Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 17

I needed this outing like I needed oxygen.

My brain had been stuck on repeat for three days straight—Adrian's hands, his voice, the way he'd completely rewired my understanding of power dynamics in about thirty seconds flat.

Vaughn's warning glares across campus weren't helping either. Neither was the fact that I kept catching myself checking my phone every five minutes like some kind of Pavlovian disaster.

The city air was sticky and loud, and Cleo's voice had already drowned out my inner monologue before we even hit the first store.

"Explain to me again why you own twenty-nine identical plain black shirts," she groaned, holding one up like it personally offended her ancestors. "You're not Steve Jobs, babe. Try color. Try literally anything that suggests you have a pulse."

"I like black," I said, folding my arms. "It's reliable."

"So is death. And taxes. And my vibrator when the batteries are fresh." She tossed the shirt into her growing reject pile. "You need something sluttier. I'm thinking red. Maybe leather. Maybe… crotchless.”

I rolled my eyes, but honestly? This was exactly what I needed. Cleo's beautiful, chaotic energy. Her ability to make everything feel lighter, more manageable. Her complete inability to take anything too seriously, including my obvious mental breakdown.

The problem with Cleo is that she also has this supernatural ability to spot trouble from three zip codes away.

"Uh-oh," she said, voice going flat. "Red flag ex alert. Ten o'clock."

I turned my head and immediately regretted it. Ethan walked toward us like he still had rights. Hoodie half-zipped, fake regret painted on his face.

"Sophie," he said, slightly breathless. "Can we talk?"

"Absolutely fucking not," Cleo answered before I could even process the question. "She's got better dick now. Bye."

“Cleo…” I groaned.

Ethan frowned. “I wasn’t talking to you, loudmouth.”

Cleo took a step forward. “And yet I’m still the one about to break your nose. Funny how that works.”

I stepped between them because I know Cleo, and she's absolutely not bluffing about the face-rearranging thing.

"What do you want, Ethan?"

"I just..." His gaze swept over me, and something bitter flickered across his expression. "I miss you. I know I fucked up, but you don't have to punish me by throwing yourself at whatever creep is feeding you lines now."

I crossed my arms. “I’m not interested. You were too late. That’s it.”

He scoffed, and that's when his mask slipped completely. "Oh, so what now? You're into that whore shit like—what? Choking? Whipping? Is that your new thing?"

I froze. My skin burned. My mouth opened, but before I could even form a word…

"Is he harassing you?"

Adrian materialized behind us—all sharp angles and controlled danger, his storm-gray eyes locked on Ethan like he was calculating which bones to break first. And honestly? From the look on his face, he was definitely running those calculations.

"Professor…" I started.

Lewis didn't even glance at me. His attention stayed laser-focused on Ethan, who had gone approximately three shades paler.

"Ex-girlfriend," Lewis said, stepping closer. "Which means you've lost access. Permanently. I suggest you leave while you still have all your original teeth."

Cleo let out a low whistle behind me. Even she looked impressed, and Cleo's standards for intimidation are pretty fucking high. Ethan muttered something unintelligible and practically sprinted away.

Lewis turned to me, voice dropping to that controlled tone that made my stomach flip. "Come with me."

He led me toward the alley beside the café, away from Cleo's undoubtedly fascinated stare. I followed because apparently my brain had temporarily relocated to my feet.

"What were you doing here with him?" he asked once we were out of earshot.

"I wasn't with him. I was shopping with Cleo. He ambushed us."

"You didn't tell me you were going shopping."

I blinked. "I didn't realize I needed permission."

His eyes narrowed—not angry, exactly. More like recalibrating. "You don't need permission. But if you're going to be in public with exes who talk to you like that, I want to know where you are."

"It wasn't planned. And I was handling it."

"No," he said, voice dropping another octave. "I handled it."

The possessiveness in his tone should have annoyed me. Instead, it sent heat straight to my core.

"You can't just appear every time someone says something I don't like," I said, though my voice lacked conviction.

"Can't I?" He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. "You're under my protection now, Sophie. That means I decide what threats are worth my attention."

"I'm not helpless."

"No," he agreed, his hand coming up to cup my jaw. "But you're mine. And I protect what belongs to me, remember?"

The casual ownership in his words made my knees weak. "Adrian..."

"He called you a whore." His thumb brushed over my bottom lip, and I felt myself leaning into the touch despite everything. "Do you know what I wanted to do when I heard that?"

I shook my head, not trusting my voice.

"I wanted to break his fucking jaw." His voice was calm, conversational, but his eyes burned with barely controlled violence. "I wanted to make him understand that speaking to you like that has consequences."

"You scared him enough," I whispered.

"Did I?" His other hand settled on my waist, thumb tracing small circles through my shirt. "Or should I have made the lesson more permanent?"

The threat should have alarmed me. Instead, it made me press closer to him, craving more of his touch, more of his attention.

"You like it," he observed, studying my face with that intensity that made me feel naked. "You like knowing I'd hurt someone for you."

"I shouldn't," I breathed.

"But you do." It wasn't a question. "You like knowing you have a man who'll eliminate any threat to your safety, your comfort, your peace of mind."

His hand slipped from my waist to my ass, squeezing possessively. "Tell me, what did you think when you saw me appear behind you?"

"I thought..." I paused, trying to find words for the complex mix of relief, arousal, and submission that had flooded through me. "I thought you looked dangerous. Like you could destroy him without breaking a sweat."

"And that turned you on."

My cheeks burned as I caught myself blushing hard. "Yes."

"That’s my girl." The praise was delivered with satisfaction, like I'd passed some kind of test. "Remember that feeling when we meet."

His lips brushed against my ear, and I shivered. "I'll pick you up tomorrow. Same place. Five sharp."

"Okay," I managed, my voice breathless.

"And Sophie?" He pulled back to look at me, his gaze intense. His thumb brushes over my racing pulse. "Wear something red tomorrow. Something that shows you understand what you are to me."

Then he was gone, leaving me standing there feeling like I'd been hit by some kind of very attractive tornado.

Cleo appeared at my shoulder, eyebrows practically in her hairline.

"So," she said thoughtfully. "That was aggressively hot."

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. "Just help me find something red before I completely lose my mind."

"Babe," Cleo grinned, "I think that ship has already sailed.”