Chapter 25 Deirdre
Deirdre
“If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.” Edgar Allan Poe
By Wednesday morning, my nerves are electric. Not because of class, no, but because of him. Kieran had texted me late last night: My office. Twenty minutes before class. Don’t be late.
When I step inside his office, the first thing I notice isn’t him behind the desk but the steaming Starbucks cup waiting on the corner. My favorite. The smell alone wraps around me like a warm embrace, and for a moment, my shoulders relax. He remembered.
“You’ll need it,” he says smoothly, looking up from his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair slightly mussed. “Long day ahead.”
My fingertips lightly graze the coffee cup. The gesture feels too tender for a man who thrives on control, but it makes my pulse race all the same.
“You bribing me with caffeine now?” I tease.
“Bribing?” He leans back, that slow, calculating line curving his mouth. “Think of it as…preparation.”
Before I can reply, he’s already moving toward me, deliberate and steady. My breath hitches when his hand trails down my arm, fingers curling lightly at my elbow.
“How’s Tipton?” he asks, voice low, casual.
I groan. “Monotone. Already drowning us in Dante.”
The corner of Kieran’s mouth quirks. “The Inferno? Fitting. Though Tipton’s voice alone could qualify as one of the circles of Hell.”
I attempt to stifle a giggle. “I admit. I do love it. Dante is my second favorite literary critic.” “And the first?” Kieran raises an eyebrow.
“Poe and not because the professor is easy on the eyes.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere in my class, Miss Ravencroft,” he says firmly, but his eyes betray him.
Running his hand gently down my cheek, he pushes the hair out of my face as he recites, “ ‘Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us. It is a gift.’ “
“The renowned Poe scholar enjoys Dante as well, hmm? Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”
Instead of responding, he reaches into his pocket. The velvet pouch makes a soft whisper as it opens. Two silver clamps catch the light, dangling from a delicate chain.
My mouth goes dry. “Kieran…”
“Shh.” His eyes never leave mine as his fingers work the buttons of my blouse. “A reminder for when you’re sitting there taking notes.”
The lace of my bra scrapes against sensitive skin as he tugs it down.
Cold metal touches flesh, a sharp bite that pulls a gasp from my throat.
My knees nearly buckle. He watches my face, adjusting each clamp with practiced precision until I’m balanced on the knife’s edge between too much and not enough.
I bite my lip to trap the sound threatening to escape. His breath is warm against my ear, lips grazing the sensitive skin there.
“When you shift in your seat,” he whispers, “when you reach for your pen…”
He gives the connecting chain the slightest tug. My vision blurs at the edges. Beneath my ribs, my heart hammers so hard I’m certain he can see it through my skin. The lecture hall suddenly seems impossibly far away, impossibly public.
Satisfied, he pulls back, adjusting his tie as if he didn’t just wreck me before class. “Go on,” he says smoothly, nodding toward the door. “You’ve got students to impress.”
And I know I’m not going to survive this hour.
By the time I walk into the auditorium, every nerve ending feels wired, my awareness heightened not by caffeine but by him.
Students chatter and shuffle into their seats, blissfully unaware of what’s happening beneath my button-down.
I slide into my usual spot, my pulse quickening as Kieran strides to the podium with deliberate calm, a predator in control of his space.
“Today,” his voice pours through the cavernous room, low and steady, “we begin with Poe—not just the writer, but the man consumed by shadows of his own making.” His hand trails along the worn wood of the podium, and I swear it’s a caress.
“Madness. Loss. Death. These weren’t themes he borrowed; they were obsessions carved into his life.
He buried nearly everyone he loved, and those ghosts walked through every line he penned. ”
Something about his words causes my chest to tighten, not because of the clamps but because of the raw weight in his tone.
A slight twinge courses through my breast as my nipples harden, feeling slightly aroused by the sensation, and the increasing tug of pain-paired-with-pleasure makes me squirm in my chair. It’s a vicious cycle.
And based on the way Kieran is looking at me like he wants to devour me, he knew exactly that this would happen.
