Chapter 16
The Hunter
T he days following the charity event feel heavy, like a storm cloud hanging over my head, threatening to burst at any moment. That’s also the perfect summary of my mood; I’m livid. At myself for giving in to my basic urges, and at Ruby for making me.
With each passing day, my anger intensifies, and yesterday, I could no longer ignore my need for… retribution, maybe. I don’t know what to call the feeling living in my chest, eating away at me. I’ve summoned Ruby to my office today. Under the guise of an evaluation of her coursework, she’ll pay. I’ll strip her of her guards like she’s done to me.
Game. On.
The faint scent of aged books and polished wood surround me as I sit in my office at Holloway University. Both scents normally have a calming effect on me, but the chaos stirring within is too powerful to be tamed.
I drum my fingers against my desk, a monotonous pattern as the seconds tick down. My lips spread into a cold, sly smile as I notice she’s late. Only by a minute and a half, but late is late.
When Ruby enters, the atmosphere shifts. She’s wearing a fitted blue blouse that hugs her curves and dark skinny jeans that emphasize her sh apely legs and pert ass. The way she carries herself—a blend of confidence and curiosity—makes my heart race.
“Mrs. Simmons,” I greet her, letting my voice drip with authority. “I didn’t hear you knock, and you’re late.”
“Professor Grant.” Her response is steady, but I notice the way her eyes flicker, taking in the space and then settling on me. “I’m sorry, I got turned around.”
I scoff, making it clear I don’t care about excuses. “Have a seat.” I gesture to the chair across from me, and as she settles in, I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “I wanted to discuss the answers to the criminal psychology quiz from the other day.”
She tilts her head slightly. “Okay.”
I wait, wanting to see if she’s going to continue talking or disappoint me further by just letting her sentence hang in the air like an incomplete and unpolished thought. After several moments, it becomes clear that she isn’t going to elaborate.
Terribly disappointing.
As the silence stretches on, a slight blush creeps up her cheeks, a testament to her nerves. It ignites something primal within me. With a sigh, I pull her test answers out of my drawer and place them on top of the table.
“Question 23 was ‘Tell me, what do you think motivates someone to commit a crime? Is it purely instinct, or is there a psychological element at play?’” I say, reading the question out loud. “You circled option B without elaborating.”
Her brows furrow as she contemplates my words. “Y-yes. It was a multiple choice answer, so I circled the one I thought was correct.”
The wry chuckle I let out is completely devoid of emotion. “Did you miss the part that says tell me? To most of the students in the class, that indicated there was more to the question than just circling an option, Mrs. Simmons. But not to you.”
As she opens her mouth to say something, I hold up my hand and push the piece of paper toward her.
“Right below the options it says, ‘do you have anything to add?’. That’s where most of your peers chose to express their personal though ts.” While she studies the paper, I pull another one out; Miss Dawn’s test. “As you can see here, Miss Dawn understood the question and gave an elaborate and thoughtful answer.”
“But I… I didn’t know,” Ruby whispers.
Her gaze flicks to mine, and I know she’s looking for some kind of reassurance that she didn’t do anything wrong. But there’s no reassurance to be found in my gaze. Details are everything, and I purposefully worded the question in a way that would separate the strong from the weak-minded.
Criminology isn’t only about perfecting answers from a textbook, it’s so much more. It’s about knowing the mind, identifying patterns, and challenging one’s thinking. Ruby did what she thought was right without questioning it—without paying attention to the detail in the question’s phrasing.
“Do you wish to elaborate now?” I ask.
She looks up at me from beneath her long, dark lashes. “I believe it’s a combination. Instincts can be heightened by external factors like trauma, environment, wants—”
I cut her off, leaning closer. “But what if those external factors are manipulated? What if the individual is coerced into a situation where they feel compelled to act? What does that say about their autonomy?”
Her gaze sharpens, sensing the shift in our conversation. “Are you suggesting that people aren’t responsible for their actions?”
I allow a cold smile to curve my lips. “I don’t know, Mrs. Simmons. Am I?”
She shakes her head. “I-I don’t know… m-maybe?” I’m disappointed when she poses it as a question rather than a statement.
“Let’s explore this further.” I stand and walk around the desk, moving closer to her. The air thickens, tension vibrates between us. I stop beside her, invading her space just enough to make her uncomfortable. “What if I were to challenge you? I want to see how far you’re willing to go to prove your point.”
Ruby’s breath hitches, a slight tremor in her voice as she echoes, “Prove my point?”
“Exactly. Let’s say you were given a scenario—one that r equired you to navigate power, control, and submission. Would you be able to do it?”
