Chapter 6
six
. . .
Flower
I stand outside Gordon's apartment door, heart hammering in my chest. This is different than meeting in his office or an empty classroom. This is his home. His private space. The texts he sent were casual enoughL
Come by tonight to review your thesis draft. I have notes.
But we both know that's not why I'm here. Still, I clutch my folder of research papers like a shield as I knock, three soft taps that sound too loud in the quiet hallway.
The door opens, and there he is. Professor Gordon Davis. Not in his usual button-down and slacks but in dark jeans and a charcoal henley that clings to his broad shoulders. His hair is slightly damp, as if he's just showered. He looks younger. More approachable. But no less intimidating.
"You found it alright?" he asks, stepping aside to let me in.
"Yes. The directions were clear." My voice sounds small, nervous.
I step into his apartment, taking it all in.
It's exactly what I expected yet nothing like I imagined.
Clean lines. Minimalist furniture. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with perfectly organized volumes.
A leather sofa faces large windows overlooking the city. Everything in its place. Just like him.
"Can I get you something to drink? Water? Wine?" He takes my coat, hanging it carefully in the closet.
"Water, please." I'm too nervous for alcohol.
He moves to the kitchen, and I follow, still clutching my folder. "It's a nice place," I say, just to fill the silence.
"It serves its purpose." He hands me a glass of ice water. Our fingers brush, and even that small contact sends electricity through me. "Did you bring your draft?"
I hold up the folder. "Yes. I revised the section on feminist critique like you suggested."
He takes the folder, sets it on the counter without opening it. "Good. We'll get to that."
Our eyes meet, and the pretense falls away. We both know the thesis draft is just that—a pretense. An excuse.
"Gordon..." I start, not sure what I want to say.
He steps closer, one hand coming up to cup my face. "You're nervous."
"This feels different," I admit. "Being here. In your home."
"Do you want to leave?" His thumb strokes my cheek.
I shake my head. "No. That's not what I want."
"What do you want, princess?" His voice drops lower, that tone that makes heat pool between my legs.
"You." The word comes out a whisper. "Just you."
He kisses me then, soft and gentle at first, then deeper as I respond. His arms wrap around me, lifting me slightly to better align our bodies. When we break apart, I'm breathless.
"I have a confession," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
His eyebrow raises. "I'm listening."
I drop my gaze, heat flooding my cheeks. "The shame…it turns me on. Knowing this is wrong. That you're my professor. That we could both get in so much trouble." I force myself to look up at him. "Is that twisted? That the wrongness makes it better?"
For a moment, he's completely still, his expression unreadable. Then a slow smile spreads across his face—not mocking, not judgmental. Understanding.
"No, princess. It's not twisted." His hand slides to the back of my neck, grip firm. "The forbidden has always been intoxicating. And you've been such a good girl, haven't you? So proper and studious your whole life. This is the first rule you've ever broken."
I nod, relief washing through me. "You don't think less of me?"
"I think you're perfect." He kisses me again, briefly. "Come with me."
He leads me through the apartment to the bathroom—a surprisingly large space dominated by a deep soaking tub. Steam rises from water already drawn, scented with something woodsy and masculine.
"What's this?" I ask.
"I want to take care of you." He turns me to face him, hands moving to the first button of my blouse. "Will you let me do that, little girl?"
The endearment sends shivers down my spine. I nod, unable to speak as he slowly undresses me, each movement deliberate. When I'm naked before him, I resist the urge to cover myself. His eyes roam my body with such naked appreciation that any self-consciousness fades.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "So fucking beautiful."
He strips quickly, efficiently, revealing his powerful body—all lean muscle and controlled strength. When he's naked too, he tests the water with his hand, then helps me into the tub.
The water is perfect—hot enough to pink my skin but not uncomfortable. I sink down with a sigh as he climbs in behind me, his larger body cradling mine. We sit in silence for a moment, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around me.
"Relax," he whispers against my ear. "Let me take care of you."
He reaches for a washcloth and soap, working up a lather before beginning to wash me.
It's the most intimate thing we've done—more intimate even than sex.
The way he handles me, like I'm precious and breakable.
The way he pays attention to every inch of skin, from my shoulders down my arms, across my stomach.
"Such a perfect little body," he murmurs, cloth sliding over my breasts. "Made just for my hands."
I lean back against him, surrendering to his ministrations. His hardness presses against my lower back, but he makes no move to escalate things. This is about care, not sex. At least for now.
"Close your eyes," he instructs, pouring warm water over my hair. His fingers massage shampoo into my scalp, strong and gentle at once. I moan softly at the sensation.
"That's it, little girl," he praises. "Let Daddy take care of you."
