Chapter 2:Ruin Me, Professor

Zoe’s heart was still slamming from what she’d just blurted out. *I’ve been wanting you since you transferred here.* The words hung between them like smoke. She wanted to crawl under the desk and die. She also wanted him to do something about it.

Marcus hadn’t moved. His eyes were dark, locked on her like she’d just pulled the pin on a grenade. His jaw worked once, tight.

“Zoe,” he said, low. Almost warning. “You need to be very careful what you say right now.”

“I know.” Her voice came out shaky. “But it’s true. And you grading me like that… like you *see* me… it’s been messing with my head all week.”

She stepped closer. Too close. The kind of close where she could smell him properly — coffee, faint aftershave, and something warmer that made her stomach twist. She was trembling. Not from cold. From the insane need clawing at her ribs.

Marcus exhaled sharply through his nose. His arms were still crossed, like he was physically holding himself in place. “This isn’t appropriate.”

“No shit,” she shot back. The anger from the red ink flared up again, mixing with everything else until she couldn’t tell where one feeling ended and the next began. “But you wrote those notes. You didn’t have to see me that clearly. You could’ve just given me the B+ and moved on.”

He pushed off the desk slowly, unfolding those arms. God, the way his shirt stretched across his chest. She hated how much she noticed.

“I gave you the grade you earned,” he said. His voice had dropped. Rougher. “The B+ wasn’t a punishment. It was a provocation. Most students email me to complain. You showed up at 8pm on a Friday… wearing that.”

His eyes flicked down her body for half a second. The silk blouse. The skirt. Heat flooded her face, but she didn’t back down. If anything, she stood straighter, letting him look.

“Yeah? And what do you think I’m here for, Dr. Hale?”

Marcus’s gaze snapped back to her face. Something dangerous flickered there. “Marcus,” he corrected, almost growled. “In here, right now? It’s Marcus.”

Her breath caught. The way he said his own name felt intimate. Like a line being crossed.

She pulled the rebuttal out of her bag with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking. “Here. I wrote this. Read it.”

He took the pages. Their fingers brushed. Neither of them pulled away fast enough. The contact sent a spark straight down her spine. His skin was warm. Rougher than she’d imagined. She wanted those fingers on her neck, in her hair, between her legs. The thought hit so hard she had to press her thighs together.

Marcus leaned back against the desk again, reading. Slowly. Deliberately. She watched his face the whole time, heart in her throat. His jaw flexed. A muscle ticked in his cheek. When he turned a page, his eyes lifted to hers for a second — dark, unreadable — then dropped lower, to where her breasts rose and fell too fast against the thin silk.

She felt exposed. Aching. Her nipples were tight, obvious, and she didn’t even try to hide it.

“You’re still holding back here,” he said finally, tapping a line. His voice was quieter now. “But this part… you almost let yourself go.”

Zoe swallowed hard. “Almost isn’t enough for you?”

“No.” He stepped closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her head to look up at him. “I want the version of you that wrote page 41. The one who stopped performing.”

Her mouth went dry. She crossed her legs where she stood, and the skirt rode up her thigh. He noticed. He didn’t even pretend not to — his gaze lingered, heavy, before dragging back up to her face.

“What the hell am I doing?” she thought. *I should leave. I should really fucking leave right now.*

Instead she said, “Page 41. The Plath passage. You circled it like it mattered. Read it back to me if you’re so sure.”

Marcus shook his head once, slow. “No. You read it to me.”

It felt like a trap. A test. She wanted to pass it. She wanted to fail it spectacularly.

Zoe took the thesis from him. Their hands brushed again, longer this time. She started reading. Her voice was steady at first. Then it cracked. Got huskier halfway through, the words pouring out raw like that 2am rush when she’d written them. She felt stupidly naked. Like she was reading him her diary. Her dirtiest secrets.

When she finished, the silence was deafening. Thick. Heavy enough to drown in.

Marcus was staring at her mouth. His breathing had changed — deeper, rougher. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the edge of the desk behind him like he was anchoring himself.

“Is that… what you wanted?” she whispered.

His eyes lifted to hers. “That’s who you are when you stop trying to sound like a scholar.”

