Office Hours: Extra Credit

Chapter One

Chapter One

Ava Clarke Doesn’t Give a Damn

I walked into Professor Wolfe’s lecture like it was a goddamn catwalk—twenty minutes late, heels loud, dress short enough to start a fight. No apology. No eye contact. I just chewed gum and peeled off my sunglasses like I hadn’t just shattered his precious punctuality policy.

The room went dead silent.

Wolfe didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just paused mid-sentence, chalk in hand, like someone had slapped the universe sideways.

I chose the front row. Of course, I did.

I slid into the seat slowly, thighs sticking to the wood, and let my skirt ride up even higher. Then I stretched. Arms over my head, back arched, skirt flipping just enough to flash the lace of my panties to the whole damn room.

A few guys coughed. One dropped his pen.

Wolfe turned around.

And f**k me, he looked pissed.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, tie loosened like it had tried to restrain him and failed. His jaw ticked once—just once—before he set the chalk down with a calmness so precise it screamed of barely leashed fury. In that slate-grey suit, he didn’t just look like sin—he looked like the punishment that followed.

“Miss Clarke.”

Low. Cold. Dangerous.

“Yes, Professor?” I batted my lashes.

“You’re late.”

I smirked. “Traffic.”

He walked toward me, slow, controlled steps like a lion deciding whether to eat or ignore the i***t that wandered into his cage.

“Do you think this is a joke?”

“No,” I purred, crossing one leg over the other.

His eyes never left mine, “You’ll change seats. To the back. Effective immediately.”

I didn’t move. I just leaned forward, elbows on the desk, cleavage front, and center, “Why? Can’t concentrate?”

His hand slammed down on my desk. Everyone jumped. I flinched—but I didn’t back down.

His voice dropped to a whisper only I could hear. “You want to act like a brat, Miss Clarke?”

I grinned.

He stared at me like he wanted to drag me out of that seat and toss me over his desk—not to lecture me.

To wreck me.

But he didn’t.

He straightened. Adjusted his cuff and turned back to the board.

But I knew.

I knew I'd gotten under his skin once again.

And I’d keep doing it.

The next few weeks followed the same rhythm—me showing up in outfits that probably violated academic policy, him pretending not to notice but always noticing. We argued in class, toe to toe, and I lived for the way his jaw clenched like he was biting down on something he couldn’t say out loud.

But beneath the chaos, I paid attention. I watched everything—not just him, though that was a bonus. I wasn’t here just to cause trouble. I had goals. A future. And yeah, I actually cared about the work—even if I wore distraction like a second skin.

I stayed up late to analyze White Noise. I focused on it with such intensity that my head hurt and my fingers cramped. My analysis of power dynamics? Sharp. My thesis? Unapologetically bold.

And I knew it was good.

When Wolfe handed back the papers that Monday, his expression was stone. Just names, one by one until it reached my turn.

“Clarke.”

I walked to his desk, heart thudding like I hadn’t aced this. Like I wasn’t already composing the smug text I’d send my best friend after.

He held the paper out but didn’t release it when I reached for it.

“Interesting perspective,” he said, low. “Bold choices.”

Then he let go. Our fingers didn’t touch, but something electric passed between us anyway.

I returned to my seat and flipped the title page.

C.

The grade hit like a slap. My name is highlighted in bright red, surrounded by sharp and elegant comments. Some comments are probing and critical, while others seem impressed, but he ultimately dismiss my main argument.

My stomach clenched. C. I hadn't received anything below an A- since freshman year.

The rest of the lecture blurred. When class ended, I stayed seated, staring at the page, my jaw clenched. Wolfe packed up slowly, watching me from the corner of his eye.

“Office hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he said without looking. “Two to four.”

I looked up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He paused. His lips curved—not a smile. More like a dare. “Looking forward to it, Miss Clarke.”

---

At precisely 2:00 PM the next day, I knocked on his door.

“Enter.”

I stepped in. His office reflected his personality—organized, clean, and a stronghold of leather and books. He gestured to the chair across from him.

“Miss Clarke. Right on time.”

I slammed the paper down on the polished oak desk, my pulse hammering like a warning.

“C, Professor Wolfe? Really?”

Damon Wolfe didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up at first—just finished the line he was scribbling in red ink on another poor student’s essay. His office was silent except for the sound of his pen and the low tick of the antique clock on the wall.

Then he set the pen down, leaned back in his chair, and finally looked at me.

Slate-gray eyes. Cold, unreadable.

“Miss Clarke,” he said, voice smooth as smoke. “I assume you’re here to contest your grade.”

“I’m here because that paper was better than half the crap you handed A’s to.”

His brow lifted, amused. “Language.”

“I’m not one of your little freshmen you can intimidate with that broody silence thing,” I snapped. “I know what I wrote was good.”

“You want a better grade?” he asked quietly. “You think I’ve made a mistake?”

“I think you’re an arrogant bastard who punishes women for not writing like men.”

The words landed like a slap—but still, he didn’t blink. Just stood slowly, circled the desk, and stopped inches from her.

He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Shirt rolled at the sleeves, exposing veined forearms and hands that looked like they could do real damage.

