It’s almost midnight when you stand in front of Professor Dominic Cross’s office door, your heart thundering in your chest. The hall is empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing above you, adding to the tension in the air. Your fingers brush against the doorknob, but a knot of anticipation tightens in your stomach.

You shouldn’t be here.

The moment you stepped into his class, you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes lingered on you. The tension between you two was palpable. He’s 42 you’re 22, your father’s best friend, and the man who’s always treated you like his best friend’s daughter. But now, everything is different. Now, it’s just you and him, and the fire between you both.

You push the door open and step inside, your breath catching in your throat as you meet his gaze. He’s sitting at his desk, a glass of whiskey in hand, eyes dark and intense as they lock on yours. He doesn’t say a word, just looks at you as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

“You’re late,” he says, his voice low and full of authority.

You swallow, nerves flickering at the back of your throat. “I needed to talk about my grade,” you say, though the words feel foreign coming out of your mouth.

He stands, his tall frame looming over you. The air thickens with electricity, his fingers graze your waist, his touch sends a shock of heat through you. You try to steady your breath, but it’s hard when he looks at you like that—like he’s waiting, daring you to make the first move.

“You wanted extra credit,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your ear. “I’ll give it to you. But it comes at a price.”

You shiver at his words, a surge of heat at your core. Before you process it, his lips are on yours hungrily and demanding, his tongue thrusting into your mouth. Your hands grip his shirt, pulling him closer.

You gasp when he lifts you, your body pressed against his chest, the heat of his body igniting yours. He walks you backward, not breaking the kiss until he’s backed you against the edge of his desk. He lets you catch your breath.