Page 77 of Switching Graves

It would be so cliché—the professor and their assistant. It’s a line I’ve never thought to cross with any student, yet it feels like it would be so effortless with her.

I’ve got two options here. I could end this right now. Refasten my pants and walk back over to my seat to put some distance between us before dismissing her.

That’s the safest bet.

Or, I could push this. See how far I can bend her until she breaks—preferably across my desk with her ass in the air.

When I bring my gaze back down to hers and see that defiant, challenging glare boring into me, I’m afraid that decision is already made.

“I would bet an entire year’s salary that if I ripped those sweat pants off right now, your panties would be completely soaked.”

Proving my point, she shifts in her seat to create friction between her thighs and ease the ache that mirrors mine.

Her hand grabs at a random strand of hair, twirling it around her finger—a nervous tick, I’ve learned. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. And as you’ve pointed out before, I’m far lesscapablethan Ms. Mercer.”

Ah, but she would make such a great study.

Words escape me. Every response I can think of at this moment is inappropriate and out of line.

Once she realizes I have no retort, she stands from her chair, pausing a few inches away, and tucks the exams tightly to her chest. From this angle, I have to crane my neck to look at her, giving her the upper hand.

“Why don’t you email me the rest of your notes. I’ll go back to my dorm,” flicking her eyes down to my pants, she smirks. “And we’ll forget this ever happened.”

She makes it one step before my hand is wrapped around her thigh, the tips of my fingers digging so deep into her flesh, I can feel her tendons and muscles twitch against them. Tilting my chin upward—just the way she intended—I curve my lips into a sly smile, flashing my teeth. I’ve already thrown my sanity outthe window, but if she expects me to beg for what has been laid out before me, she’s terribly mistaken.

I’ll take what I want and leave nothing but scraps behind, and she’ll fucking thank me for it.

“Orhow about this, Little Nightmare,” I begin, tugging her leg with the slightest bit of force to knock her off balance and send her flying into my lap with a cute grunt. I catch her in my arms, our faces mere inches apart now as I offer the real proposal.

“How about we stop pretending for a few minutes and fall into these filthy desires? Give ourselves something toforget.”

She allows her eyes to roam across my face, gauging the seriousness of the offer I’ve just made. The responsible, ethical side of me hopes she’ll say no and spare me the mental torture that is sure to swarm me once her come has dried on my face and she’s safely tucked back into her dorm. But the manic side of me knows that even if she tries, I won’t allow her to walk away without acknowledging that she feels the same way, too.

This sexual tension between us has had me incapacitated for weeks.

Her brows pull together as she subtly shakes her head against my arm. “We can’t,” she mumbles—more as a reminder to herself than a response to me.

“Of course, we can. We can do whatever the fuck we want.”

I’ve traveled far beyond my mind and entered a state of being that evenIcan’t seem to identify. Driven by pure desire and lust, it appears my prefrontal cortex has shut down and given my testosterone the steering wheel. Leaning forward, I graze my nose against her jawline. A small whimper escapes her lips, and I’m completely unhinged.

“One night, and we’ll go back to the way things should be . . . ”

She swallows, her head beginning to shake in the negative again. My words almost echo that asshat who took advantage of her.

I stiffen my grip on her, lining my lips against her ear as I whisper, “Let me make you come the way you wanted me to that night.”

It’s unfair, really. Using a moment of weakness against her to influence her decision in my favor. It’s that tortured expression that haunts me each night, though. The way her eyes begged me to come down the stairs and finish her off. Only in my weakest moments have I admitted to myself that I wish the same thing.

Her resolve is ironclad, I’ll give her that. When her expression goes stony and I think she’s about to shove me away and go tearing down the stairs, she surprises me by gently stepping away, hooking her thumbs into those god-awful sweatpants, and shoving them down her legs.

40

Sonny

Idon’t know what I’m doing, and I refuse to allow myself the time to overthink or second guess it. This is me taking a moment to veer off the path of what’s right or expected and swerve into something totally unexpected. Something taboo.

It may be a slight overcorrection, but damn . . . it feels right.

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