Her eyes widen, and she bites down on her bottom lip. Undoubtedly, wrestling with her conditioning, the trauma that’s shaped her responses to men in power. I want to push her, to see how deep the cracks in her armor run.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Professor,” she says, her voice steady but laced with uncertainty.
“Let me clarify,” I say, my tone lowering to a whisper, drawing her in. “Imagine a situation where you have to choose between maintaining your dignity or submitting to authority. What would you choose?”
“I would never submit,” she says, the words rushing out with unexpected fervor.
“Wouldn’t you?” I counter, my breath mingling with hers, intoxicating and heavy. “We all have things that shape us. Things that have taught our bodies and minds to react in certain ways. A form of—”
“Conditioning,” she breathes. “We’re all conditioned to react in certain ways.”
I pat her head. “Exactly,” I say, my tone now warm. “Great answer.”
She beams up at me, her shoulders rolling back. But when her gaze meets mine, her smile turns into a scowl and she deflates. “Right.” A fleeting look of betrayal flicks across her features before she manages to school her expression.
“Let’s test that theory,” I rasp.
With a calculated move, I reach for her wrist, my fingers brushing against her skin—warm and soft. Her breath catches, and for a moment, I see the fear flicker in her eyes, but it’s mingled with something else—curiosity, or perhaps even desire.
“Let’s say you’re in a situation where you need to convince me of your strength. How would you do it?” I ask, maintaining eye contact, not breaking the spell.
Ruby opens her mouth as if to protest, but I tighten my grip just slightly, enough to send a spark of electricity between us.
“What if you had to demonstrate your confidence? Would you show me?” I probe.
“ What do you mean?” she asks, her voice trembling, a hint of defiance still present.
“Stand,” I command, my voice firm yet coaxing.
She hesitates but ultimately rises to her feet, facing me. I’m close enough to see the pulse at her throat, the way her skin flushes under my gaze. “Now, show me you’re not afraid,” I challenge.
With a rush of adrenaline, she crosses her arms and lifts her chin, but I see the vulnerability beneath her bravado. “I’m not afraid,” she insists, though the slight quaver in her voice tells me otherwise.
“Then prove it,” I say, stepping closer, invading her space once again. “Tell me what you want.”
“Stop playing games with me,” she shoots back. “I want to be taken seriously.”
“Then take a step further. Show me what that looks like,” I urge, leaning in, my breath brushing against her ear.
She takes a deep breath, her chest rising as she gathers her resolve. “I want you to understand that I’m not a victim,” she states, her eyes locked on mine.
“Then act like it,” I reply, challenging her once more.
In a bold move, she reaches out, her fingertips grazing my shirt collar as she pulls me in closer. “What do you want from me, Professor?”
The heat radiating between us, the tension escalating to a fever pitch. “I want to see how far you can go, Ruby. I want to uncover the layers of control and power that exist in every interaction.”
“Why?” she questions, her breath hitching as I take another step closer.
This is the question I was hoping she’d ask. “Because you said you want me,” I say, almost tauntingly. “Now it’s time to prove it.” My voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. Then I let go of her, and remove my suit jacket before leaning against the desk, never taking my eyes off of hers.
She swallows thickly. “Wh-what do you want me to do? How can I prove that I meant it?” she asks, and despite the stutter, she never averts her gaze.
“Unbutton my shirt,” I command softly, watching the way her eyes darken at the order. “Show me with actions instead of words.”
There’s a moment of hesitation, her internal struggle evident in the way her breathing quickens and her fingers tremble. But then, as if drawn by an invisible force, she slowly strides over to me, immediately reaching for the buttons of my shirt, her movements sure and deliberate.
The fabric parts easily under her touch, and I feel a thrill of satisfaction as she works her way down. Her hands brush against my chest, the contact igniting a fire that burns through my restraint. Her fingers are warm and soft, the touch both hesitant and determined as she undoes each button, revealing more of my skin.
“Good girl,” I rasp, reveling in the way her cheeks flush at the praise. “Now, let’s see how far you’re willing to go.”
Her eyes meet mine, they’re filled with defiance that makes her so captivating. I lean back, giving her space to continue, and she does, her hands moving with more confidence as she reaches the final button.
“Keep going,” I say, my voice a low growl.
She hesitates, her eyes flicking to mine as if seeking clarification. I give her a slight nod, watching as she moves her hands to my belt. The tension in her movements is palpable, her fingers trembling slightly as she works the metal clasp free. Each brush of her skin against mine sends a jolt of electricity through me, and I have to fight to keep my expression neutral.
This feels so much better than I could have imagined. My cock thickens and lengthens in my slacks, and it doesn’t take long before I’m unbearably hard.
“Would it be easier if you were on your knees?” I ask, making sure to pose it as a question.
