Page 4 of Sinful Chains

The greed would pay me another visit soon enough.

Chapter two

I slipped into theback row of the lecture hall, easing into a hard metal seat along the last row, out of sight but with a perfect view of Storm. Excuse me,Professor Windermere.

He stood at the front, commanding, authoritative, and fine as all hell. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie slightly loosened, his dark eyes flashing with amusement as he leaned against the desk, fielding a question from one of his students.

“So, what you’re saying,” a girl in the front row said, tapping her pen against her notebook, “is that this whole rollback thing isn’t about race at all?”

Storm gave her a half nod. “Not exactly. It’s about race at its core, but race is about power. Always was. The two are inextricably linked.” He crossed his muscular arms in front of him. “When the government cuts funding for classes that teachyourhistory and culture, they’re exercising the power to make you insignificant because of your race. It’s shoring up their importance, which is anextensionof their power.”

His voice was rich and clear, every word deliberately chosen. He thrived up there, in control, challenging, pushing them. The way he made them hang on his words…shit, the way he mademehang on his words—it was intoxicating.

I dreaded summer school as a child, but this right here was alright.

I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs, pressing them together, dodging flashbacks of the other night when the four of us were all together in the house. The professor fucked me for the first time, but we weren't alone. I was eager to experience him one-on-one. I had a feeling it would be quite the encounter.

There were layers to Storm. It's something that always intrigued me about him.

“That makes sense,” the girl said, and he flashed her a smile that made me want to slap her across the face.

Someone a few rows in front of me raised their hand. When Professor glanced toward us, his eyes found mine with effortless precision, his lips curling knowingly as he pointed to the young man.

“But, like, what are they scared of?” the boy asked. “They think we’re gonna learn about slavery and then start a race war?”

Storm shrugged. “Knowledge is always dangerous when it threatens the status quo. And when people feel threatened, when institutions feel threatened, they go on the offense.”

The way he said that sent a shiver down my spine. Because unlike anybody in here, hopefully, I knew just how well that statement could be applied to Storm. Late at night, when he wasn’t standing in the classroom shaping young minds, he was a dangerous man. To others. To me. To the sensitive places between my thighs…

“And that concludes today’s discussion,” he announced as he moved back to the podium. “I’d love to keep going, but somebody’s lurking in the shadows back there waiting for me.”

Several students twisted in their seats, following his gaze. I rolled my eyes, but smiled at the call-out.

“Damn, Professor,” one of the guys in the front said. “You got groupies out here?”

Storm smirked. “Favor ain’t fair, my friends.”

The room filled with laughter as students began to gather their things and file toward the exit. A few young female students made comments to him on their way out, which, if I was reading their body language accurately, were probably not about homework or what article to read.

Storm’s energy remained professional, however. Charming, but detached. I waited until the last student left before I made my way down the aisle toward him. The man was like a magnet, drawing me in, strengthening my attraction.

“Groupie?” I said, tilting my head. “Is that what I am now?”

Storm’s smirk deepened. “If the shoe fits.”

I leaned against the desk, letting my eyes roam over him. “I’m done for the day. Take me to dinner.”

He paused, holding his laptop at the opening of his messenger bag. “You asking me or telling me?”

“Did my inflection go up at end?” I said with a grin.

His eyes didn’t leave me as he finished packing his things. I held his gaze, feeling my insides heating dangerously. Finally, he pulled his bag over his shoulder and inclined his head.

“Let’s get it.” He led me to the door, pausing to toss out, “For the record, whether you asked or told me, I was damn sure gonna go.”

Across from Storm in a booth at Entra, I shimmied my shoulders to the sounds of the jazz coming from the restaurant’s speakers.

“Is this adequate?” he asked with a quirked eyebrow. “If I recall correctly, you love seafood towers.”

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