Chapter 2
Gabriel
“Do you want to meet me for lunch later?” Elliot pops his head through my office door.
Eliot’s been a professor at Wolfswood Institute far longer than I have. And yet, even though he is in his fifties, that has not stopped us from becoming friends.
“Absolutely. In the dining hall?”
“Where else?” he laughs. “Wolfswood has the best food in the area! Are you still going through the admission files, Gabriel?”
“Yes, I’ve been at it all morning. It feels like everyone—and their mother—has sent an application to Wolfswood. I don’t think they realize how selective this place really is. What makes them all so sure they belong here?” I say, louder than intended, to my friend and fellow professor.
“I don’t think they believe themselves to be good enough, Gabriel. It’s just the label they’re after. The status. I graduated from Wolfswood. Aren’t I something?” Elliot laughs.
“I guess so…”
“Well, you can tell me over lunch if you found a good candidate, then,” he says and disappears just as quickly as he popped up.
I pull another file closer to me and open it. Rose’s photo slips free, and my pulse quickens. She’s exquisite—porcelain skin with a delicate flush, like dawn on a winter lake. Her dark chestnut hair, long and slightly wavy, frames her face in soft cascades, begging to be touched.
Light blue eyes, clear and piercing, hold intelligence. And her slender frame, curved with elegant poise, speaks of grace under pressure.
She’s not just beautiful; she’s a vision, delicate yet strong, the kind of woman who could unravel a man like me.
I can fall for her, damn it, despite the warning in my mind.
She might be a student, or even my mentee soon, but her image stirs something deep.
It’s a hunger somewhere very deep inside me.
I focus on her application essay. The pages reveal much more than her photo, and the words are beautiful.
She’s a Devereaux.
My hands hover over the pages of her file. An actual Devereaux. The lost one. The missing third heir. God.
I grab her essay and begin reading it out loud. Her words start materializing in front of me—like a spell or a conjuring.
Reading has always been at the center of how I live and think. Books offer depth, companionship, and a clear sense of direction. I return most often to Wuthering Heights and Mrs. Dalloway—two novels that examine the inner complexity of people and the layers of time that shape them.
Art holds the same kind of meaning for me.
I’m drawn to the precision of the Pre-Raphaelites and the force in Turner’s storm-lit seascapes.
These works hold the same depth and force I find in literature—they offer ‘direct’ access to emotional knowledge that only forms over years of real-life experience.
At Wolfswood, I want to bring together these two familiar parts of my world—a deep relationship with language and art—and combine them with something I’m yet to learn: mastering business processes.
My goal is to honor the legacy of my extended family—my parents in Britain and the Devereaux relatives I’m about to meet—and to create a legacy of my own.
Rose’s application essay is probably the best I have read. She, of course, already has a place secured at Wolfswood. But what impresses me the most is how seriously she is taking this.
Seeing that she is a Devereaux and is obliged to join Wolfswood, she could have turned in a little note or an essay copied from somewhere. Instead, she took the time and the effort to craft this marvelous piece of writing, resting in my hands like a fragile dove.
This girl is something else. I just feel it.
I’m 38, a billionaire and co-founder of this university, a professor shaping elite minds. Still, one sentence from her leaves me exposed—pulled toward her in ways I can’t justify.
For the first time in my career, I’m eager to meet a student.
This student.
My student.
***
At noon, I meet Elliot for lunch in Wolfswood’s dining hall. The old walls and dusty paintings show its fancy history. Elliot, a language professor with a charming smile, is sitting across from me. His tie is loose, showing just how relaxed he is, despite the professional setting.
“Gabriel, you look distracted. Are the admission files that bad? Or is your campaign for Senate not going well? What’s your advisor saying?”
I take a sip of my coffee before I reply.
“My campaign is fine. I’m supposed to meet with my advisor in a few weeks. He really thinks I have a good chance at running for Senate. But it’s not that. I read Rose Devereaux’s admission essay today. I’m taking her on as a private mentee. She’s… promising.”
Elliot raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Promising, huh? Is that code for ‘she’s gorgeous’? Don’t tell me the great Gabriel Thorn is smitten.”
“She’s intelligent, Elliot. Her essay shows depth. Wolfswood will shape her, and I’ll guide her. That’s all.”
“Sure, Gabriel. Just don’t get too cozy in those private lessons. You’re charming, but she’s a Devereaux. Trouble follows that name.”
I nod. His words remind me of the stakes.
“I’ll manage. She’s here to learn finance, etiquette, and the Devereaux businesses. I’m her professor, nothing more.”
Elliot snorts and grabs his fork. “Keep telling yourself that. But I know you, Gabriel. You don’t mentor unless you’re invested.”
My thoughts drift to Rose.
After lunch, I walk Wolfswood’s halls, heading to my private apartment here on campus, to rest a little before I have to return to work. I pass the student registry, and I spot her name—Rose Devereaux. My chest tightens, and I feel a possessive instinct rising in me.
“Mine to shape,” I whisper to the empty corridor. “Carefully.”
***
In the evening, I make my way to a small café on campus. Order something for dinner, open a book, but can’t concentrate on reading it. My mind is fully focused on Rose. I picture her here, those light blue eyes meeting mine, her chestnut hair catching the candlelight.