Rather than answering me with words, Ruby sinks to her knees, tilting her head back to look up at me. “Like this?” she questions.
I shrug. “If that’s better for you.”
Her answering frown has me fighting the smile that wants to break free. But I enjoy seeing her ponder what just happened. I don’t need to be in her head to know she’s wondering if this is better, and if she did it of her own volition.
When she stays on her knees, I know I’ve won. And all it took was a sugges tion. Christ, she’s pliable.
The scent of leather and wood fills the air, mingling with something uniquely Ruby, creating a heady mix that tugs at my control. I watch her through half-lidded eyes, the way her brows furrow in concentration, and the way her lips part slightly as she focuses on her task.
Her fingers move deftly, causing a thrill to run through me as she complies with my unspoken command. She’s so close, her breath ghosting over my skin. My hands grip the edge of the desk, the only outward sign of the excitement that courses through me.
“Keep going,” I command, my voice a low rumble that makes her shiver.
She swallows audibly as her hands move from my belt to the waistband of my pants. But her fingers are steady as she undoes the button. Her movements are sure but slow.
She’s trying to please me, to earn my approval, and the knowledge sends a thrill of satisfaction through me. I revel in the power I have over her, in the way she bends to my will, and I feel the beast within me preening at her submission.
“Good girl,” I praise again, my voice a husky whisper. “You’re doing so well.”
Her cheeks flush at the praise, and her pupils dilate. She’s affected by my words. I let my gaze travel over her kneeling form, taking in the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, the way her lips part slightly as she exhales.
My calm demeanor hides the storm that rages within me, the need to unravel her like she’s unraveled me. Her hands move to the zipper. The sound of metal sliding against metal is loud in the otherwise silent room, and her breath hitches as she pulls it down.
“Do you want me to keep going?” she asks, her voice trembling ever so slightly.
I tilt my head to the side. “Do you want to continue?” I ask, turning the question back on her.
She gives me a jerky nod. “Yes.”
My cock strains against the fabric of my boxer briefs, eager to feel her touch. “Then by all means,” I chuckle, gesturing at my open pants. “I won ’t stop you.”
Her fingers brush against my skin as she pushes my pants and briefs down, the contact sending sparks of pleasure through me. I let my head fall back, my eyes closing for a moment as I savor the sensation.
At the sight of my cock, she licks her lips. Her hands rest on my thighs, the heat of her touch searing into my skin. “Follow me,” I command, my voice cutting through the air like a blade.
I take a step back, enjoying watching the tension in her movements as she complies, her body taut with anticipation and nerves. The soft lighting in the room casts an intimate glow, highlighting the delicate curve of her spine and the way her dark hair falls in a curtain around her face.
After kicking my pants and boxer briefs all the way off, I move around the desk, feeling her crawl behind me. I sit down on the leather chair and spread my legs, keeping my eyes on her as she crawls under the desk.
Now that she’s unable to see my face, I finally let my vicious smile spread. God, she’s even more eager than I thought. This is pure perfection. Reaching into the drawer, I pull the stack of papers out. While some of my colleagues keep everything digital, I prefer old-fashioned paper.
“I’m going to grade everyone’s tests,” I say conversationally. “Do you want to stay down there meanwhile?”
Her delicate hand trails up my leg, grazing my inner thigh before she wraps her slender fingers around my rigid length. I swallow down my groan and force a sound of disapproval.
When she replies, “Yes,” I slide my hand under the table and pat her head again.
“Put my cock in your mouth, Mrs. Simmons.”
Her warm breath fans against my skin, sending a shiver of anticipation through me. Her hand steady as she squeezes the base. The feel of her lips brushing against the tip of my cock is exquisite, and I have to fight the urge to thrust into her mouth.
Her mouth is warm and wet, the texture of her tongue sending jolts of pleasure through me. I feel her internal conflict, the way she’s torn betwee n the wrongness of the act and her need to obey. Her movements are hesitant yet obedient, a testament to the power I hold over her.
“You’re so obedient, Pet,” I murmur, my voice a low purr that makes her shiver.
Her fingers tighten around my cock, then she begins to lick and suck, making a groan escape my lips. The feel of her mouth around me, the way her tongue swirls around the head, is almost too much to bear.
But this isn’t about pleasure, and I won’t allow either of us to forget that. “Stop,” I say, my voice a cold command that makes her freeze. “You’ll sit still until you’ve earned the privilege of making me come.”
Before I start making a dent in the papers, I lean back and look down at her. She looks beautiful like this, on her knees and with my cock in her mouth. The knowledge that I have this power over her, that I can make her do anything I want, sends a thrill of satisfaction through me.