Chapter 19 Kieran
Kieran
“And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses?” Edgar Allan Poe
Sitting in my quiet, stuffy office, I wait patiently. The hesitant knock on my door comes right at seven-thirty.
Not a minute late.
I’ve been counting down the minutes until she would be near me since I woke up at nearly dawn. I forced myself into a cold shower that did nothing to cool me off.
Two days without her were two days too long.
“Come in,” I say, my voice even though I can feel my pulse spiking. “Right on time, close the door.”
The door creaks open, and there she is—cheeks pink from the January air, her black loose curls tumbling around her shoulders, drowning in an oversized wool coat that makes her look far too innocent for what I have planned.
I lean back in my chair, watching her close the door behind her.
When she turns to face me, her coat shifts just enough that I get a sneak peek of a skirt with tights underneath.
My cock twitches in my slacks. When my gaze meets hers again, she almost looks nervous, her fingers fidgeting when I don’t say anything right away.
“You kept me waiting all weekend,” I murmur finally, closing the folder in front of me. “First day of class and I think we should go over your…role.”
Her brow furrows, lips parting just enough to tempt me. “It was pretty self-explanatory in the application, Professor.”
Clasping my hands in front of me, I clear my throat, “I just want to make sure my TA knows what I expect.”
She shifts the weight on her heels and looks up at me from across my desk. “And what do you expect?”
I stand, slow and deliberate, and open the top drawer of my desk.
Her gaze tracks the movement, curious until I pull free the velvet pouch.
My thumb toys with the drawstring before I tip the small matte black vibrator into my palm.
Its design is sleek, discreet, and threatening to be absolutely merciless.
“I think you need to learn some restraint.”
Deirdre’s breath catches.
Crossing the space, I press it into her hand, my voice dipping low against her ear. “This is what you’re going to wear in class today.”
She swallows hard, her eyes widening. “Kieran…I…”
I don’t let her finish. My hand slides up her jaw, tilting her face until she’s looking at me, wide-eyed, lips trembling.
“Two days without touching you has been hell. If you want to tempt me, then you’ll do it on my terms. Every second you sit in that auditorium, you’ll remember who owns you.”
Her eyes flutter shut, her thighs shifting ever so slightly.
“I’m yours,” she whispers.
It’s enough to almost unravel me. I lift her onto the desk, pushing the coat from her shoulders, my hands sliding beneath the hem of her skirt to part her legs.
“Do you want this, Deirdre?” My voice is sharp with restraint. “Yes or no.”
“Yes,” she whispers, breathless. “God, yes.”
Gently pushing her panties to the side, I slide the toy into place, taking my time, my fingers grazing too much of her soft, warm skin before withdrawing. Then I tuck the remote neatly into my pocket, reclaiming my distance as if nothing happened.
With a smug look on my face, I smooth my tie. “Now let’s see if you can pay attention to the lecture.”
Her eyes flash, half heat, half defiance. “Good thing, I am not being tested in this class, remember?”
I allow myself a smirk as I open the door, holding it open for her.
“Oh, Miss Ravencroft, I am going to test you.”
By the time we reach the auditorium, it’s nearly eight.
Freshmen are filing in with their steaming Starbucks coffee cups and pristine notebooks.
Their chatter is a low hum that barely registers to me.
I am too focused on the woman walking in front of me.
She has now slipped off her coat, revealing her entire outfit that is indeed painfully similar to a schoolgirl outfit.
A black pleated skirt with black opaque thigh highs, an oversized, white tunic, tucked into the top, and then she bends over slightly to drape her coat over the back of her chair, and I catch a glimpse of her skin peeking through.
Fuck.
The need to dismiss the class before it even starts is overwhelming, knowing exactly what is discreetly hidden between her legs.
Deirdre slips into her seat near the front, her posture perfect, face composed. She picks up a spiral and pen, as if she’s going to be taking productive notes during this class. There’s something thrilling about having her at my mercy, yet the entire classroom around her knows nothing.
But I do.
And when I step behind the podium, I press the remote on the lowest setting and watch intently.
Her pen stutters across the page, leaving a trail of ink that falters like her breath.
