Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 65

We settle on Adrian's leather couch, the familiar red room forgotten entirely. For the first time since I've known him, we're not rushing toward physical intimacy or negotiating power dynamics. I curl my legs beneath me, studying his profile in the warm lamplight.

He looks different somehow—less controlled, more human. The harsh lines of his face have softened, and there's something almost vulnerable in the way he's sitting, one arm draped along the back of the couch, his usual rigid posture relaxed.

"Let's talk," I say, the words feeling foreign on my tongue.

Adrian blinks, like I've spoken in a language he doesn't recognize. "...Talk."

"Well, yeah." I settle more comfortably against the cushions, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "We never really talked, right? About anything real."

He considers this for a moment, and I can see him processing the truth of it. Our entire relationship has been built on physical chemistry and psychological games, carefully orchestrated scenes and negotiated boundaries.

We've shared our bodies but never our thoughts, our desires but never our fears.

"What do you want to know?" he asks finally.

We start with safe topics—books we've read recently, thoughts on contemporary literature, the kind of intellectual discourse that feels natural between us.

Adrian mentions a new translation of Neruda he's been reading, and I tell him about a feminist critique of Victorian novels that's been challenging my assumptions about female agency in literature.

The conversation flows more easily than I expected, and I find myself genuinely enjoying this side of him—the professor without the performance, the man without the carefully constructed dominance.

When he laughs at something I say about a particularly pretentious literary critic, the sound is genuine and warm, completely different from his usual controlled amusement.

But inevitably, the conversation turns to more personal territory.

"Lolita seemed... intense tonight," I say carefully, watching his reaction.

For a moment, I think he's going to deflect like he always does, change the subject or retreat behind that wall of emotional distance. But instead, something shifts in his expression.

"She was my first everything," he says quietly, his gaze fixed on some point beyond my shoulder. "First love, first sexual experience, first heartbreak. She shaped everything I thought I knew about desire and power."

The admission hangs between us like a confession.

"What happened?" I ask gently.

The silence stretches until Adrian speaks, his voice quieter than I've ever heard it.

"Lolita leaving... it broke something in me. Made me believe that caring meant losing control, and losing control meant getting destroyed. So I decided never to care that much again."

My chest aches at his honesty, at the raw pain still evident in his voice after all these years. "Is that why you never..?"

"Never what?"

"Let anyone close." I hesitate, then push forward because this might be my only chance to understand him. "Have you slept with her? Since she came back?"

"No." The answer comes immediately, certain and almost defensive. "Whatever she wants from me, it's not sexual."

I nod, processing this information. But there's another question burning in my throat, one I'm almost afraid to ask.

"And with other women? Since we last saw each other?"

Adrian swallows hard, and I watch his jaw clench with what looks like internal struggle. Finally, he shakes his head.

"No," he admits quietly.

The realization is slowly dawning on both of us—that whatever this is between us has changed him in ways he's only now recognizing.

That his carefully maintained emotional distance has been compromised, that his ability to compartmentalize has somehow failed him.

"Why?" I whisper.

"I don't know," he says, and the admission sounds like it costs him everything. "I used to be able to... to keep things separate. Physical and emotional. But not so long ago, I can't seem to..."

He trails off, but I understand what he's trying to say. That I've gotten under his skin in ways he didn't expect, that his feelings for me have complicated his ability to seek satisfaction elsewhere.

I lean forward, my heart hammering against my ribs as I cup his face in my hands. His skin is warm beneath my palms, the faint stubble along his jaw rough against my fingertips.

When I press my lips to his, it's with infinite gentleness, like I'm handling something precious that might break if I'm not careful enough.

The kiss starts soft, tentative, a question rather than a demand. Adrian's breath catches against my mouth, and I feel him tremble slightly under my touch.

For once, he doesn't deepen the kiss immediately, doesn't try to claim or dominate or turn this into another power game between us. Instead, he lets me lead, lets me set the pace, his lips moving against mine with a tenderness I didn't know he was capable of.

His hands come up to frame my face, mirroring my gesture, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones with reverent care.

"Sophie," he whispers against my lips, my name like a prayer in the quiet room.

I kiss him again, deeper this time, pouring all my feelings into the connection between us. His lips are soft and warm, tasting faintly of the wine we'd shared at dinner, and when he finally opens for me, the kiss becomes something transcendent.

Our tongues meet and dance together, not in the frantic desperation of our usual encounters, but with slow, deliberate exploration.

Adrian's fingers tangle in my hair, but gently, without the possessive grip I've grown accustomed to. He's touching me like I might disappear if he holds too tightly, like this moment is too fragile to survive rough handling.

When he tilts his head to change the angle, I sigh into his mouth, and the sound seems to undo something in him. He kisses me more urgently now but still with that underlying gentleness that makes my chest tight with emotion.

His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me closer until there's no space between us on the couch. I can feel the rapid beat of his heart against my chest, can taste the vulnerability on his tongue as he kisses me.

We simply exist in the moment, breathing each other in, sharing something that feels more intimate than anything we've done in his red room.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, Adrian rests his forehead against mine.

His eyes are still closed, like he's trying to memorize this moment, and I can see the war playing out across his features—the desire to retreat warring with something deeper, more genuine.

This is perfect. This vulnerability, this honesty—it's exactly the opening I need.

"Adrian," I say softly, gathering my courage. "There's something I need to tell you."

He nods, still looking at me with that soft expression, and I think maybe—maybe this will turn out better than I imagined. Maybe we do have something real developing between us, something that could survive the news I'm about to deliver.

"I'm pregnant," I say simply.

The change is instantaneous and devastating. Adrian goes rigid, pulling back like I've burned him.

His face cycles through shock, panic, and something that looks like trapped animal fear. All the warmth and vulnerability I'd glimpsed moments before vanishes, replaced by the kind of horror usually reserved for natural disasters.

He slowly lowers his gaze to my stomach, staring at it with such revulsion you'd think I'd admitted to carrying an alien under my heart instead of our child—blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh.

"No," he says simply. "No, you're not."

"Adrian—"

"No." He jumps to his feet, immediately putting distance between us, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "Fuck. This is... Fuck, what a complete disaster!"

He runs both hands through his hair, already pulling away emotionally, retreating behind those familiar walls I thought we'd finally broken down.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he continues, his voice rising with panic. "This can't be happening. I'm not... I can't be a... I never planned..."

He can't even say the word 'father,' can't even acknowledge what this means. I watch him spiral into full emotional retreat, and I feel my heart shatter into pieces so small they'll never fit back together properly.

This is even worse than I'd imagined. Not anger, not even rejection—just complete horror at the thought of being tied to me, to anyone, in a way that can't be negotiated or controlled.

"I should go," I say, standing on unsteady legs.

I leave him frozen in his living room, looking like his worst nightmare has just come true. And maybe it has.

Maybe the idea of being connected to me, of having a child together, of building something real and lasting, is exactly the kind of prison he's spent his entire adult life avoiding.

The door closes behind me with a soft click, and I realize I finally have my answer about who Adrian Lewis really is when it matters most.

He's exactly the man everyone warned me he would be.