Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Flower
I cross my legs, then uncross them slowly, feeling the cool air on my bare skin beneath my skirt.
I've never done anything this bold before.
This reckless. This deliberately provocative.
But after yesterday—after seeing Gordon dismantle Andrea Phillips in class for spreading rumors about me, after what happened in his car—something has shifted inside me.
A newfound courage. Or maybe just a deeper submission to the dark, delicious thing growing between us.
Either way, I'm sitting in his evening seminar on Literary Criticism with no underwear, watching his eyes narrow the exact moment he notices.
He's mid-sentence about Derrida's deconstructionist approach when it happens.
His gaze, which routinely sweeps the room to maintain engagement, lands on me in the front row.
I shift slightly, allowing my knees to part just enough to make it clear what I've done—or rather, what I haven't worn.
His words falter almost imperceptibly—a microsecond of silence that no one else would catch.
But I do. I know his rhythms now, the precise cadence of his lectures.
That tiny hesitation is like a shout to me.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating even as his expression remains professionally neutral. He recovers smoothly, continuing his point about binary oppositions in text, but there's a new tension in his shoulders, a tightness in his jaw that wasn't there before.
Got you, I think, a small thrill of victory running through me.
"Miss Darling," he says suddenly, "would you share your thoughts on Derrida's concept of différance as it applies to our reading?"
My cheeks heat. Of course he would call on me now, when my mind is anywhere but on French critical theory. I straighten, gathering my scattered thoughts.
"Derrida argues that meaning is never fixed," I begin, proud of how steady my voice sounds. "It's always deferred, always in relation to other meanings. In our text, the narrator's identity is similarly unstable—defined more by what he isn't than what he is."
As I speak, I shift again, crossing my legs slowly, deliberately. His gaze drops momentarily to the movement before snapping back to my face.
"An adequate analysis," he says, and only I can hear the strain beneath his professional tone. "Though perhaps lacking in depth. See me after class to discuss further."
My pulse quickens. The other eight students in this small seminar exchange glances—Gordon Davis rarely offers individual attention unless your work is either exceptional or abysmal. They don't know which category I fall into. I do.
The remaining forty minutes of class are torture. Gordon continues lecturing, calling on other students, never looking at me for too long. But I feel his awareness of me like a physical touch. The air between us seems to crackle with tension that only we can perceive.
When he finally dismisses the class, I take my time gathering my books, letting the others file out ahead of me. Gordon busies himself with his notes, not looking up until the last student closes the door behind them.
The moment we're alone, his head snaps up, eyes burning into mine.
"My office," he says, voice low and dangerous. "Now."
I follow him into the hallway, maintaining a professional distance as we walk. It's nearly 8 PM. The building is mostly empty, just a few lights glowing from faculty offices where dedicated professors or teaching assistants work late.
But he doesn't lead me to his office. Instead, he makes an unexpected turn, guiding me toward one of the large lecture halls used for introductory courses. He checks inside, confirms it's empty, then ushers me in, closing and locking the door behind us.
"What do you think you're doing?" he demands once we're alone, stalking toward me as I back up instinctively.
“Learning?” I suggest with a innocent blink that fools neither of us.
"You know exactly what I mean." He closes the distance between us, backing me against the podium at the front of the room. "No underwear. In my class."
I tilt my chin up defiantly. "I forgot."
"Liar." His hand finds my thigh, sliding up under my skirt to confirm what he already knows. "Jesus, princess. You're soaked."
I am. Have been since the moment I decided on this little game. Since I felt his eyes on me and knew he understood exactly what I was doing.
"Anyone could have seen," he growls, fingers finding my bare core, stroking through slick folds. "Anyone could have known what a desperate little slut my perfect student is."
I should be offended by the word. Instead, it sends a jolt of arousal straight to my core. "No one saw but you."
"That's not the point." His fingers push inside me without warning, making me gasp. "The point is you took that risk. Exposed what belongs to me."
"I'm sorry," I whisper, not sorry at all.
He seems to read the defiance in my eyes. In one fluid motion, he spins me around, bending me over the podium. My hands instinctively grab the edges for support, my cheek pressed against the cool wood surface.
"Anyone could walk in and see what a desperate little whore my princess is," he growls, flipping my skirt up to expose me completely. I hear his belt unbuckling, his zipper lowering. "Is that what you want? To be caught?"
"No," I gasp, but my body betrays me, getting wetter at his words.
"Your body says otherwise." The blunt head of his cock presses against my entrance, teasing but not penetrating. "Beg for it."
"Please," I whisper, pushing back against him.
His hand comes down on my ass in a sharp smack that makes me yelp. "Louder. I want to hear how badly the star student needs her professor's cock."
"Please," I say again, louder this time. "Please fuck me, Gordon."
Another smack, harder than the first. "That's not what you call me when I'm inside you. Try again."
Heat floods my face, shame and desire twisting together into something intoxicating. "Please fuck me, Daddy."
He rewards me by pushing inside in one long, smooth thrust that makes me bite my lip to keep from crying out. The angle is perfect—deep and filling, his body covering mine from behind.
"That's it," he growls, setting a punishing pace that has the podium creaking beneath us. "Take Daddy's cock. Right where I stand and lecture every day."
The thought is filthy and thrilling—this sacred academic space defiled by our bodies. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, controlling my movements as he takes me.
"Every time I stand here," he pants, punctuating each word with a thrust, "I'll remember how your tight little cunt felt gripping my cock. How you begged for it like the desperate little slut you are."
"Yes," I moan, shameless now in my need. "Yes, I'm your slut. Only yours."
One of his hands slides around to find my clit, circling it with practiced precision. "Beg Daddy to knock you up on the stage where I teach," he demands. "Let me hear how bad you want it."
"Please," I beg, the words pouring out unbidden. "Please breed me, Daddy. Fill me up right here where anyone could see. Make me yours forever."
His rhythm falters at my words, becoming more erratic. "Fuck, princess. The things you do to me."
His fingers work my clit faster, bringing me to the edge. "Come for me now," he commands. "Let me feel that sweet little cunt milk my cock."
I shatter at his words, pleasure exploding outward from my core, washing over me in waves so intense I have to bite my hand to muffle my cries. He follows immediately, driving deep and holding there as he pulses inside me, filling me with his release.
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.
He helps me straighten my clothes, uses his handkerchief to clean his release from my thighs. His movements are tender, possessive. When he kisses me afterward, it's almost reverent.
"You're going to be the death of me," he murmurs against my lips. "No more stunts like that during class. I couldn't think straight the entire lecture."
"That was the idea," I admit, a small smile playing at my lips.
He growls playfully, nipping at my lower lip. "Brat."
"Your brat," I correct, wrapping my arms around his neck.
"Mine," he agrees, and the word contains multitudes—possession, protection, promise.
We check to make sure the hallway is clear before slipping out of the lecture hall.
As we walk toward the exit, his hand on the small of my back, I feel a strange mix of emotions—the lingering pleasure, the thrill of our risky behavior, but also something deeper.
Something that feels dangerously like falling in love.
I know this can't last. Know that sooner or later, reality will intrude on our forbidden paradise. But right now, walking through the quiet hallways with the evidence of his passion still warm inside me, I can't bring myself to care about tomorrow.
For tonight, I am his. His student. His princess. His dirty little secret.