My brain short-circuits. Like, completely fucking flatlines.

Because here’s the thing about having your carefully compartmentalized life explode in your face: there’s this moment where you either run screaming or lean into the absolute insanity of it all.

I should leave. Walk out. Report him. Pretend this never happened and transfer to a different section. Instead, I’m calculating how long it’s been since someone cleaned this office carpet.

“You’re insane,” I whisper, but my knees are already starting to buckle.

“Probably.” His voice carries that same dark amusement from our texts. “But you’re still here.”

Fuck. He’s right.

“This is—” I start, then stop.

What is this? Inappropriate? Illegal? The hottest thing that’s ever happened to me?

All of the above?

“This is you getting exactly what you asked for,” he said, voice rough and low, like gravel wrapped in silk.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair—not harsh, not forceful. Just firm. A silent promise that I can fight him if I want… but I won’t.

Because he’s right. Because I don’t want to.

“What you’ve been fantasizing about for weeks,” he added, his tone infuriatingly calm.

“I never fantasized about you,” I whisper, breath shaky. A pathetic attempt at control.

His eyes sharpen, lips curling with cruel amusement. “Liar.”

The word hits like a slap because he’s absolutely right.

Every time I imagined being bent over a desk, skirt pushed up, punished for something trivial, it had been him behind me, whispering filthy things while making me come so hard I forgot my own name.

Even before I knew it was him—before I connected the professor with the masked man who ruined me in a dark club—it had always been his voice in the fantasy. His eyes. His hands.

It always was him.

And now there’s no one left to lie to. Not even myself. My pride wars with my pussy, and guess which one’s winning?

Before my mind could even finish the thought, my knees hit the floor with a soft thud against the polished tile of his office. My hands settled on my thighs, palms clammy, fingers curling into the fabric of my skirt like I needed to hold on to something.

I didn’t speak, didn’t breathe. It was as if my body had been waiting—aching—for that command. For someone strong enough to say it like they meant it.

Yearning for it in some quiet, primal corner of my mind that no one else had ever touched.

I had spent years holding everything in place. I’d worn responsibility like armor, polished and airtight. For so long, I had carried the weight of everyone else—my sisters, my father, even myself.

I was always composed, responsible, good. The girl who never faltered, who held her family together with shaking hands and a fake smile.

But kneeling here, in front of Adrian Lewis, that armor cracked and fell away with stunning ease. The weight of being perfect slid off me like a coat in the rain, and left me naked in a way I had never felt before.

I was exposed, yes. But more than that—I was free.

When I looked up, he was watching me. Not with kindness or affection, but with complete, unapologetic control.

His gaze was unreadable, steel gray and burning beneath the surface, and I felt scorched just meeting it.

He moved slowly, lifting one hand with the precision of someone who knew the effect every movement would have on me. When his thumb touched my lips, the world narrowed to a single point.

“Open,” he said, the word falling between us like a lock snapping into place.

I parted my lips, my breath stuttering. He slid his thumb into my mouth, the pad of it pressing against my tongue. The taste of him—skin, salt, power—hit me instantly.

“Now suck.”

The command struck deep, and I obeyed as my lips wrapped around his thumb.

I sucked gently at first, tentative, as though testing my own limits. But the longer I held him in my mouth, the more I felt it—pleasure rolling through me low and thick, pooling between my thighs.

“I see you, Sophie. Not the good little girl with straight A’s and bottled-up screams. You. The beautiful thing kneeling before me who’s been begging for someone to take her darkness and make it holy.”

It wasn’t hesitation from uncertainty—it was the opposite. I wanted it too much and still I was afraid of what would happen if I gave in completely.

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