Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Gordon
Midterms are over. The frantic energy that infects campus during exam week has settled into the quieter rhythm of regular coursework.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I'm wound tighter than ever, thoughts constantly circling back to Flower.
We've been careful since the Phillips incident—meeting off campus, scaling back our riskier behavior.
But careful feels like another word for cowardly.
Like I'm ashamed of what we're doing. And while I should be—while every ethical code in academia condemns our relationship—I can't bring myself to regret a single moment with her.
Not her body beneath mine. Not her voice calling me "Daddy.
" Not the way she looks at me like I hung the moon instead of just parsing literature for jaded undergraduates.
"Professor Davis?" Her voice pulls me from my thoughts. She stands in my office doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, honey-blonde hair falling in waves around her face. "You wanted to see me about my midterm essay?"
"Close the door, Miss Darling." My voice gives nothing away to anyone who might be listening. Professional. Detached.
She obeys, turning the lock with practiced ease. When she turns back, her expression has shifted from respectful student to something more intimate, more knowing.
"Your essay," I say, removing it from my desk drawer, "was exceptional."
Her eyes light up. "Really?"
"Don't sound so surprised." I gesture for her to approach. "You have a natural talent for critical analysis, particularly when it comes to feminist readings of canonical texts."
She comes around my desk to peer at the paper, leaning close enough that I can smell her perfume—something light and floral that's become as familiar to me as my own cologne. "An A+?" she breathes, seeing the grade circled at the top.
"Earned entirely on merit," I clarify, though she's never once suggested otherwise. "Your argument about Woolf's subversion of male narrative authority was genuinely insightful."
She beams at me, pride flushing her cheeks. This is what others don't understand about us. Yes, there's the sex—raw and primal and addictive. But there's also this: her brilliant mind, her genuine passion for literature, the way she sees connections others miss.
I reach into my pocket and withdraw a small silver key. "I have something for you."
Her eyes fix on it, confusion evident. "What's that?"
"Spare key to my apartment." I place it in her palm, closing her fingers around it. "You're moving in after finals. No discussion."
Her eyes widen. "Gordon…I can't. My roommate, the dorm contract—"
"All manageable details." I cup her face in my hands. "I want you with me, princess. Every night. Not just when we can steal a few hours."
She bites her lip, conflicted. "It's a huge step. People will notice."
"Let them." I'm beyond caring what others think. "You practically live there already. Half your clothes are in my closet. Your toothbrush is next to mine. Your favorite tea is in my cabinet."
"What about the university rules? If anyone found out—"
"They won't." I stroke her cheek with my thumb. "And even if they did, you're worth the risk."
Something shifts in her expression—uncertainty giving way to determination. "Okay."
"Okay?" I repeat, wanting to be sure.
She nods, a smile spreading across her face. "Yes. I want that too. To be with you properly. To wake up with you every morning."
The simplicity of her acceptance, the trust implied in those words, tightens something in my chest. I kiss her, harder than I intended, pulling her body against mine.
When we break apart, her eyes are dark with desire. "Should we celebrate?" she asks, voice dropping to that breathy register that never fails to harden my cock.
"I think," I say, guiding her to the small couch in the corner of my office, "that you deserve a reminder of who's in charge first."
Her pulse visibly quickens at my words. "What do you mean?"
"You've been teasing Daddy all term, princess." I sit, patting my lap. "The no-panties stunt. The 'accidental' glimpses of cleavage during discussions. The way you bite your pen when you know I'm watching."
Her cheeks flush. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Liar." I pat my lap again, more firmly. "Over my knee. Now."
She hesitates only briefly before draping herself across my lap, her small body fitting perfectly. Her skirt rides up, exposing the curve of her ass in simple cotton underwear. So deceptively innocent.
"Count for me," I instruct, raising my hand. "Five should do it."
The first spank lands with a satisfying crack, her body jerking in surprise. "One," she gasps.
I smooth my hand over the spot, feeling the heat rising through the thin fabric. The second spank is harder, drawing a small cry from her lips.
"Two," she manages, voice shaky.
By the fifth, her breathing is ragged, her body trembling slightly. When I slip my hand beneath her underwear, I find her soaking wet.