“Consider The Raven,“ he continues, eyes sweeping across the room before landing on me again. “It isn’t simply a poem about a bird. It’s about obsession. About what happens when grief festers, when the mind cannot let go of the dead. The narrator spirals into madness not because of the raven’s words, but because he cannot stop seeking answers from a creature that will never give him what he wants. ”
“Or take ‘Ligeia,’” he goes on, his voice darkening.
“Here we see Poe’s fascination with the idea of a love so powerful it transcends death.
But is it love—or madness? The narrator is so consumed by his lost wife that when another woman dies in his arms, he sees Ligeia rise again in her place.
Passion intertwined with decay. Desire knotted with destruction. ”
I shift in my chair. My breath hitches. It’s like he tailored this lecture to us. A few students glance over, probably thinking I’m just fidgeting in my seat.
If only they knew.
The words he’s saying blend with what he’s doing to me, and suddenly it feels as if I’m the poem he’s dissecting—madness, passion, obsession, all tangled into one trembling body.
“As I said in the first class, Poe teaches us that love is not neat,” Kieran says, his gaze locked on mine as if the rest of the class has disappeared. “It is not gentle. Sometimes it’s the very thing that drives us to ruin.”
I grip my pen hard, nearly snapping it, as another wave of pain flares under my shirt. The ache mixes with arousal until I can hardly tell them apart.
“Your assignment,” he says smoothly, as if he hasn’t been tormenting me for the last forty minutes, “is to choose one of Poe’s works and analyze how madness, grief, or death shapes it.
Consider how these obsessions are not simply literary devices but reflections of his own life.
I expect rigor in your work. Depth. Insight. Wikipedia is not your friend.”
He closes his notes, then adds casually, “And if you have questions, Miss Ravencroft will be your point of contact. She’ll help guide you through your analysis.”
Every student in the room turns toward me. My cheeks burn, though not from their attention alone. He knows exactly what he’s doing—presenting me as his intellectual equal while secretly holding me captive to his control.
The auditorium door clicks shut behind the last straggling student, and I’m already hyperaware of the silence that follows. Kieran doesn’t move right away, letting the stillness stretch until I finally risk glancing up at him. His eyes are dark, fixed on me in a way that pins me to my chair.
“Stay,” he commands, his voice low but charged.
My body reacts before my mind can catch up.
My pulse quickens, and I shove my notebook into my bag like I’m scrambling for composure.
His stride is steady, unhurried, but I feel the weight of it as he closes the space between us.
He doesn’t need to raise his voice; his presence alone pulls me to my feet, following him like I don’t have a choice.
We don’t speak on the short walk down the corridor. My nerves spike every time I hear the echo of our footsteps on the tile. A student passes us in the hallway, and my cheeks feel like fire. Like they can see the tension buzzing between us, the ache left by the clamps hidden beneath my sweater.
By the time we step into his office, I’m wound tight. He shuts the door with a sharp click and turns the lock, the sound loud in the quiet room.
I stand just inside, not sure if I should move closer or keep my distance.
He doesn’t let me wonder long. He circles me methodically, like a predator surveying prey, his fingertips grazing my arm as he passes.
My skin sparks where he touches me, the same mix of comfort and danger that always comes with him.
“You were squirming in your seat,” he murmurs, stepping behind me. His breath brushes my ear. “Trying so hard to keep your composure. Tell me, Miss Ravencroft, were you afraid they’d notice?”
Heat rushes through me, both from his words and from the truth in them. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie poorly, biting my lip.
He chuckles darkly, his hand sliding to rest at my hip, grounding me, claiming me. “You forget, Miss Ravencroft, I watched every little reaction. Every shift of your thighs. Every bite of your lip.”
A shiver courses through me. My body remembers before my brain can form excuses, remembers how close I’d come to unraveling right there in front of the entire class.
He turns me gently until I’m facing him. His eyes are full of desire, though the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders. “Do you enjoy driving me insane?”
I should deny it, but the corner of my mouth betrays me. “Maybe a little.”
His hand slides up, cupping my cheek, tilting my face toward his. His lips hover over mine, teasing, daring.
“Careful,” he warns, voice barely above a whisper. “Push me, and I’ll remind you exactly what happens when you tempt me during my lecture.”
I lean closer, my voice steady now despite the tremble in my knees. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want.”
His restraint cracks then, the hunger in his eyes sparking into fire.
