Page 12 of Deviant Obsession

But she won't figure it out. Not until it's far too late.

We both know how this is gonna end.

With her at my mercy. With her begging for my cock. With her finally understanding that she was mine from the moment I first saw her.

Chapter 5

Rhea

Hushed whispersand the clacking of computer keys float around the library as I stare at the same paragraph for what feels like the hundredth time. Dean's smug face keeps swimming into view, those blue eyes boring into me across the restaurant the other night, making my skin prickle with unease. I shake my head, trying to dispel the memory, and force myself to focus on the stack of research papers spread across the worn wooden table.

My hands tremble slightly as I sort the articles into neat piles. Methodology reviews to the left, arranged by publication date. Case studies in the center, color-coded tabs marking key findings. Theoretical frameworks to the right, annotated with my own careful observations. The familiar routine of organizing usually soothes my nerves, but today my stomach keeps doing backflips. In less than an hour, I'll be sitting in Professor Shaw's office.

Professor Shaw.

Just thinking his name sends a fresh wave of butterflies through my belly. I check my phone again.2:15p.m.Forty-five minutes until my scheduled office hours appointment. That’s if I don’t keel over before then from the sheer anxiety.

A shadow passes over my papers, and I jump, heart leaping into my throat, half-expecting to see Dean looming over me. But it's just another student walking past my secluded corner. Still, the memory of that threatening, icy stare makes me shiver. The way he looked at me...like he could see right through my clothes, right into my soul. Like he was marking me as a target with a red laser.

Focus, Rhea.

I pull my notebook closer, double-checking my citations for the thousandth time. My normally neat handwriting has gotten progressively shakier as the afternoon wears on, betraying my nervous energy. The margins are filled with questions I want to ask, theories I hope to discuss.

How am I supposed to have an intelligent conversation about epigenetic trauma markers when I can barely hold my pen steady?

I flip through my extensively highlighted copy of the professor’s latest paper, the pages practically falling open to my favorite passages. My fingertips trace his words, imagining his voice speaking them. The way his tempting lips formed around complex terminology in that first lecture, making even the driest scientific concepts sound like poetry.

At fifteen till three, I finally admit defeat. There's no point pretending I'm getting any more work done. I carefully pack away my materials, making sure all my papers are perfectly aligned in my folder. Each article is sorted by topic, each note card precisely placed. The walk to the Psychology building takes exactly seven minutes—I've timed it multiple times this week—which means I'll arrive five minutes early. Professional, but not overeager.

I hope.

The breeze catches my hair as I cross the quad, tossing my curls across my face, and I frantically smooth them backinto place. I spent an embarrassingly long time this morning choosing my outfit; a pair of charcoal jeans that aren’t too tight but also not too baggy, and a silk blouse that walks the line between student and future colleague. The blouse is pale green, perfect for bringing out my eyes.

Not that I chose it for that reason.Obviously.

My boots were another careful choice. They have heels high enough to feel classy, but low enough to avoid looking like I'm trying too hard.

The Psychology building looms ahead quicker than I’d hoped, all red brick and climbing ivy. Golden afternoon light streams through the tall windows as I enter, reflecting off the polished hardwood floors while I make my way up to the second floor. With each step, my lungs feel like they’re caught in a vice, making it impossible to suck in a full breath.

I'm nearly at his door when I hear it—that deep, smooth voice that haunts my dreams. He's on the phone, the rich tones carrying through the partially open door.

"...need those results by Friday at the latest. The implications of this study..."

I freeze mid-step, suddenly uncertain. Should I wait until he's finished? Knock anyway? What's the protocol here? I check my phone again.

2:57p.m.

Eventually, the sound of him saying his goodbyes and tossing his phone down onto his desk makes all the questioning and self-doubt totally redundant, but still, I hesitate.

My knuckles hover inches from the heavy wooden door, my blood thundering in my ears. This is ridiculous. He's just a professor. An incredibly brilliant, devastatingly handsome professor who makes my knees weak every time he looks in my direction. But still…just a professor.

I force myself to knock, the sound embarrassingly faint. For a moment I wonder if he even heard it.

Please, Lord, don’t make me have to do it again.

But then I hear, "Come in."

Two syllables shouldn't be able to make my heart race like this, and I’m in serious danger of wearing it out completely before the semester is over. I take another attempt at a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm my nerves and reach for the door handle.

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