get dressed," he says, voice carefully neutral now, professional. "Unless you want Adrian to walk in and wonder why we were alone in your bedroom while you're almost naked."

The mention of Adrian's name is like cold water, reality crashing back. Right. Adrian. My fiancé. The man I'm marrying in three weeks. The man I was preparing to seduce to prove my loyalty.

Bellamy turns to leave, hand on the doorknob, then pauses and glances back at me over his shoulder. The hint of a smile plays at his lips—dangerous, knowing.

"Oh, and nice underwear, by the way."

Then he's gone, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly final.

I stand trembling against the wall, my planned seduction completely shattered. The lingerie that was supposed to prove my commitment to Adrian now feels like evidence of something else entirely.

I can still feel where Bellamy's hands gripped my wrists—not the bruising possession of Adrian's grip last night, but something steadier, more certain.

My legs are shaking as I change into regular clothes—jeans and a sweater, armor against the vulnerability I just exposed. The guilt warring with confusion in my chest makes it hard to breathe.

What just happened? What would have happened if he hadn't stepped back?

More importantly: why am I disappointed that he did?

I sit on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, trying to sort through the mess of feelings. I was supposed to fix things tonight. Supposed to prove my heart is with Adrian.

Instead I'm sitting here in regular clothes, body still humming with want for the wrong man, the memory of his breath on my neck making my skin burn.

I'm definitely not in the mood for surprises anymore.

When Adrian comes home twenty minutes later, calling my name cheerfully from the hallway, I force myself to smile and go to him.

But all I can think about is Bellamy's hands on my wrists and the way he looked at me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.