3

The next day hit like a slap. Saturday. Long weekend stretching ahead like torture. No campus, no lecture hall, no deep voice calling me “four eyes” across sixty heads.

No chance to catch even a glimpse of him, hear that low rumble that made my insides twist. Phew. I dragged myself out of bed like everything was fine.

Downstairs, Mom was already in full hostess mode—plates clinking, flowers in a vase, the dining table looking like Pinterest threw up on it. She glanced up when I shuffled in wearing my oldest oversized tee and shorts.

“He’ll be here soon. Put on your best, honey.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I felt it in my skull. “Yeah, right. I’ll probably not.”

She sighed that disappointed-mom sigh but didn’t push. I turned and escaped back upstairs before she could guilt-trip me into a dress.

My room. Door locked. Phone in hand. Straight to his Instagram like a junkie.

He’d just posted. Fresh. Shirtless. Golden hour light hitting every ridge of his abs, that V-line dipping into low gray sweats like it was painted on.

In one hand, a single red rose—velvet petals, thorns and all. Caption: “For someone who deserves it.” No tag. No explanation. Just that smirk in the mirror selfie that screamed trouble.

My breath caught. Heat pooled low and fast. I didn’t even think. Drawer open. Dildo out—the thick, veiny one I’d bought online with a fake name because I was paranoid.

I dropped onto the bed, legs spread, panties shoved to the side. Phone propped against the pillow so I could stare at that photo while I worked it in slow.

His voice in my head, replaying on loop: “Careful.” “Pay attention.” “Four eyes.”

I bit my lip, rocking my hips, pushing deeper. “Fuck me, Professor,” I whispered, barely audible. “Please… fuck me…”

The toy hit just right. My back arched. Quiet moans slipping out, thighs shaking—

“Honey! Your new soon-to-be dad is here!”

Mom’s voice climbing the stairs like a damn siren. Footsteps. Closer. Closer.

I froze mid-thrust. Heart slamming into my throat.

Panic mode. I yanked the dildo out so fast it almost slipped from my fingers, shoved it under the pillow like it was radioactive.

Swiped my phone screen off. Pulled the covers up to my chin. Legs clamped shut. Face burning. Breathing all ragged and guilty.

I heard them downstairs now—Mom’s bright laugh, a deeper voice answering smoothly and familiar.

I sat up slowly, ears straining. The voice laughed again—lowly, the same timbre that had haunted my nights for years.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

I cussed her in my head so viciously I almost said it out loud. Mom and her secrets. Four years. Boyfriend. Soon-to-be dad.

And the man whose rose photo I’d just been riding a toy to… was downstairs. In my house. About to sit at our table.

I stared at my closed door, pulse roaring in my ears.

What the hell was I supposed to do now? Walk down there pretending I didn’t know exactly what he looked like naked from the waist up? Pretending I hadn’t left lace in his lecture notes yesterday? Pretending my thighs weren’t still slick from thinking about him fucking me on his desk?

I pressed my palm between my legs, trying to calm the throb that wouldn’t quit.

This weekend just got a thousand times more dangerous.

And I was already soaked for it.

I heard Mom call again, sharper this time. “Honey!”

She only used that tone when she was two seconds from grounding me and confiscating my phone for “being rude.” No choice. I dragged myself off the bed, smoothed my oversized tee down.

Every step down the stairs rubbed me the wrong way, in the best-worst way possible.

I hit the bottom step and forced my face into neutral. Polite. Bored. Like I had zero idea who the tall, broad-shouldered man at the head of the table was.

He looked up the second I appeared.

Those dark eyes tracked me—slowly, the same way they’d lingered on me yesterday when he’d smoothed my skirt down over my bare ass. My stomach flipped so hard I almost tripped.

I pretended I didn’t notice. Pulled out my chair, sat, stared at the plate like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Heart hammering. Thighs pressed tight together under the table.

Mom beamed like she’d won the lottery. She reached over, squeezed my hand, then turned to him with that proud-mom glow.

“She’s such a good girl, Nathan. Always has been. Top of her class—well, when she actually shows up and pays attention.” She laughed lightly. “You’ll like her once you get to know her. She’s sweet, smart, responsible… the whole package.”

Nathan—Professor Nathan—leaned back in his chair, fork paused halfway to his mouth. His gaze slid over me again, lingering on my face, my lips, then lower for half a second before coming back up.

He smiled slow.

“Good girl,” he repeated, voice low and smooth, like he was tasting the words. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

The air sucked out of the room.

Mom kept chattering—something about the roast, the weather, how nice it was to finally have us all together—but I barely heard her.

My ears were ringing. My face was on fire. Under the table, my thighs clenched so hard I felt the slickness between them. He’d said it. Out loud. In front of my mom.

Like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just echoed the exact filthy phrase I’d been moaning into my pillow ten minutes ago.

I stared at my plate, pretending to cut a piece of chicken I had no intention of eating. My hands shook. Bad.

He took a slow sip of water, eyes never leaving me. The corner of his mouth twitched—like he knew. Like he knew everything.

Mom reached for the potatoes. “Isn’t this nice? All of us together. Family dinner.”