Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 44

A few days later I climb the stairs to my apartment after what feels like the longest day in academic history, my mind still replaying Cassian's easy smile during his lecture on feminist literary theory.

The way he'd explained the male gaze in Victorian literature had been both intellectually stimulating and somehow incredibly sexy, which probably says disturbing things about my psychological state.

Get it together, Sophie, I tell myself as I reach my floor. You cannot keep having inappropriate thoughts about your professor just because he makes literary criticism sound like foreplay.

I'm fumbling for my keys in the bottom of my bag, mentally cursing whoever designed purses with apparently infinite depth and no organizational system, when his door opens across the hallway.

Of course. Because the universe has a twisted sense of timing.

Suddenly we're standing three feet apart in the narrow corridor, and the space feels charged with electricity I'm pretending not to notice.

"How did Morrison's exam go?" Cassian asks, leaning against his doorframe with casual grace that should be illegal in residential buildings.

But there's something different in his voice tonight—lower, more intimate than his usual professor tone. The kind of voice that suggests private conversations and shared secrets instead of academic discourse.

"Brutal, but survivable," I manage, trying to focus on his face instead of how his casual button-down fits across his chest.

He's rolled the sleeves up to his elbows again, revealing those distracting forearms that have been haunting my inappropriate dreams.

"Thanks for the study tips. The bit about contextualizing female agency within patriarchal structures really saved my ass."

"Anytime." He steps closer, and suddenly the hallway feels impossibly small. "I'm glad it helped. Morrison can be... intense."

"That's a diplomatic way of putting it. She basically dissected my argument like she was performing literary surgery without anesthesia."

Cassian laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "That sounds like her. But if you survived her exam, you can survive anything academia throws at you."

We're standing close enough that I can smell his cologne—something clean and masculine that makes me want to lean closer and breathe him in like he's some kind of addictive substance.

This is dangerous, the rational part of my brain warns. You're in a hallway. With your professor. Having inappropriate thoughts about his scent.

Shut up, I tell my brain. We're just having a friendly conversation between neighbors who happen to also be professor and student.

"I was just making dinner," Cassian says, and there's something almost hesitant in his voice. "There's way too much pasta for one person if you're interested."

The invitation hangs between us, loaded with possibility that makes my pulse quicken. I know I should say no, and should maintain the professional distance that keeps me safe from making another catastrophic mistake involving attractive professors.

But standing this close to him, seeing the genuine warmth in his brown eyes, feeling the pull of something that feels different from the dangerous intensity I'd grown accustomed to with Adrian, I find myself wanting to say yes.

"I should probably…" I start, but the words die completely when Cassian's hand comes up to brush a strand of hair behind my ear.

The touch is gentle, almost reverent, and it sends shivers straight through me in a way that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the fact that I haven't been touched with that kind of tenderness in longer than I can remember.

"Should probably what?" His thumb traces along my jaw, and my breath catches in my throat like I've forgotten how to perform basic biological functions.

Run, my brain supplies helpfully. Say no. Maintain professional boundaries. Don't make the same mistake twice.

But my body has other ideas entirely.

My hand finds his chest before I consciously decide to reach for him. His heart pounds beneath my palm, rapid and real, and the evidence that he's just as affected undoes the last thread of my resistance.

The kiss happens like gravity—inevitable, necessary, beyond rational thought or professional considerations.

Cassian's mouth is warm and sure against mine, but nothing like Adrian's calculated dominance. This isn't about power or control or psychological manipulation.

This is soft exploration that quickly turns hungry, his hands threading into my hair as I press closer, desperate for more contact, more warmth, more of whatever this feeling is that makes me forget why I thought it was dangerous.

God, I think dimly as his tongue traces the seam of my lips. This is what kissing is supposed to feel like.

We stumble backward, my keys dropping to the floor with a metallic clatter that echoes through the hallway as Cassian fumbles for his door handle.

The kiss breaks long enough for him to get us inside his apartment, but then his mouth is on mine again, more urgent this time.

"Is this okay?" he asks against my lips, and the fact that he's asking, that he's checking for consent instead of just taking what he wants, makes something tight in my chest loosen.

"Yes," I breathe. "God, yes."

My back hits his door and Cassian's body cages me against it, solid and warm and radiating heat I can feel through both our clothes.

His thigh slides between mine, pressing up, and the pressure against my core drags a moan from my throat before I can stop it. His hands find the hem of my shirt, fingers skimming underneath to trace the bare skin of my waist.

He tugs my shirt over my head in one fluid motion, then stops—just stops—staring at me like I'm something sacred. His chest heaves as his eyes trace from my flushed face down to my heaving breasts, still covered in black lace.

"Sophie." My name sounds like a prayer on his lips. "You're fucking stunning."

Not good girl. Not princess. Just my name, spoken with reverence that makes my knees weak.

My fingers attack his buttons with trembling urgency, fumbling twice before I finally get his shirt open. When I push the fabric off his shoulders and see him, my mouth goes dry.

Golden skin stretched over sculpted muscle. A dusting of hair trailing down his abs toward his belt. The V-cut of his hips disappearing into his waistband like an arrow pointing exactly where I want to go.

"Your turn to stare?" he teases, but his voice is strained.

"Shut up and kiss me."

He obliges, lifting me so my legs wrap around his waist. I can feel him now, the rigid length of him pressed right against my center, only thin layers of fabric separating us.

When I roll my hips experimentally, he groans into my mouth and his grip on my thighs tightens.

"Keep doing that and this is going to be over embarrassingly fast," he warns.

"Then maybe you should distract me."

Cassian carries me to his couch, lowering me onto the cushions with a gentleness that contradicts the hunger in his eyes. He kneels between my spread thighs, hands running up my legs, fingers hooking into the waistband of my skirt.

"Can I?"

I lift my hips in answer.

The skirt joins my shirt on the floor, leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties. Cassian exhales sharply, his hands bracketing my hips as he takes me in.

"Jesus Christ, Sophie."

He leans down and presses his mouth to my stomach—soft, reverent kisses that trail lower and lower until his breath is hot against the lace covering my center. My hips buck involuntarily, seeking contact, and he pins them down with gentle pressure.

"Easy," he murmurs against my inner thigh. "I've got you."

He pulls my panties aside and drags one finger through my slick folds, and the sound I make is embarrassingly close to a sob. He circles my clit with devastating precision, watching my face as I fall apart under his touch.

When he slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right, my back arches off the couch. He sets a rhythm that builds and builds, his thumb working my clit while his fingers stroke that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes.

"I'm close," I gasp, fingers twisting in the couch cushions. "Cassian, I'm…"

"Then come," he says simply. "Come on my fingers, Sophie."

And I do—shuddering and crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me. He works me through it, drawing out every last tremor until I'm boneless and trembling beneath him.

When I finally open my eyes, Cassian is watching me with an expression that makes my chest ache. Not triumph or satisfaction—just warmth, and something that looks terrifyingly close to tenderness.