I watch as the muscles in her body visibly tighten beneath her thin blouse, her thighs pressing together under her pleated skirt, the fabric bunching slightly at the seam.
A flash of heat courses through me as I imagine those same legs, bare and trembling, wrapped around my waist while I drive into her until she can’t remember her own name.
Torturing her like this may be harder on my composure than I anticipated. The power I hold over her in this moment is intoxicating and dangerous.
Before I begin diving into the lecture that delves into our unreliable narrator, Edgar Allan Poe, I let my gaze sweep across the rows of students. Their pens are poised, their faces eager, their na?ve little minds waiting to be filled.
But my eyes find her. They will always search for her.
To an unknowing eye, she looks like any other student. But she isn’t. She’s mine.
I let the silence drag long enough to make the room restless before I clear my throat.
“Welcome to the lecture class, the Five Sides of Poe. I am Professor McKnight, and I will be your instructor for this class,” I say, smooth and collected like I do every semester.
“Before we dive deeper into Poe’s madness, I’d like to introduce someone who will be working closely with me this semester.”
Every head swivels as I gesture my hand toward her.
“This is Miss Ravencroft. She took this class last semester, and thank your lucky stars, she will be my teaching assistant. That means she will be your point of contact for any questions, discussion sections, and study sessions outside of lecture. She’s dedicated and very insightful, and if you’re smart, you’ll make use of her time.
As you may have noticed, the only contact info on the syllabus is my email; use it only if someone is dying.
Otherwise, Miss Ravencroft can handle most of your questions. You’d be wise to respect her time.”
A ripple of whispers passes through the rows. Some of the boys straighten up in their seats. A few girls exchange curious glances in Deirdre’s direction.
Her cheeks flush under the attention, but she lifts her chin, offering the faintest polite smile.
I can feel the tension thrumming in my hand where the remote rests, hidden in my pocket. With one flick of my thumb, I reward her composure with the faintest buzz. Barely there. A secret between us.
With their eyes still on her, she swallows and smooths her pen against her notebook. Somehow, Deirdre manages to keep her expression intact. Not one of them would ever guess what’s happening.
My lips twitch. “Oh, and she’ll also be handling the red pen duties for those of you who think deadlines are just friendly suggestions.
So, if you’re planning your usual disappearing act when assignments are due, please refrain, or I will promptly drop you from this class. I have zero tolerance for laziness.”
A few nervous chuckles rise throughout the class, and I let them get it out.
Freshmen are walking balls of nerves and anxiety.
I may test and challenge them in every aspect of this class, but what they don’t know is that every word or minute spent looking at Deirdre sitting in front of me is a test—for her, and for me.
Because while they think I’m simply introducing a TA, I’m watching the way her thighs shift beneath the desk, the way her knuckles whiten on her pen.
And every time I push that tiny button again, it’s not just power over her body. It’s a reminder of the truth: she belongs here, beside me, in every role.
Clearing my throat to mask the roughness that my desire has left, I begin my lecture.
Her eyes never leave me, or more precisely, they track the hand I’ve casually slipped into my pocket.
I meet her gaze with a cool, measured stare, my fingers deliberately brushing against the small remote nestled there.
The silent threat hangs between us, electric and private, amidst thirty oblivious students.
I watch as her pupils slightly dilate, the way her plump lips part.
Watching her carefully constructed mask begin to crack is going to be my absolute undoing.
“Today,” I start, my voice low and steady as I grip the worn edge of the podium, “we turn our full attention to Edgar Allan Poe. Few writers dissected the human condition with such ruthless honesty. Where others painted beauty, Poe carved into the rot beneath. He understood that the soul is not a simple, polished thing—it’s fractured.
Haunted. Consumed by longing and fear in equal measure. ”
I pause, looking around the room at the eyes of students hanging onto my every word. They remind me of Deirdre last year and how she soaked up my words like a sponge.
My gaze inevitably pauses on her flushed face.
“And that,” I continue, “is why his work endures the times. Because he dared to give shape to what we hide. Desire. Obsession. He reminds us that the darker the obsession, the more undeniable its truth.”
The rustling of pens fills the room as they quickly jot down my words on their papers. And then stillness again.