Her chest squeezed tight. Shame and want twisted together so hard she felt dizzy. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation.” But the way he said it… God. His eyes said he wanted to observe every single inch of her. Slowly. Thoroughly. Like he was already imagining it.

Zoe’s legs felt weak. She was soaked. Actually aching between her thighs, pulse pounding in time with her heartbeat. Why wasn’t he touching her? He looked like he wanted to. Like he was one breath away from snapping. But he stayed right there, hands white-knuckled on the desk, eyes devouring her instead.

*Touch me. Just do it. Please.*

She started gathering her things, hands clumsy. “I should go. This was… I don’t even know what this was.”

Marcus didn’t move to stop her, but his voice came out low. “Do you want coffee?”

She froze. Turned back. He gestured vaguely to the small machine on the shelf behind his desk. His control was hanging by a thread — she could see it in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes tracked her every movement.

She should say no. Walk out. Save them both.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “I do.”

The moment she sat back down in the chair across from him, everything shifted. They both knew it. The thesis was forgotten on the desk between them. This wasn’t about the grade anymore. Hadn’t been for a while.

Marcus made the coffee without looking away from her for long. When he handed her the mug, their fingers brushed again. This time she let hers linger, just for a second. His thumb grazed her knuckle. Deliberate.

She sipped. Burned her tongue. Didn’t care.

“So,” she said, voice unsteady. “You gonna tell me why you really wrote all that? Or are we both just pretending this is still professional?”

He sat in the chair closer to her now. Knees almost touching. “I wrote it because you’re better than what you’re showing. And it frustrates the hell out of me.”

“Frustrates you?” She laughed, but it came out shaky. “You’ve been frustrating me since you got here. Walking around like you don’t know half the department wants you. Like you don’t know *I* do.”

Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Close enough she could see the faint stubble on his jaw. “Zoe. I’m your professor.”

“Not tonight you’re not.” The words slipped out bold. Reckless. Her heart was racing so fast she felt lightheaded. “Not when you look at me like that.”

His eyes darkened. “Like what?”

“Like you want to fuck me right here on this desk.”

The dirty words hung in the air. She couldn’t believe she’d said them. But the way his breath hitched — sharp, audible — made heat flood through her whole body.

Marcus rubbed a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”

He didn’t deny it.

She crossed her legs again. The skirt slid higher. His gaze dropped, stayed there longer this time. She watched his throat work as he swallowed.

*Why isn’t he touching me?* The waiting was torture. Delicious, agonizing torture. Every second stretched out, thick with want. She could feel how wet she was, how her body kept tightening with every look he gave her. Her nipples ached against the silk. Her skin felt too hot, too tight.

Marcus reached out slowly. Not to her body — to the rebuttal still on the desk. He pointed at a line, but his fingers were so close to hers she could feel the heat.

“Right here,” he said, voice rough. “You wrote about wanting to be seen. Really seen. Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” The word came out small. Vulnerable. “I just didn’t think it would feel like this.”

His finger brushed hers again. Stayed. Pressed lightly. The touch was so small but it lit her up like fire. She bit her lip hard, fighting the whimper that wanted to escape.

Marcus noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flicked to her mouth, hungry.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been trying not to see you like this,” he admitted, voice low and ragged. “Grading your work. Sitting in seminars. Telling myself it was just the writing.”

“But it’s not.”

“No.” He sounded almost angry about it. “It’s not.”

The silence stretched again. Heavy breathing. Eye contact that felt dangerous. She wanted to crawl into his lap. Wanted him to pull her there. But he stayed put, fighting it, and somehow that made it hotter. The restraint. The way his hands kept flexing like he was one second from losing it.

Zoe shifted in the chair. Her bare knee brushed his. Neither moved away. The contact burned.

“What the hell are we doing?” she whispered.

Marcus let out a low, rough sound — half laugh, half groan. “I have no fucking idea.”

But he didn’t pull back. And she didn’t either.

The coffee sat forgotten. The thesis lay between them like an excuse they’d both stopped believing. Every look, every almost-touch, every charged word pulled the coil tighter. Her body was screaming for him. Her mind was a mess of shame and craving and finally.

She wasn’t leaving tonight. Not unless he made her.

And from the way he was looking at her — like a man starving — he wasn’t going to.