Page 16 of Deviant Obsession

"Think about that while you're working on your first draft," I continue, my voice dropping lower. "Consider how much more effective you could be as a therapist if you weren't still at war with your own restraint."

The color blooming across her cheeks deepens to crimson as my words sink in. Her chest rises and falls more rapidly now, and I find myself mesmerized by the way she squirms ever so slightly in her chair. I imagine her squirming for an entirely different reason.

"I'm not..." she starts, then stops, chewing her lip. "That's not what I..."

"Not what you what, Rhea?" I try to sound merely inquisitive, unaffected, even as her stammering ignites a fire in the pit of my stomach that’s impossible to ignore. "Not what you came here to discuss? Not what you think about when you’re alone, when all those carefully constructed walls start to crumble?"

Her eyes dart to the door, then back to me. Like a cornered animal, but one that's more intrigued than frightened. "Professor Shaw, I?—"

"Tell me something," I interrupt again, delighting a little in her growing frustration, and leaning forward just enough to make her breath hitch. "When was the last time you did something purely because it felt good? Not because it was right, or proper, or expected, but simply because you craved it?" I’m careful to pose the question as vaguely as possible. Maintaining an air of professionalism. Plausible deniability.

The silence stretches between us, charged, electric. I can practically see the war raging behind those glistening, greeneyes. She can’t decide desire versus propriety, liberation versus control. She shifts again in her chair, and this time I allow myself to imagine how that restless energy could be better channeled.

"I should go," she whispers, but she doesn't move. Her eyes are locked on mine, dark with something that looks remarkably like lust. She resumes wringing her fingers in her lap, another transparent tell.

For a moment, just a moment, I let myself imagine grabbing those delicate wrists, pinning them above her head as I?—

The shrill ring of my office phone shatters the tension like fragile glass.

She jumps, the spell broken, and practically leaps from her chair. "I really need to...I have another class..."

"Of course." I lean back, watching as she gathers her things with as much clumsiness as she walked in with. "I can’t wait to read your essay.”

She pauses at the door, looking back over her shoulder. "Thank you for your...insights, Professor."

The door clicks shut behind her, and I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The phone continues to ring, but I ignore it, too consumed by the images flooding my mind now that I don't have to maintain control.

I imagine her bent over this very desk, those ill-fitting jeans rumpled around her ankles. Those perfect lips, the ones she keeps biting, wrapped around my cock as I teach her exactly what that clever tongue is good for. Her pale skin marked with my fingerprints, her throat hoarse from screaming my name.

"Fuck," I mutter, adjusting myself in my slacks. This is dangerous territory. She's my student, for Christ's sake. I’ve never gone there before. Honestly, I’ve never been tempted, but there's something about her, something that calls to the darkest parts of me. The parts that want to break her down and rebuild her in my image.

I gather my things, knowing I need to get off campus before I do something truly reckless. But as I slip on my jacket, I'm already planning our next encounter. Office hours are technically by appointment only, but I have a feeling she'll find her way back here soon enough.

She's too curious now, too aware of the current running between us. And I'm too intrigued by the challenge she presents. She’s the perfect combination of innocence and repressed desire, just waiting to be split open.Corrupted.

Let her stew on our conversation. Let those words sink in, take root in that brilliant mind of hers. Next time, I'll push a little harder, dig a little deeper. Find out exactly what makes her tick.

After all, isn't that what any good professor would do? Help their students reach their full potential? I smirk at the thought as I lock my office door.

Yes, I'll help Rhea Foster reach her potential…

In ways she never even dreamed possible.

Chapter 7

Rhea

My head is still swimminglike I’ve downed an entire bottle of wine as I hurry across the quad, clutching my papers tight to my chest as if they're some kind of scandalous evidence of the meeting I’ve just left. I'm so lost in replaying every word the professor said, every loaded glance, that I almost miss the figure lounging against one of the stone pillars ahead.

Almost.

"Rhea! Fancy running into you here," Dean drawls, his perfect lips curving into that infuriating smirk I've come to despise in such a short time.

My startled jump sends my carefully organized papers scatteringagain, a flutter of white against the clear blue sky. Before I can even react, Dean's gracefully pushing off the pillar and snatching them out of the air like a poisonous frog spearing unsuspecting bugs.

"Careful there, sweetheart," he says, extending the papers toward me. “Anybody would think I make you nervous.” His fingers brush mine as I snatch them back, making me question how the hell this could happen to me twice in one day. Perhaps I should start wearing gloves to protect myself from unexpected skin-to-skin contact with the wrong men.

"Are you actually stalking me now?" I snap, shuffling the papers back into a pile I know is painfully out of order. "Because I swear to god, Dean, if you're following me?—"

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