“You came here,” he said, voice low, “because you want me to change your grade. So tell me, Miss Clarke… how far are you willing to go for an A?”

The room tightened around them.

I swallowed. “You’re joking.”

His hand came up—slow, deliberate—and brushed a lock of hair from my cheek.

“I don’t joke. Not about discipline.”

I should’ve backed away. I should’ve slapped him, stormed out, and reported him.

Instead, my breath hitched. Heat curled in my gut.

“I’d go far,” I whispered. “If it meant putting you in your place.”

Something flashed in his eyes. Hunger. Dark, controlled rage.

He reached behind me and locked the door.

“Then bend over the desk.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. I didn’t move.

He stepped behind me, one hand sliding up my spine, firm and commanding. “Use your words,” he ordered. “Do you want this?”

I turned my head, breathless. “Yes.”

“Good.”

So he did what he said.

Bent me over the desk.

Lifted my skirt.

And taught me exactly how he graded behind closed doors.

No mercy. No hesitation. Just rough hands, dirty words, and a promise whispered against my neck, “You want the A? You’ll earn it on your knees next.”

Then his hand slid up my spine, slow and deliberate, until it curled into the back of my neck. Commanding. He pressed me down just enough to remind me who had the power—at least for now.

The desk was cool beneath my palms. My breath hitched, my heart a war drum in my chest.

“Stay still,” he said, voice low and lethal.

Then his other hand skimmed up the back of my thigh, fingers ghosting over bare skin until they reached the hem of my skirt—and kept going. He tugged it higher, bunching the fabric around my waist until I was fully exposed. The air kissed my skin, but it was his breath I felt the most. Hot. Close. Dangerous.

“You walk into my class flashing your little thong like a weapon,” he murmured, “and now you’re going to find out what it buys you.”

He dragged a single finger along the line of my panties, teasing the edge. Then he hooked them, yanked them down to my knees, and let them fall to the floor.

I gasped.

His hand slid between my thighs. Found heat. Wetness.

“You came in here dripping for me,” he said darkly. “Didn’t even try to hide it.”

I bit my lip, hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a moan. But when two fingers slipped inside me, deliberate and unhurried, my resolve cracked.

A whimper slipped through.

“That’s better,” he said, pumping slowly, curling just enough to make my knees wobble.

Then he pulled out, and I nearly cried at the loss.

A belt clinked behind me. The sharp metallic sound made my core tighten.

“Still think I graded you unfairly?” he asked.

I looked back over my shoulder. Met his eyes.

“You’re still a bastard,” I breathed.

His mouth curved—something between a smirk and a snarl. “Good. I like brats.”

I turned toward him—and froze.

He was back on the couch, legs spread like a king on a throne, his trousers unzipped and pushed just low enough to reveal the full, atrocious length of him.

Big. Thick. Veined. Hard.

My breath caught.

He didn’t speak. Just leaned back, eyes locked on mine, waiting.

I swallowed once again and then I knelt, crawling up between his legs, and let my fingers trail up his thighs. His c**k was hard, glistening, flushed at the tip. I didn’t hesitate this time.

I wrapped both hands around him and leaned in, tongue flicking across his tip before I took him into my mouth again. I moaned low, letting the sound vibrate through him, and he cursed under his breath.

“Goddamn, Ava…”

I took my time, dragging my tongue along the underside as I sucked him in slow and deep. His hands tangled in my hair again, not forcing, just holding, needing.

I looked up through my lashes, and the sight of him undone—head tipped back, lip caught between his teeth, chest rising with shallow breaths—lit something inside me.

I bobbed my head with purpose now, twisting my wrist, letting my spit and his arousal coat him. He was groaning, low and rough, hips twitching as he tried to hold himself back.

Then his hand fisted in my hair, slamming brutally into my mouth. I gabbled, my throat bobbing and spit coating his length as I tried to match the thrusts of his hips. Each thrust of his hips was filthy, raw, and forbidden.

“Look at you,” he muttered darkly, voice like silk over broken glass. “Running that smart mouth in class—this is what it’s meant for.”

He slammed into my throat again, holding me there a second longer. “Same mouth you used to question and challenge me in front of the whole class. Now look at you—gagging on my c**k like an eager little slut.”

My eyes watered, but I didn’t look away. If anything, the heat coiled tighter in my stomach. The humiliation wasn’t a punishment—it was Twisted. Forbidden. Delicious.

“You love this, don’t you?” he rasped, dragging me off him for a second so I could catch my breath. “Acting like a brat all semester, flashing your t**s at me every chance you got.”

He hauled me up by the arm, turned me around, and shoved me back against the couch. My bra was gone, my breasts bare and flushed—and he stared down at them with that dangerous, starved look.

“These,” he growled, cupping them roughly. “You showed the whole class. Lifted your skirt, stretched just so, knowing I was watching.”

He leaned down, dragged his tongue across one tight n****e, then stood back, eyes blazing.

“Now they’re mine.”

His hand came down hard, a sharp smack against one breast that made me cry out—half pain, half aching want.

Again.

Then again.

Each slap left a sting that bloomed into heat, and I arched for more.

He dropped onto the couch and yanked me to straddle his lap, my thighs spread wide over his. His c**k pressed between my breasts, and I pressed them together for him.