7. Conner #2
It claws up my spine, hungry and sharp, dragging heat into places I’ve spent years locking down. I haven’t felt it in ages—not like this. Not in a flashfire burst that leaves my throat dry and my hands tighter around the edge of the desk.
I blink. Look away. Reset.
“Correct,” I say, voice low, measured. “They did say that. Though the phrase was used by a tabloid that spelled my name wrong.”
A few students chuckle. I don’t.
I turn toward the board. My chest is tight. My pulse is louder than it should be. She’s still watching me. I feel it.
“Mr. Davis,” I say, redirecting as I turn on my introductory slide, “in case you were wondering—that’s why one in sixty-three earns an A. Because only one of you can answer my questions.”
The rest of class continues without incident and I avoid Miss Rivera like she is the fucking plague. At the end of class, the projector clicks off with a faint hum, and the lights flicker brighter as the screen retracts as I speak.
“Your assignment,” I say, tone crisp, “is to select any closed forensic case and analyze where the investigation failed before it succeeded. I expect a three-page preliminary breakdown by next class. Proper citations. No Wikipedia.”
Chairs scrape back. Bags zip. The noise level rises as students start filing out in clusters—murmuring, already gossiping about who will drop out, why I am so cold, or how hot they think I am.
I begin to shut down my laptop, instinctively reaching to gather the folders on the edge of the desk, when?—
“Miss Rivera,” I hear myself say.
My voice cuts through the buzz. She stops halfway to the door. Turns. Those eyes again—storm-grey and drenched in the most delectable fear.
“Stay a moment.”
I adjust my cufflinks, slide on my jacket in one smooth motion, and reach for my black folio. I feel her before I hear her. That subtle shift in the air. That quiet, steady pressure against my spine that lets me know I'm being watched.
“I didn’t mean to be late. I had some complications this morning, and look,” her voice wavers, and I hear her swallow as she takes a squeaky step forward. “I take your class seriously. I want to be a forensic psychologist, and I have dreamed of taking your class.”
I tighten my grip on my phone. My fingers twitch against the smooth surface of the case. I want to look at her again when she says I have dreamed of taking your class. Why does that sound so good? The idea of her dreaming about me.
“After today,” I say evenly, “I’ll be locking the door at the start of class. I do not accept tardiness.”
She tucks a damp strand of hair behind her ear, eyes flicking up to mine. “Yes, sir.”
I arch a brow. “Don’t call me that.”
She smirks. “Noted.”
A beat of silence rolls through us, and I know I should dismiss her. I should end this. Should tell her to go. But I don’t.
Instead, I tilt my head, and I let my gaze roam—just once.
Her clothes are still clinging in places the heat of the building hasn’t touched yet.
That white shirt, no longer translucent but still hugging her chest. The red bra beneath, vivid in memory.
Her jeans hang low, belt undone. Boots dripping faintly onto the tile.
She looks like a punk chaos goddess, not as pristine and clean cut as my usual attractions.
“If you’re serious about this class…” I drawl, slower now, “then prove it.”
I step just slightly closer. The heady scent of bourbon and vanilla invades my senses, and I damn there close my eyes in appreciation.
“Be on time. In sunshine… rain…” My eyes lower, sweep across the slow curve of her shoulder, the flex of her jaw. “…snow.”
She doesn’t look away. Not once. And her lips curve into her cheek as she speaks breathlessly. “Yes, Professor Kilgore. ”
It shouldn’t do anything to me. But it does. Fuck me.
I feel it— the shift.
The careful, clinical mask I wear every goddamn day fractures, and the darkness underneath begins to seep through the cracks. I don’t stop it. I can’t. Not with her staring at me like that—like she knows she’s poking the beast and wants to see it move.
Her eyes widen, just slightly, when she catches the way my pupils dilate. The way the air grows heavier, sharper, like the moment before a blade sinks in.
She inhales softly—like instinct. Like her body’s responding to the danger around her before her mind can make sense of it.
And now I’m thinking about her pulse— her heart —beating just beneath that red bra I can’t unsee. Wondering how fast it’s hammering now, how close she is to feeling what I’m fighting not to show.
My gaze drifts—slow, measured—down the column of her throat. I watch it flutter.
She knows. She fucking knows .
I step back, just enough to breathe again.
“Good,” I say, voice rougher than I intend. “Then we understand each other.”
She nods, but there’s fire in her eyes now—curiosity, interest, something more dangerous.
And I know I should leave. I should say nothing else. I should forget the way her voice sounds when it dips low and submissive around my name.
But I don’t . Instead, I reach past her—closer than I should be—and grab the syllabus from the other corner of my desk. The one she missed because she was late and I hand it to her without ceremony.
“You’re dismissed, Jasmine.” It comes out rougher than I intend. A snarl, not a statement. My voice—usually cold and sharp—rolls low between us, coated in the dark growl of my natural voice.
Her fingers snatch the paper like it burns her, and for a second— just a second—I almost pounce.
“Thank you,” she breathes, and the moment she turns on her heel, I feel her absence like a vacuum. She practically bolts, boots echoing against tile as she races out the door like I might chase her down and pin her to the wall.
And the funny part?
I had to grip the edge of my desk to stop myself from doing exactly that.
The bad part?
When the door finally swings shut behind her, sealing the air between us with a heavy thunk , I look down?—
And realize the desk is splintered in my hand.