Chapter 4
four
. . .
Flower
I can't stop replaying it in my head. The way Professor Davis—Gordon—looked at me when I bent over to pick up that pen.
The sound of the lock clicking shut. His voice, rough and commanding, calling me "princess" and "little girl.
" His body, so much larger than mine, pressing me down onto his desk.
The stretch and burn as he claimed my virginity.
And worst of all—or maybe best of all—the word that escaped my lips when I came: "Daddy.
" I didn't mean to say it. It just…happened.
And the way his eyes darkened when I did, the growl that rumbled through his chest…
God, I'm blushing just thinking about it.
Two days later, I still feel him between my legs, a delicious soreness that reminds me with every step that I belong to him now.
"Miss Darling? The passage I just referenced?"
His voice snaps me back to the present. The lecture hall. Twenty-five pairs of eyes turning to look at me. And him—Professor Davis—standing at the podium, eyebrow raised in that way that makes my stomach flip.
"I'm sorry, Professor. Could you repeat the question?" My voice comes out small, breathless.
Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or possession. "I asked which passage in 'Hills Like White Elephants' most clearly demonstrates Hemingway's use of subtext."
"Oh." I scramble to find my place in the text, painfully aware of his eyes on me.
"The part where she says, 'And we could have all this,' she said.
'And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.
' The subtext is about the abortion, how it will change their relationship forever. "
He nods, satisfied. "Precisely. Hemingway tells us everything without telling us anything."
He turns away, continuing the lecture, and I release a shaky breath. Focus, Flower. Just focus on the class.
But I can't. Not when his deep voice washes over me, sending heat pooling between my legs. Not when I know what that voice sounds like whispering filthy promises in my ear. Not when I've felt those large hands gripping my hips, positioning me exactly how he wants me.
I press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache building there. It doesn't help. My underwear is already damp, and we're only twenty minutes into a ninety-minute lecture.
He paces as he speaks, commanding the room with effortless authority. Every gesture deliberate. Every word precisely chosen. His sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. The shadow of stubble on his jaw that would feel delicious against my inner thighs.
Stop it. I force my attention to my notebook, writing down his points about Hemingway's economy of language. But even his academic insights are sexy—sharp, incisive, revealing layers of meaning I'd never have found on my own.
"Let's examine the story's ending," he says, leaning against the podium. "'I feel fine,' she said. 'There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.' What are we to make of this?"
A student two rows ahead raises his hand. "She's in denial about the trauma of the abortion?"
Professor Davis shakes his head. "Too simplistic. Miss Darling?"
My heart jumps when he calls on me again. "She's lying," I say. "She doesn't feel fine at all. She's just saying what he wants to hear because she knows the relationship is over anyway."
His eyes lock with mine, something hot and private passing between us. "Yes. Precisely. Sometimes what remains unsaid is more powerful than what's spoken aloud."
Is he talking about the story or us? The double meaning hangs in the air between us, invisible to everyone else.
When class ends, he calls out over the rustle of papers and backpacks: "Miss Darling, a moment about your last assignment."
My pulse quickens as other students file out. He waits until the door closes behind the last one, then locks it with a decisive click.
"You were distracted today," he says, voice low.
I swallow hard. "I'm sorry, Professor."
"Gordon," he corrects, closing the distance between us. "When we're alone, I'm Gordon. Or..."
He trails off, and heat floods my face as I understand what he's waiting for. The word burns on my tongue, forbidden and thrilling.
"Daddy," I whisper.
His pupils dilate, nostrils flaring. "Good girl." His large hand cups my face. "Tell me why you were distracted."
"I couldn't stop thinking about…what we did. In your office."
"And?" His thumb traces my lower lip.
"And I got wet just listening to your voice." The confession tumbles out, shameful and exciting. "I'm wet right now."
He growls, spinning me around and bending me over the nearest desk. His body covers mine from behind, one hand splayed on my back to hold me down, the other pushing my skirt up around my waist.
"Let's see if you're telling the truth." His fingers find the crotch of my panties, pressing against the damp fabric. "Fuck, princess. Soaked through."
I whimper, pushing back against his touch. "Please..."
"Please what?" He hooks his fingers in my underwear, dragging them down my thighs. "Tell me what you need."
"You," I gasp. "Inside me."
"Inside where?" His voice drops lower, rougher. "Be specific."
Heat floods my face. "Inside my…my pussy."
"That's it," he praises. "Such a good girl, telling Daddy exactly what she needs."
I hear his belt unbuckle, the rasp of his zipper. Then the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I'm still tender from our first time, but I'm so wet it doesn't matter. He pushes inside in one long, slow thrust that makes me bite my lip to keep from crying out.
"Still so tight," he groans, hands gripping my hips. "So perfect for me."
He begins to move, each thrust harder than the last. The desk creaks beneath us, slides forward an inch across the floor. Anyone walking by the lecture hall might hear, might guess what's happening inside. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes me wetter.
"Look at my needy princess," he growls, one hand sliding around to rub my clit. "Dripping for forbidden cock. Right where your classmates sit every day."
I moan, shame and pleasure twisting together into something intoxicating. "Yes…yes..."
"You like that? Like knowing anyone could walk in and see you bent over, taking your professor's cock?"
"Yes," I gasp. "I shouldn't, but I do."
His rhythm turns punishing, each thrust driving me forward. "Come on my cock like a dirty little secret," he commands. "Let Daddy breed you where students sit every day."
The word "breed" sends a lightning bolt of pleasure through me. There's something primal about it, something possessive that speaks to a part of me I never knew existed. The idea of him filling me with his seed, claiming me so completely—it's too much.
"Please," I beg. "Please breed me, Daddy. Make me yours."
He groans, a deep animal sound that vibrates through his chest. "That's it, princess. Take Daddy's cum. Take every fucking drop."
His fingers press harder on my clit, circling with ruthless precision. "Come for me. Now."
I shatter, convulsing around him as pleasure floods every nerve ending. He follows immediately, driving deep and holding there as he pulses inside me. I can feel it—hot spurts of his release filling me, marking me from the inside out.
For long moments, we stay frozen in that position, his body draped over mine, both of us breathing hard. Then slowly, carefully, he withdraws. I wince slightly at the emptiness, then again as I feel his release trickling down my inner thigh.
"Shh," he soothes, turning me in his arms. His expression is softer now, almost tender as he brushes hair from my face. "Did I hurt you, princess?"
I shake my head. "No. It was…perfect."
He cleans me with tissues from his desk, helps me straighten my clothes. His movements are gentle, possessive. When he kisses me afterward, it's almost reverent.
"What are we doing?" I whisper against his lips.
"Something we shouldn't be," he answers honestly. "Something that could ruin us both."
"I don't care." And I don't. In this moment, nothing matters but the way he looks at me, the way he makes me feel—both the filthy pleasure and the intellectual validation. No one has ever seen me so completely.
"Dangerous words, little girl." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You should care."
"Do you? Care, I mean?"
His hand tightens on my waist. "Not enough to stop."
I rise on my tiptoes to kiss him again. "Good. Because neither do I."
As I leave the lecture hall on wobbly legs, his release still warm inside me, I know with perfect clarity that I'm in too deep to turn back. Whatever this is—this forbidden, shameful, exhilarating thing between us—I'll risk everything to keep it.
And that should terrify me. But it doesn't. It feels like freedom.