Page 2 of The Professor's Indecent Obsession

Even if she hadn’t used my name, the descriptions would have been unmistakable. My build. My voice. My books. Even the small scar on my left cheek from that goddamn knife training exercise in Quantico a decade ago.

She knew me. Or thought she did. And I can’t decide if that makes things better or worse.

What I do know is that when I turned to the inside cover and saw the name scribbled there in confident, looping handwriting - Callie Dawson - something inside me shifted.

Now I need to find her. I need to find the person with the filthy imagination and the talent to weave the kind of dirty fantasies that have kept me awake and hard as a fucking rock since I first opened the notebook.

The door clicks shut behind the last student, and silence falls.

I look up.

And there she is.

Standing maybe five feet from my desk, caught in that heavy pause between expectation and fear. One hand wrapped around the strap of her bag, knuckles white. Her wide, brown eyes are locked on the notebook in my hands, full of horror and realization.

But all I can do is stare.

Holy fuck.

She’s... breathtaking.

Not in some polished, plastic, runway-ready way. No. She’s all soft curves and flushed cheeks and nervous energy that rolls off her like heat.

Her body is built to be touched. Built for pleasure. Full hips, plush thighs, a waist that begs to be held, and a generous ass that would fill my big hands perfectly. Her breasts are round, heavy, straining just slightly against the thin cotton of her top. Fuck, they’d look even better in my palms. Or wrapped around my cock. Or bouncing as I...

Jesus.

I drag in a breath through my nose. It doesn’t help. She smells of something sweet, like vanilla and innocence. My cock responds instantly, swelling behind the zipper of my pants with painful urgency.

My jaw clenches. She’s too young for me. I’m forty-three, and she must only be twenty. Not even old enough to drink. And she’s my goddamn student. I should not be thinking these things about her.

And yet, one word keeps running through my mind, over and over again, in time with my pulse.

Mine.

My blood roars with the certainty of it. My entire body tenses with the weight of it.

She doesn’t know it yet, but she belongs to me. Every inch of her. Every gasp. Every moan. Every filthy little fantasy she hasn’t written down yet. I want them all.

I want her.

She shifts nervously, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, and it takes every ounce of control I possess not to growl aloud. Her gaze flicks up to mine, just for a second, and it hits me right in the chest.

There’s something in her eyes. Shyness. Panic. Need.

My fingers tighten around the edge of the notebook, the pages crinkling slightly beneath the pressure.

This isn’t just about lust anymore.

This is possession. Obsession. Destiny.

She wrote about me, and now... now I will write myself into every breath she takes.

And I’m going to start right here.

Right now.

Chapter Two

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