His mouth claims mine, rough at first, then slows.
His tongue sweeps across mine as my lips part, inviting him in.
His hands cup my face as he devours me. By the time he pulls back, I’m breathless, my body pressed against the edge of his desk.
His hands leave my face and slide down my ass, cupping my legs as he lifts me atop the sleek mahogany. The cool wood presses against the back of my thighs as he steps between my knees, his body heat enveloping me.
It’s just him and me, the unspoken truth thrumming between us: the world may never approve, but in this moment, neither of us cares.
“Kieran,” I whisper, breathless, pleading for whatever he will give me.
“You’re soaked for me, aren’t you?” he murmurs against my lips, his hand slides between my legs and rubs circles against my leggings.
His words send a shiver through me. My legs tighten instinctively around him, pulling him closer.
Papers scatter beneath me as he pushes the stack of essays aside without a thought, making room for me like nothing else in the world matters but this.
The office, the university, the world outside—it all disappears.
Tilting my gaze to him, “See for yourself, Professor.”
He trails his mouth along my jaw, down to my neck, each kiss lingering, teasing, until I can’t keep the small sounds from escaping. His hands slide beneath my sweater, fingertips grazing my bare skin, igniting fire in their wake.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice raw, almost broken. “Not after six weeks of hell. Not after thinking I might never…” He cuts himself off with another kiss, harder this time, desperate.
I tug at his shirt, needing more, needing him. He pulls it over his head in one swift motion, tossing it carelessly to the floor. My palms skim his chest, memorizing the hard lines of muscle, the warmth of his skin, grounding myself in the magnetic pull of him.
My back arches, pressing closer to him. The urgency builds between us, every touch, every kiss fanning the flame higher until the air itself feels heavy with want.
His fingers curl into the waistband of my leggings, and he yanks them down with ease.
Looking up at me, he glides his lips and tongue against the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh, teasing, making me tremble, and when his mouth meets mine again, I know he’s about to make good on his promise from class.
To remind me of what happens when I tempt him.
So, I taunt him.
“What are you waiting on, Professor?”
He swiftly props one of my legs up on his desk, spreading me open to him. “Lean back, Miss Ravencroft.” His voice drops an octave as he sits down in his chair, his eyes darkening to obsidian.
I arch back onto my elbows, the cool mahogany pressing against my heated skin. His finger traces the lace edge of my panties before hooking them aside. The air hits my exposed flesh, and his breath catches audibly.
“Fuck.” The word vibrates against my inner thigh. “You loved the pain, didn’t you?”
His fingers trail up under my blouse, finding the delicate chain. The metal warms against my skin before he tugs, harder this time.
“Yes! Fuck, Kieran. Yes!” My voice echoes off the walls. “Again, please.”
His tongue flicks once, twice, three times while he pulls the chain in rhythm. My hips lift involuntarily, and his palm presses firmly against my thigh, anchoring me to the desk.
The wet heat of his mouth moves in long, deliberate strokes. I twist my fingers into his hair, feeling the silky strands between my knuckles. My other hand finds the chain, and when I pull it myself, stars explode behind my eyelids.
His mouth works faster now, hungrier. The dual sensations of searing pain and warm pleasure make my thighs tremble. My head falls back, sounds I don’t recognize tearing from my throat. The ceiling blurs, my stomach coils tight.
The pressure builds low in my belly, spreading outward like wildfire. His lips seal around me, creating a perfect vacuum while his fingers curve inside, finding that spot that makes my vision swim.
“That’s it. Come on my desk. Make a fucking mess all over these papers.” The command in his voice pushes me over. Wave after wave crashes through me, my muscles contracting around his fingers as he coaxes every last shudder from my body.
After he lets me recover, he helps me to my feet, slowly pulling my leggings back on.
“I guess I will see you Friday at Salvation, then?” he teases, knowing I am still reeling from his previous torture.
“I guess so, Professor.” My voice shakes in response.
If the end of every class is like this, I am going to be known as the TA who walks around like a baby giraffe.
As I turn to leave, my knees nearly buckle beneath me—and I realize with perfect clarity that being Kieran’s assistant is going to be a beautiful disaster that could very possibly ruin my academic career.