“And you?” I ask, sensing this is more than just the usual metaphor. “Which one are you?”
“For you?” he answers. “I’ll be both. I’ll destroy myself to protect you.”
It shouldn’t sound like a vow, but it does.
This son of a bitch.
Two weeks ago, he tortured me—book definition—and now he is ready to protect me?
Only a dumb one would accept.
And only a crazy one would believe.
I’m both.
“Take it off,” I say, pulling myself back from spiraling into that train of thought.
One second later, the shirt slides off his shoulders, revealing more than just his chest. Tattoos everywhere. And not just the snakes—those I’d already claimed for myself—but now I see the rest of him. His entire body is a canvas of designs. Some symbols I don’t recognize, sixteen tally marks on his upper arm, four ofthem crossed. Chains, skeleton ribs, everywhere just torture and death.
I stay still, straddling his lap, letting the silence thicken around us. Could it be that the Professor’s past is not as black and white as I’d thought it was? Maybe it is haunting him just as much as mine is. For the first time, I see more than his mask, a glimpse of what is hiding behind his facade. Pain.
His jaw flexes when he notices how I look at him—like I’m trying to get under his skin, in his brain, and see what’s inside.
He breaks the silence first. “Make sure you don’t come just from watching.”
I smile, grinding down against his cock trapped beneath me.
“You’re not making it easy for yourself, are you?”
His breath hitches the second I roll my hips again, keeping my full weight on him as I have no intention of letting him move. Not yet.
“Pants. Take them off.”
He shifts his position under me, one hand finding his waistband. The loud drag of the zipper cuts the air, and he shoves them down, his thighs flexing hard to remove the clothing with me on top, watching his every move. The fabric moves, then slides down, falling low enough to expose?—
Fuck.
Last time he was too far for me to notice all the details of his body. But now, up close, all I see is a piece of art.
His cock springs free—thick, flushed, and pulsing—from the restraint. Veins curl along the length, with precum glinting on the head.
I can’t help it when my mouth parts.
And he fucking notices it. One of his fingers moves back to my pussy, rubbing gently in circles.
The smirk returns. “Looks like you need it.”
I clench, but remove his finger and lean in, until my words are nothing more than whispers in his ear. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
“Might be true,” I lean down, “But I’m the reason you’re still not inside anything yet.”
And with that, I step toward the dresser, where my collection awaits. His eyes flicker with confusion, making me smile.
I open the top drawer, picking up the metallic handcuffs and the blade I keep for special occasions. At this sight, his smirk fades just enough.
I climb back over him—one knee, then the other—straddling him.
“Arms up,” I order.