Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Gordon
I hear it between classes—a whispered conversation that wasn't meant for my ears.
Two students from my American Modernism seminar, huddled by the water fountain.
"Darling's paper got an A+ again. No surprise there.
Phillips says she's earning those grades on her knees.
" Something red and violent explodes behind my eyes.
I know that name. Phillips. Andrea Phillips—mediocre mind, inflated ego, bitter about being outshone by a freshman.
The same freshman currently sitting in my afternoon lecture, unaware that her academic reputation is being shredded by jealousy and speculation.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. I shouldn't care this much.
Shouldn't let a student's petty gossip affect me.
But this isn't just about any student. This is about Flower.
My Flower. And no one gets to taint what's mine.
I spend the next hour in my office, pacing like a caged animal. The rational part of my brain—the part that's kept me employed and respected for fifteen years—tells me to ignore it. Student gossip is ephemeral. Engaging with it only gives it power.
But the primal part of me—the part that wakes when Flower calls me "Daddy," the part that wants to mark and claim and possess—that part demands retribution.
I check my watch. Twenty minutes until my Advanced Literary Analysis seminar. The same class where both Flower and Phillips are enrolled. Perfect.
When I enter the lecture hall, the usual hush falls over the room.
Students straighten in their seats, notebooks open, pens poised.
I scan the room, finding Flower in her usual spot in the front row.
She looks up at me, a small smile playing at her lips, unaware of what's being said about her.
Three rows back sits Phillips—blonde, polished, radiating entitlement.
"Today," I begin, setting my briefcase on the desk with more force than necessary, "we're discussing academic integrity."
A ripple of unease moves through the class. This wasn't on the syllabus.
"Specifically, the difference between legitimate critique and baseless slander." I pace before them, hands clasped behind my back. "The former is the foundation of scholarly discourse. The latter is the refuge of the intellectually bankrupt."
Students exchange nervous glances. I continue pacing, letting the tension build.
"Miss Phillips," I say finally, stopping to face her directly. "You submitted a paper last week on Faulkner's use of stream of consciousness. Remind the class of your thesis."
She straightens, surprised but confident. "That his technique was derivative of Joyce, lacking originality."
"Yes." I nod slowly. "An argument that, while not novel itself, could have merit if properly supported." I pick up a stack of papers from my desk. "Instead, you offered this."
I begin reading from her paper, systematically dismantling her arguments point by point, exposing logical fallacies, factual errors, and sloppy scholarship. It's brutal. Thorough. By the time I finish, her face is flushed red, eyes wide with humiliation.
"This," I announce to the class, "is the difference between critique and slander. Miss Phillips makes claims she cannot support, ignores contrary evidence, and bases her conclusions on emotional reactions rather than scholarly analysis."
I fix her with a cold stare. "In academia, we judge work on its merits. Not on petty jealousies or unfounded speculations about how grades are earned."
Her eyes widen in understanding. She knows I've heard her gossip. The class doesn't know what I'm referring to specifically, but they sense the subtext, heads swiveling between Phillips and me.
"Miss Phillips, I suggest you focus on improving your own scholarship rather than denigrating that of your peers. See me after class to discuss how you might salvage your grade for the semester."
The rest of the lecture proceeds normally, though there's an electric tension in the air. When I dismiss the class, Phillips bolts without staying behind as instructed—a cowardice that doesn't surprise me.
Flower lingers, waiting until the room clears before approaching my desk.
"What was that about?" she asks softly.
I look up from gathering my papers, taking in her concerned expression. "Phillips has been spreading rumors about how you're earning your grades."
Her face pales. "Oh."
"Grab your things," I say, voice low and tight. "We're leaving."
She doesn't question it, just gathers her backpack and follows me from the lecture hall. I lead her through side corridors, avoiding the main quad, to the faculty parking lot. My car sits in the far corner, partially obscured by an overgrown hedge—the reason I chose this spot months ago.
Neither of us speaks as I unlock the doors. She slides into the passenger seat, and I circle to the driver's side. Once inside, I don't start the engine. Instead, I turn to her, taking in her anxious expression.
"Are you okay?" she asks, reaching for my hand.
The tenderness in her voice nearly undoes me. She's concerned about me when she's the one whose reputation is being attacked.
"No," I admit roughly. "I'm not okay."
In one fluid motion, I pull her across the console onto my lap. She gasps, surprised but pliant, knees straddling my thighs in the confined space. My mouth claims hers in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and desperation.
"Someone could see," she whispers when I release her, glancing nervously at the windshield.
"Let them." My hands find her waist, fingers digging in possessively. "Let them see who you belong to."
