I can’t stop staring. Out of
Campus smells like new notebooks and a whorehouse of every perfume and cologne known to man.
It’s loud and crowded, kids spilling out of every doorway, all laughing too hard like they don’t have real lives yet.
I used to be loud, careless, easy—still was at boarding school.
The popular bad boy with a grin that got me out of most trouble and into the rest of it.
But being back here? Different story. Nothing happens in this town without some gossiping bitch running to tell my mom. They all love knowing Talon Grant, the town bad boy, can still be dragged to his knees by his mother’s reputation.
If it weren’t for Minxy, I’d tell my mom and everyone of these bastards exactly where they could shove their waggling tongues.
My first class is Sociology. I don’t even remember signing up for it, but it fits the schedule, so whatever.
I push open the door a few minutes early, grab a seat near the front, and scroll through my phone while people filter in. Then I hear laughter. A low, smooth sound that hits me right in the gut.
I look up, and my pulse stumbles.
No way.
It’s her.
She’s laughing with another student—a tall girl in a baseball cap who’s trying way too hard to be funny.
She laughs again, the sound soft but bright enough to punch straight through me.
Her hair’s loose today, falling in waves that catch the morning light, and she’s smiling like she doesn’t have a single secret in the world.
It’s unreal seeing her like this. Normal clothes. No mask. No dim lighting or velvet walls. Just sunlight, coffee cups, and a notebook in her hand.
My heart stumbles, then starts racing for a completely different reason. She’s here. At my school. In my class.
The professor’s office door creaks open, and the room starts to quiet. She steps aside, smooth and composed. The girl she was talking to mumbles something that makes her smile again, and she takes a seat in the front row, crossing her legs, pulling out a pen, the picture of casual focus.
I can’t stop staring.
Out of all the people in this town, all the schools, all the classrooms I could’ve walked into today… she’s here.
What are the odds?
The professor clears his throat from the front of the room, tapping a stack of papers against the desk. “Morning, everyone,” he says. “Before we get started, I want to introduce my teaching assistant. This is Penelope.”
She stands, and my stomach drops.
Penelope.
The name fits her too well—elegant, a little dangerous.
“If you have questions about assignments or missed classes,” the professor continues, “she’s the one you’ll want to talk to.”
She gives a small wave and an easy smile, like she’s just another friendly face in the crowd.
But she’s not. Not to me.
I sink back in my seat, watching her settle at the small desk near the front by the professor’s office door. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, glances down at her notes, completely unaware she’s just flipped my world inside out.
That’s when it hits me—she’s older. Of course she is. And hell, knowing she’s older than me just turns me on more.
Lucky doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Of all the classrooms on campus, I got hers.
My brain keeps flashing back to Saturday night; the way she told me what to do, the way I listened. The way she made me forget everything else.
For a second, she glances my way. Just one look. Her mouth lifts into a polite smile before she turns back to the professor like she doesn’t know me at all.
Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe I was just another client to her.
Class starts. She sits quietly, jotting notes like she doesn’t have the power to break someone with a single word. I should be taking notes too, but my pen hasn’t touched the page.
The class drones on about deviance and social norms. The professor’s voice becomes background noise, but every example he gives twists into something else in my head—ways to get her alone, questions about consent that feel too personal now.
I scribble notes I don’t read. I pretend to look at the slides and act like I care about labeling and stigma.
All I can think about is getting her back somewhere private; my dorm, Velvet House, some place where she can’t hide behind a mask or a polite smile.
I imagine the way she sounds when she lets go.
I want to be the one that makes her cry out this time.
Scream my name as I give her pleasure like she did me.
I know it’s messed up to want that, but I want it anyway.
No way I’m missing this class now. Not if she’s here every day. I don’t care what it takes. I’m going to have her.