He was your professor. Older, hot, handsome, with a sharp jaw and an even sharper tongue. Everyone seemed a little scared of him, except you. You liked to challenge him.

You showed up late to class, made witty comments, and smirked whenever he looked irritated. You did it on purpose, because provoking him meant he was paying attention, and attention meant heat, a kind of tension that made the air between you almost unbearable.

Today, you handed him your essay in private. He didn’t even glance at it at first. “You really think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he asked, stepping closer. “Those looks? That attitude?” His voice was low, calm, but there was something in his gaze that made your heart skip.

“You like testing me, don’t you?” he continued.

You whispered, “Maybe I do.”

He let out a slow breath. “You act like you’re in charge,” he muttered, “but this is who you really are, isn’t it?” You were breathless, your chest tight, caught somewhere between fear and fascination.

After a moment, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, gentle, almost reverent. “You’re mine now,” he said quietly, his tone serious, “and you don’t get to look at anyone else.”