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating with a mixture of fear and arousal. "Gordon..."
"Take off your shirt." My voice is unrecognizable, even to myself. Low and dangerous.
She hesitates only briefly before reaching for the hem of her blouse, pulling it over her head to reveal a simple white bra. My hands move to the back seat, retrieving my suit jacket. From the inner pocket, I withdraw my belt, the leather supple in my hands.
"Give me your wrists."
She does, offering them up with a trust that makes my chest ache even through the haze of possession consuming me. I loop the belt around them, cinching it tight enough to hold but not enough to hurt. Her breath comes faster now, chest rising and falling rapidly.
"What are you doing?" she whispers.
"Reminding you who you belong to." I pull her bound wrists above her head, securing them to the grab handle above the door. "And making sure you never forget it."
I unsnap her bra with one hand, pushing it up to expose her perfect breasts. Bend to take one nipple in my mouth, sucking hard enough to make her gasp and arch against me. My other hand pushes her skirt up around her waist, finding her already wet through her underwear.
"Is this for me?" I growl against her skin, fingers pushing aside the damp fabric to stroke her folds. "Is this tight little pussy wet for Daddy?"
"Yes," she gasps, hips bucking against my touch. "Only for you."
I push two fingers inside her without preamble, curling them to hit the spot that makes her keen. "They're saying you're a slut," I murmur, watching her face as shame and arousal battle for dominance. "Saying you earn your grades on your knees."
She whimpers, eyes squeezing shut. "I'm not…I don't..."
"You love being my dirty little campus slut, don't you, princess?" I withdraw my fingers, using both hands to tear her underwear down her legs. "Tell me the truth."
"Yes," she admits, voice breaking as fresh tears spill down her cheeks. "I love it. I hate that I love it, but I do."
Something dark and possessive roars to life inside me at her confession. I free my cock from my slacks, position her over me, and thrust up into her in one brutal stroke that makes her cry out.
"Mine," I growl, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, forcing her to take me deeper, faster. "Say it."
"Yours," she sobs, tears streaming down her face even as pleasure contorts her features. "Only yours, Daddy. Always yours."
The car rocks with our movements, windows beginning to fog from our combined heat and breath. Anyone walking by would know exactly what's happening inside—a professor fucking his student raw in the faculty parking lot. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it pushes me closer to the edge.
"You're going to come," I command, one hand moving between us to circle her clit. "Come all over Daddy's cock like the desperate little slut you are."
Her inner walls clench at the filthy words, a fresh wave of tears spilling from her eyes as she nods frantically. "Please," she begs through her sobs. "Please, I need it."
"What do you need, princess? Tell me."
"Need you to fuck me," she gasps, shame burning her cheeks crimson. "Need you to breed me. Make me yours where anyone could see."
I lose control at that, thrusting up so hard the car shakes. "Take it," I growl. "Take every fucking drop. Show Daddy how sorry you are for letting them talk about you."
She shatters, inner walls clamping down on my cock as she comes with a broken sob of my name. I follow immediately, burying myself as deep as possible and flooding her with my release, marking her as mine in the most primal way possible.
Afterward, as our breathing slows, I reach up to unbind her wrists. Red marks circle them like bracelets from her straining against the belt. I bring each one to my lips, kissing the abrasions with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the brutality of moments before.
"Did I hurt you?" I ask, voice rough with emotion.
She shakes her head, eyes still wet with tears. "No. Yes. But I liked it." She lowers her gaze, fresh shame coloring her cheeks. "Does that make me twisted?"
"No more twisted than me." I gather her close, cradling her against my chest. "I'm sorry about Phillips. About what she's saying."
"It's okay." She nestles closer, small and vulnerable in my arms. "It's worth it. You're worth it."
I stroke her hair, guilt and possession warring in my chest. "I shouldn't have done this here. It was reckless."
"I know." She looks up at me with those impossibly green eyes. "But I needed it. Needed to know that even when people are talking about us—about me—you still want me. Still think I'm worth the risk."
"You are." I kiss her forehead, her eyes, her tear-stained cheeks. "God help me, but you are."
We stay like that for several minutes, her curled in my lap, my arms around her. Eventually, reality reasserts itself. We need to leave before someone notices my car still here, windows fogged, rocking stopped but evidence of what happened clear to anyone who might look.
But as I help her dress, as I smooth her hair and wipe away the last traces of tears from her cheeks, I know with absolute certainty that Phillips will never spread another rumor about Flower.
Not after today's public dissection of her academic failings.
Not after the clear message I sent to the entire class.