That night the air was crisp, cold, the scent of old books and rain lingering as Professor Eleanor Graves pushed open the heavy oak door to her office. It was late, too late to be here but a stack of dissertation drafts and had kept her from going home. The dark, wood-paneled office, lined with bookshelves towering toward the ceiling, felt smaller than usual, suffocating in its quiet solitude.
She wasn't alone.
The presence announced itself before she even turned, a shift in the air, a ripple of something warm brushing against her skin. She exhaled, composing herself before speaking.
"You shouldn't be here, Mr. Calloway." Her voice was steady, but her heart wasn't.
Isaac Calloway--a name that had become both an indulgence and a warning in the secret chambers of her mind. He was brilliant, insufferably so, with a confidence that bordered on arrogance but never quite crossed the line. Too perceptive. Too unrelenting. And standing behind her now, in the dark quiet of her office, a problem she could no longer possibly ignore.
She turned slowly.
His dark hair fell just a little too carelessly over his forehead, and his black shirt--unbuttoned at the collar--exposed the hint of a throat she shouldn't be noticing.
"I couldn't sleep," he murmured, tilting his head. "And I had a feeling you couldn't either."
She folded her arms, leaning back against her desk in a way that she hoped appeared unaffected. "That's not an excuse for barging into my office uninvited."
His lips curled into something between a smirk and a dare. "Would you have let me in if I knocked?"
She swallowed. The truth sat bitter and scorching on her tongue. No.
His gaze traced over her, slow and deliberate, and something deep inside her clenched. It wasn't the first time she'd felt it--this strange, unwelcome pull toward a man she had no business wanting. It had started with stolen glances in lectures, turned into lingering gazes during office hours, and now
Now he was standing close. Too close.
"I admire you, Professor Graves," Isaac said, his voice quieter now, sliding over her like silk. "Your mind. Your work. But surely, you know that's not all."
She did know. She had known for weeks, maybe months, that he looked at her in a way no student should. And worse--she had let all of it happen. Indulged it, even in the smallest of ways. A fleeting glance. A breath too long between words. A pause when their hands accidentally brushed. Small acts of permission, each and every one cracking the wall between them.
"This is dangerous," she said finally, forcing her voice into something harder.
"That doesn't mean you don't want it."
She felt the breath leave her lungs. Isaac moved, stepping forward until only inches separated them, his scent--a mix of something warm, cedar and the faintest spice--invading her senses. He reached out, hesitant at first, then bold, brushing a single fingertip down her arm.
She should stop this. This is wrong. In every way. She didn't.
Her eyes fluttered closed for just a second, her body betraying her, swaying imperceptibly toward his. A sharp inhale. She opened her eyes again, but his were already on her, burning, waiting, wanting. Isaac went in for the kiss. There was a moment of hesitation from her. But she succumbed. When he kissed her, it wasn't soft. It was an unraveling. Why could something like this be so wrong yet feel so right?
Heat and urgency, the way his hands found her waist, then her hips, fingers digging in as if anchoring himself. Her own hands--traitorous things--moved of their own accord, fisting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer even as she knew she shouldn't. His mouth was hot, his lips demanding, and when he bit down softly on her bottom lip, a sound escaped her that she barely recognized as her own. The books, the walls, the rules--none of it existed. Only this. Only him.
He lifted her onto the desk in one swift movement, parting her knees so he could step between them. Hands roamed--hesitant and searching at first, then greedy as barriers of propriety fell away. His lips moved from her mouth to her jaw, her throat, his breath warm and shuddering against her pulse."Tell me to stop," he murmured against her skin.
She should. But the word tangled itself in the dark, warm space between them and disappeared.
Instead, she pulled him closer.
His fingers slid up her thigh, teasing the hem of her skirt before pushing it higher, exposing the soft skin beneath. A shudder ran through her as he traced slow, deliberate patterns against her flesh. She gasped when he pressed his mouth lower, leaving a searing trail along the curve of her throat.
"You're trembling," he whispered, his voice a wicked promise against her skin.
She was. But it wasn't fear that gripped her--it was desire, sharp and overwhelming. Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging slightly, eliciting a groan from deep in his chest.
His hands found the buttons of her blouse, undoing them one by one, pausing just long enough to let her stop him. She didn't. Instead, she let her own hands slide beneath his shirt, nails scraping against taut muscle, feeling the way his breath hitched at her touch.
Both now half naked. He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue claiming hers with a hunger that sent liquid fire straight to her core. Every touch, every whisper, every needy pull brought her closer to a line she swore she wouldn't cross--but Isaac was relentless. And so was the desperate need between them.
Her back arched as his mouth found her collarbone, his fingers leaving featherlight trails over her now-exposed skin. He pressed himself against her, his need evident, hot and demanding against her thighs. The friction alone had her biting down on her lip to suppress a moan.
"Eleanor," he murmured, voice rough and wanting. The sound of her name on his lips shattered her last thread of restraint. She pulled him fully against her, hands guiding, hips tilting, as every last bit of logic and hesitation dissolved beneath the undeniable gravity of him.
The morning after their first night together, Eleanor awoke to the pale glow of dawn filtering through her curtains. The warmth of Isaac's body was still pressed against hers, his arm draped possessively over her waist. For a moment, she allowed herself to indulge in the feel of him, the slow rise and fall of his breath against her shoulder, the way his fingers twitched slightly in sleep as if still holding onto her. Then reality crashed down.
She turned carefully, shifting out of his grasp, and sat up. Her blouse was discarded near the couch, her skirt tangled at the foot of it. A crime scene of desire. She pressed her hands against her face, exhaling shakily. What had she done?
