Chapter 19 Kieran #2
With a deep breath, I step away from the podium’s shield and turn my back to the classroom of eager faces.
I write a quote from Poe on the blackboard, chalk dust floating in the morning light streaming through tall windows, just as I did last semester when Deirdre sat in that very same seat, unaware of what was to come.
Before pivoting back to face the class and asking which line of Poe resonates with them, I press the button on the remote, activating the toy on its lowest, most subtle setting.
The soft sound of a throat clearing cuts through the silence, followed by the telltale scraping of chair legs against the floor.
I don’t need to look to know it’s the woman whose body I’m controlling from across the room, whose desire matches my own in its ferocity.
A smirk plays at the corners of my mouth as I turn, savoring the knowledge that she’s fighting to maintain composure while pleasure continues to build inside her, our secret vibrating between us like a live wire.
I lean forward, resting one hand on the podium.
“Now, I do this at the beginning of every semester, and it always intrigues me what students will say at the beginning versus the end once they have truly dug into Poe’s mind.
I want you to think about a line—just one—that lodged itself in you while reading Poe.
A line that unsettled you, or one you couldn’t quite shake.
Something that whispered back to you long after you put the page down. Who wants to start?”
A few students volunteer. I get the expected answers: ‘Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore”’ and ‘All that we see or seem / Is but a dream within a dream.’
I nod along, letting them warm up, then shift the class’ focus. “Good. Now tell me—what does that mean to you? Not to me, not to literary critics. To you.”
One by one, they answer. A girl in the front speaks about grief. A boy in the middle row clumsily mentions nightmares. I affirm, redirect, press them harder.
Then, deliberately, I let the silence hang. My gaze settles on her.
“Miss Ravencroft. I would love to hear what line has stuck with you.”
I remember last semester when she quoted The Fall of the House of Usher. It was that moment that I knew I needed to know everything about this girl. I wait patiently for her to recite the familiar line, but then I notice her expression change.
Her breath catches, just loud enough for me to hear it. She blinks, gathering herself, then recites calmly, “‘We loved with a love that was more than love.’”
Her voice is steady, but her hands fidget with her pen.
The room shifts, multiple heads turn, some continue writing notes. They don’t notice the electricity sparking between us.
I tilt my head, keeping my tone smooth, deceptively mild. “And what does that mean to you?”
Her lips part, and it’s almost as if her throat is dry, like she is struggling to get her words out. “It means…that real passion borders on madness. That when love is consuming enough, it doesn’t just define you—it devours you.”
Heat coils low in my spine. Around us, the classroom might as well dissolve into dust.
I nod, forcing myself to hold the guise of the professor. “Insightful as always, Miss Ravencroft. Poe knew that love and madness often wear the same face. That passion is dangerous not despite its intensity, but because of it.”
Her words affect not only, me but my cock strains against my tailored slacks. I need to compose myself before I rip this woman out of her chair and bring her back to my office.
The rest of the students scribble obediently in their notebooks. None of them see the way her flushed cheeks and defiant stare threaten to undo me completely.
I click the toy on the lowest setting three times in succession. Her back stiffens, her pen falters across the page.
“Poe, as we know,” I continue, not missing a beat, “had no interest in polite society. He wrote of longing, obsession, torment—things we’d rather bury.”
She bites her lip, hard, and my blood runs molten in my veins. I dial it up a notch, subtle enough to make her squirm just slightly in her seat.
“And yet,” I add, my voice smooth, “to bury desire only makes it more powerful when it finally claws free.”
I know I’m torturing myself as much as her. Every shift in her seat is a knife to my composure. My knuckles ache from how tightly I grip the wooden podium. But I keep going, my tone measured, my words steady, like I’m not unraveling every second she breathes.
The hour crawls, and by the time I dismiss the class, I’m seconds from losing control. She lingers at her desk, pretending to organize her notes, waiting for the last student to shuffle out. My hand twitches over the remote one final time just to hear the deep inhale she tries to smother.
When the heavy double doors shut behind the last freshmen, I quickly stride over and lock them.
She’s already on her feet, barreling toward me when I turn around, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with accusation and want.
“You’re cruel.”
I stalk toward her, my restraint fraying. “Cruel? Or in control?”
Her breath hitches when I crowd her against a desk, my hand braced beside her hip.
“Kieran…” she whispers.
I lower my mouth to her ear, my voice nothing but desperation and need. “Two days, Deirdre. Two fucking days without touching you. And now, watching you squirm through an hour of my lecture knowing exactly what I was doing to you?”
She shudders when I take the remote from my pocket, holding it up before slipping it onto the desk. Then I lift her chin, making her meet my eyes.
“Now,” I growl, “you’re going to show me exactly how much you missed me.”