I imagine how she kneels before me, poised and eager, and her lips part at my command. “Please me, Rose,” I fantasize saying, and she obeys. My cock hardens, straining against my trousers. The thought of her pussy, wet and ready is driving me wild.
The waitress, a young woman with a shy smile, approaches my table to refill my coffee. Her name tag reads Meg. I catch her eye, and I can see the way she is scanning my face, biting her lower lip, angling her body toward me.
“Meg, you’re working late,” I say, addressing her by name, to create intimacy between us.
She blushes, hesitating, then nods, unsure of what to make of our interaction.
“What do you mean, Mr. Thorn?”
“Meg, you’re stealing the show tonight. Is it just coffee you’re serving, or something sweeter?”
She giggles, and her cheeks flush brighter.
“Professor Thorn, are you always this bold?”
I tilt my head and allow my eyes to dance over her body.
“Only when I see someone worth charming. Are you tempted? I see that you already know my name, Meg.”
Her smile widens. She’s shy but eager.
“Everyone on campus knows who you are, Professor Thorn. Especially us, girls…”
She is definitely flirting with me now, which pleases me a lot. All I have to do now is reach for her, and she will, no doubt, agree to be with me.
“Is that so, Meg? And are all the girls as pretty as you?”
She laughs, enjoying my compliment. Then she leans over the table to grab the dirty coffee cup. It’s clear she’s showing off her full breasts. They are nearly spilling out of her tight waitress uniform. And I just know that she wants my attention.
Confidently, I reach out and cup one of her breasts with my hand.
I find the hard nipple easily and roll it in my fingers through her mustard-colored uniform.
To my surprise, she doesn’t pull back. Instead, she leans her breasts into my hand.
I watch as she lifts my fingers to her mouth and starts sucking them. It’s making my cock throb.
“Hmm… You’re such a dirty girl, Meg…”
“You have no idea, Professor,” she laughs.
“Then may I have a private moment, just us? You could make my night unforgettable. What do you say?”
Meg bites her lip. Her eyes are sparkling with curiosity.
“You’re trouble, aren’t you?” she teases me.
“Yes, I am. But I am trouble worth having,” I counter, telling her the absolute truth. She has no idea just how much trouble I actually am.
“Okay, you win. What’s next, Mr. Thorn?”
“Follow me to the shadows, Meg. Let’s see how much fun we can have.”
Her blush deepens, but she’s hooked.
Meg takes me to a corner behind the counter. The café is empty now. The waitress kneels. I can feel that her hands are unsteady. She unzips my trousers, and my cock springs free. I close my eyes, imagining Rose. I think about her delicate fingers and her light blue eyes locked on mine.
“Good girl,” I whisper, as Meg closes her mouth around my cock, warm and eager. But all I can see is Rose. She obeys my command to please me and teases my tip with her tongue.
Meg sucks my cock with passion. Her mouth is tight and warm, and I thread my fingers through her hair, guiding her.
Still, my mind is on Rose’s imagined pussy.
It’s dripping for me as I fuck her in my fantasy.
She swirls her tongue around my cock. Her lips stretch as she takes me deeper, and her throat constricts.
“Open your mouth wide for me. I want to fuck your throat. That’s a good girl…”
I push gently and savor her wet heat. Meg’s slurping is loud in the café’s shadowed corner. I picture Rose kneeling, and it sends shivers down my spine.
“Please me, Rose,” I command. I imagine her pussy glistening, ready for my cock.
Meg’s eyes dart to mine. I know I called her Rose, but I don’t care.
“Keep sucking. That’s it. All of it.”
She bobs faster, and her teeth graze lightly, sending jolts through me. I can feel her hands cupping my balls, squeezing just right. My cock pulses, precum mixing with her saliva. I guide her harder, and I fuck her mouth as I envision Rose’s lips pressing tightly around me.
“Good girl, Rose” I whisper, and Meg hums, swallowing my cock to the base. Her nose brushes my skin, and her spit is dripping onto the floor. Rose, in my mind, arches, her hair fanning out. My cock is slamming into her, and her squirt soaks us both.
Meg flicks her tongue wildly, and pushes me closer to my orgasm.
“Stop for a second. Good girl…”
She swallows all the spit and precum before I pull my cock out of her mouth gently.
“Keep your mouth wide open,” I direct her, and dip both my balls in her mouth. “That’s it. Suck… hard…”
I rest my cock on her face as she follows my instructions. She cradles my balls against her tongue, then sucks and slurps. The pressure of her mouth is driving me insane. I imagine Rose cumming, crying my name, and I erupt. My cum floods Meg’s face.
I stand there for a few more seconds, and I release all I have to her. She’s still cradling my balls. Finally, I pull out and tuck away, then I pull my zipper up.
“Did you like that?” I ask the waitress.
“Yes, Professor.”
“Then here’s a treat.”
I gather all the cum on her face with my fingers and drip it into her mouth. She swallows every drop and licks her lips. I help her up and make my way back to the table to retrieve my things and leave.
“Thank you, Rose,” I say, slipping her a generous tip.
“My name is Meg.”
“I know,” I smile.