"Such a good girl," I praise, helping her up. "Taking your punishment so well."
I guide her onto the couch, laying her down gently before covering her body with mine. This isn't like our usual encounters—frantic and rough. Today I want to worship her, to show her with my body what I struggle to say with words.
I undress her slowly, kissing each inch of skin as it's revealed.
Her sighs turn to moans as I lavish attention on her breasts, her stomach, the inside of her thighs.
When I finally settle between her legs, tasting her with long, deliberate strokes of my tongue, she buries her hands in my hair, holding me to her.
"Please," she begs as I bring her to the edge with my mouth, then pull back. "Please, I need you inside me."
I strip quickly, efficiently, then position myself at her entrance. Push in slowly, watching her face as she takes me inch by inch. The tight heat of her body still amazes me—how perfectly she fits me, how completely she surrenders.
"So perfect," I murmur, beginning to move in long, deep strokes. "Made just for me."
"Yes," she agrees breathlessly. "Only for you. Only ever for you."
My hands roam her body as we move together, one coming to rest on her flat stomach. I can picture it swelling with my child, round and full—undeniable proof that she belongs to me. The image sends fire through my veins.
"Gonna keep you like this," I growl, pace increasing as the familiar heat builds. "Gonna fill you up until you're round with my baby. Would you like that, princess? To carry Daddy's child?"
Her eyes fly open, pupils blown wide with arousal. "Yes," she whispers, and it sounds like a vow. "I want that. Want to be yours completely."
The sincerity in her voice nearly undoes me. This isn't just dirty talk anymore—not for either of us. It's a future we're both imagining, impossible as it should be.
I slide my hand between us, finding her clit with practiced ease. "Come for me," I command softly. "Let me feel you."
She shatters beautifully, inner walls pulsing around me as she cries out my name. I follow her over the edge, burying myself deep as I flood her with my release.
After, we lie tangled together on the narrow couch, her head on my chest, my fingers stroking her hair. It's a vulnerable position—anyone with a key could walk in and find us like this. But I can't bring myself to move, to disrupt this perfect moment of connection.
"I love you," she whispers against my skin, so quietly I almost miss it.
The words hit me like a physical blow—unexpected and overwhelming. I've known, of course. It's been evident in her eyes, her touch, her complete surrender to me. But hearing it spoken aloud makes it real in a way it wasn't before.
"I love you too," I respond, surprised by how easily the words come. How true they feel.
Eventually, reality intrudes. We dress slowly, stealing kisses between buttons and zippers. When she's fully clothed again, I pull her to me for one last embrace before we return to our roles of professor and student.
"Tonight?" she asks, pressing the key I gave her to her palm like a talisman.
"Tonight," I confirm. "Come straight from your last class."
She nods, reaching up for a final kiss. I mean it to be brief—just a quick goodbye. But the moment our lips meet, I'm lost again, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss until we're both breathless.
A small sound from the doorway breaks us apart.
I look up to see Dr. Eleanor Wright—Department Chair, twenty-year veteran of academic politics, and notorious stickler for propriety—standing frozen in the now-open doorway, key in hand.
Her eyes move from me to Flower, taking in our flushed faces, our proximity, the unmistakable intimacy of the moment she's interrupted.
"Dr. Davis," she says, voice carefully neutral. "I came to discuss the curriculum committee meeting, but I see you're…occupied."
Flower steps away from me, face pale with shock. "I was just leaving, Professor Wright."
Eleanor's expression gives nothing away as she steps aside to let Flower pass. "Miss Darling."
When Flower is gone, Eleanor closes the door behind her, fixing me with a look that's equal parts disappointment and fury.
"My office. Tomorrow morning. Eight sharp." Her voice is cold, professional. "This discussion requires privacy."
She leaves without waiting for my response, the door clicking shut with finality.
I sink into my chair, the euphoria of moments ago evaporating like morning dew. It's happening. The thing I've feared since the first time I touched Flower. I could lose everything—my job, my reputation, my career.
But strangely, as the reality of my situation sinks in, I find I'm not panicking. Because the only thing I truly couldn't bear to lose is her.
And I'll fight like hell to keep her, no matter the cost.