The word still sends a thrill through me every time he says it. I should hate it. Should be offended by the infantilization, the power imbalance it implies. But I don't. I love it. Love the way it makes me feel small and protected. Safe to be vulnerable.
He rinses my hair carefully, one hand shielding my eyes from the soap.
Every touch deliberate, every movement controlled.
This is the same man who terrifies students in lecture halls, who destroyed a senior's argument on Fitzgerald so thoroughly the boy dropped the class. But with me, he's gentle. Tender.
When he's finished with my hair, he returns to washing my body, cloth moving lower now, across my thighs, between my legs.
"Open for me," he murmurs, and I do, letting my knees fall apart as the cloth passes over my most sensitive areas. I gasp at the contact.
"Still tender?" he asks, voice soft with concern.
I nod. Our coupling in his office yesterday had been rougher than usual. But I liked it. Liked the reminder with every step today that I was his.
"Let's get you rinsed off." He helps me stand, turning on the shower. Warm water cascades over us both as he guides me under the spray, rinsing away the soap.
I expect him to help me out then, to move us to his bedroom. Instead, he backs me against the cool tile wall, lifting my face to his.
"You're so beautiful," he says, water streaming over his powerful shoulders. "So goddamn perfect."
Then he's kissing me, hard and desperate, all pretense of control abandoned. I kiss back just as fiercely, arms wrapping around his neck. His hands grip my waist, lifting me effortlessly. Instinctively, I wrap my legs around him, letting the wall and his strength support me.
"Tell me you want this," he growls against my lips. "Tell me you want me."
"I want you," I gasp. "Only you. Always you."
He shifts, positioning himself at my entrance, then pushes inside in one slow, deliberate thrust that makes me cry out. The angle is perfect, hitting spots that make my vision blur.
"So tight," he groans. "So perfect for Daddy."
His pace is measured at first—long, deep strokes that have me gasping with each thrust. The shower continues to rain down on us, hot water turning our skin pink, adding another layer of sensation.
"You're so filthy and sweet," he murmurs against my ear. "Made just for me. Say it."
"Made for you," I repeat breathlessly. "Only for you."
His rhythm speeds up, each thrust driving me harder against the wall. "Does it feel wrong, princess? Taking your professor's cock in his shower?"
"Yes," I gasp. "So wrong."
"And does it feel right?" His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit.
"God, yes," I moan. "So right."
"That's my good girl." His voice drops lower, rougher. "You love being Daddy's dirty little secret, don't you?"
I nod frantically, too lost in pleasure to form words. His thumb circles my clit with merciless precision, pushing me closer to the edge.
"You're going to come on my cock," he commands. "And when you do, I'm going to fill you up. Breed this perfect pussy until you're dripping with me."
The words push me over the edge. I convulse around him, crying out his name as pleasure tears through me in waves. He follows immediately, driving deep and holding there, his release hot and pulsing inside me.
For long moments, we stay like that—my legs wrapped around his waist, his forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard as the water continues to cascade over us. Slowly, carefully, he lowers me to my feet, making sure I'm steady before releasing me.
"Are you okay?" he asks, voice gentle again. "Did I hurt you?"
I shake my head, oddly emotional. "No. It was perfect."
He smiles, pushing wet hair back from my face. "Let's get you dried off."
He wraps me in a fluffy towel, drying me with the same care he used to wash me. Leads me to his bedroom—a space as orderly as the rest of the apartment but somehow warmer. The bed is large, covered in dark blue sheets that look expensive.
"Come here." He pulls back the covers, guiding me in. Follows after, gathering me against his chest.
"I thought we were supposed to review my thesis," I tease, snuggling closer.
"Later." His hand strokes my damp hair. "Rest first."
I trace patterns on his chest, marveling at the contradiction of him. In class, he's all rigid control and intellectual dominance. Here, he's still commanding but in a different way—protective, tender.
"What are we doing, Gordon?" I ask quietly.
He's silent for a moment, his hand continuing its steady rhythm in my hair. "Something neither of us should want," he finally says. "Something that could ruin us both."
"Do you regret it?"
His arm tightens around me. "No. God help me, but no. I should. But I don't."
"Me neither." I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I know people would say you're taking advantage of me. That I'm too young to know what I want. But they're wrong. I've never been more certain of anything."
He shifts, tilting my face up to his. "And what is it you want, little girl?"
"You," I say simply. "Just you. However I can have you. For as long as I can have you."
Something flickers in his eyes—pain or passion or both. Then he's kissing me again, a kiss that feels like a promise neither of us should make but both of us intend to keep.
Later, he does review my thesis draft. Sitting up in bed, both of us naked, his arm around me as we go through my arguments line by line.
Even here, he's thorough, demanding—refusing to let me get away with weak logic or unsupported claims. But each criticism comes with a kiss, each correction with praise.
It's perfect. He's perfect.