I take a step toward the door, not trusting myself to look at her. "So I don’t lose my job for the way I want to make you choke on my fucking cock."
Her breath catches. I open the door, nod once, for her to exit. "I will meet you in my office after my class in exactly 83 minutes."
“And if I’m not there?” She counters, crossing her arms across her chest.
I laugh humorlessly, my eyes darkening as I let my mask slip. “Then I will hunt you down, Sunshine, and take you how I fucking please.”
26
JASMINE
Against my better judgment,I’m pacing outside of Conner Kilgore’s office like a woman with something to prove and nowhere to place the fire clawing at her throat. From the outside, I probably look like any other pissed-off student, too wired up over a grade, but this isn’t about a fucking grade. This is about control. About him. About the sick, burning thing between us that neither of us can seem to walk away from.
He gave me a D. A D. After I aced that goddamn report with citations, tight logic, and a better thesis than half the PhD candidates in this building. And for what? For disappearing while I grieved? For getting too close? For letting him see the softest, ugliest pieces of me and then still wanting to touch him anyway?
Fail me? He wants me to fight him. He wants me pissed, loud, unhinged—and God, I want to give it to him. I want to storm through that door and pin him to the wall with my words, make him admit he’s punishing me because he can’t stand the power I have over him. Because I got too close and now he doesn’t know how to hold that without snapping it in half.
My feet won’t stop moving. My hand clenches the strap of my bag so tightly it aches. I can feel the weight of everything we haven’t said pressing down on my spine. He’s in there, behind that heavy door, probably calm and cold and smug—probably waiting.
He wants this to end in fire. And I don’t know what terrifies me more: that I might burn him down, or that I’ll let him burn me. I spin on my heel to start pacing the other direction—because motion is the only thing keeping me from exploding—and that’s when I see him.
Striding down the hallway like the problem he is, dressed in a black suit that fits him like sin. His black jacket hanging loosely around his crisp, tailored dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, the top button undone as his long fingers work at the knot of his tie like it’s personally offended him. His briefcase swings from his other hand, steady, measured, like he’s not on his way to war but to church. Like he doesn’t know he’s about to be screamed at by the girl who is barely holding her bones together.
My breath hitches.
Because he looks unfair like this—too composed, too sharp, too cold. Green eyes locked ahead, jaw tight, the same way it was the night I told him my darkest truth and he couldn’t even bring himself to stay in the room.
And still—still—my body reacts to him like it’s instinct. My pulse surges. My hands itch. My skin tightens. He’s a black hole in motion and I am so fucking tired of orbiting him.
He doesn’t speak when he reaches me. Just stops, inches away, the scent of him hitting like a wave—clean linen and cool air and something darker underneath it, like smoke and heat. The tie ishanging loose now, collar gaping just enough to show the edge of that tattoo crawling up his collarbone. The one I asked about once and never got an answer.
He looks down at me, eyes unreadable.
I square my shoulders, jaw tight. If he thinks he can intimidate me into silence, he’s got another thing coming. “Professor Kilgore, you wished to speak to me?”
“Office,” he says flatly, voice low and clipped like a command. Then he brushes past me and unlocks the door. Doesn’t look back.
I stand there for half a second—long enough to remember that I am not afraid of Conner Kilgore.
But maybe… I should be. I follow him in.
The door clicks shut behind me like the beginning of a countdown, and I swear I can feel the air tighten with it. His office is neat—sickeningly so. Every book lined up like a soldier. Desk clear, except for a laptop, a single pen, and a thick, manila folder sitting in the upper right corner.
He doesn’t sit. Just drops his briefcase beside the desk and walks behind it, still undoing the last of his tie like it’s strangling him. He meets my eyes like I’m already wasting his time.
“So?” I snap, arms folded across my chest like armor. “Am I here to watch you change my grade again in front of me this time? Or are we just playing this fun little power trip out in private?”
He leans back against the desk, arms crossed to match mine. “You’re here,” he says calmly, “because you made a scene.”
“You made a scene.” My voice lifts, sharp and vicious. “I got every question right on that report and you know it. You dropped my grade because you’re mad I didn’t beg you to stay that night.”
His jaw ticks. Just a fraction. But I see it, and I want to dig my teeth into the pulsing veins.
I take a step forward, not backing down. “You think you can punish me academically for your own emotional constipation? Get over yourself, Conner Kilgore.”
His eyes darken, just a flicker. But it’s there. “Watch your tone.”
“Or what?” I hiss, stepping closer and placing both palms on his desk. “You’ll flunk me again? Humiliate me in front of your whole damn class? You already did that. So what now, professor?”
