My Professor, My Fiancé

Chapter 4: Behind Closed Doors

The next day, I was quietly grateful that Mr. Kingsley kept his end of the deal.

We passed each other in the hallway—close enough that I could smell his cologne, that familiar clean, sharp scent—but he didn’t call my name. He didn’t slow his stride. He didn’t even spare me a glance.

Relief washed over me in a way I hadn’t expected. Even more so when the students around me finally stopped throwing those strange, knowing looks in my direction. Distance, it turned out, was exactly what I needed. It reminded me why my feelings for him had always been harmless. Distant. Controlled.

He had been my crush since the very first day of class.

Not because of his looks—though he was undeniably attractive—but because of the way he carried himself. He was meticulous, passionate about his lectures, and had a rare talent for making even the driest topics feel alive. He demanded respect without ever raising his voice.

Admiration. That was all it was supposed to be.

So when I found out he was my fiancé—the man my parents had promised me to in the name of business expansion—I was devastated.

Ironic, I know. But the truth was, I never wanted him close. Never wanted him like that. He was my professor, and I was his student. There were rules. Handbooks. Entire sections dedicated to what was forbidden between faculty and learners.

Crossing that line was unthinkable.

Why not just transfer him to another school?

Because that was exactly why he was here.

It was all part of the agreement—between our parents, between families with too much power and too many expectations. He was here to make sure I learned everything I needed to. To keep an eye on me. To stay involved in my life in ways that felt suffocating, even when disguised as concern.

I hated admitting it, but it worked.

It was like killing three birds with one stone—education, supervision, and obligation all wrapped into one neat, infuriating package.

During class, he never once looked at me. Not when I entered. Not when I spoke. Not even when our eyes could have easily met. For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe.

When the lecture ended, I was free. Free from the tension. Free from the unbearable awareness of him.

I headed straight outside and was already opening the taxi door when I felt it.

My pocket was empty.

Light.

Cold panic hit me.

Shit. My wallet.

I apologized to the driver, barely hearing his irritated muttering as I rushed back toward the building. My lungs burned by the time I reached the classroom floor. I slowed, confused, because the sound of heavy breathing echoed down the hall.

Too loud.

Too close.

And then I realized—

It wasn’t mine.

A sharp, breathless sound slipped through the door. A voice—strained, heated, unmistakably intimate.

“f**k me hard!”

My hand flew to my mouth before I could gasp, my breath catching painfully in my throat. The words echoed against the hallway walls, raw and unfiltered, as if the building itself had flinched at their audacity.

The lights inside were dim—barely more than a dull glow spilling from the corners of the room. From the outside, it looked abandoned, lifeless, just another empty classroom waiting to be locked up for the day. No bags on the desks. No voices drifting into the corridor. Nothing that would suggest anyone had stayed behind.

No one would ever suspect there were still people inside.

The air felt heavier as I stood there, my pulse hammering so loudly I was sure it would give me away. Shadows stretched across the floor, distorted by the weak lighting, and the door stood slightly ajar—as if daring anyone foolish enough to look closer.

Another sound followed. A low murmur. A sharp inhale. The unmistakable scrape of movement against furniture.

I felt rooted to the spot, torn between the instinct to run and the unbearable pull of curiosity. This was wrong. Inappropriate. Reckless. Every rule drilled into us during orientation flashed through my mind all at once.

Yet my fingers trembled as they hovered near the door.

The room smelled faintly of chalk and old wood, mixed with something warmer, more human. My heart pounded harder with every second I lingered, each breath shallow and uneven.

I knew—I knew—that whatever was happening on the other side of that door would change something the moment I saw it.

Together.

I should have turned away. I should have left immediately. But curiosity crept through my veins, traitorous and electric. I’d always been nosy—this was no exception.

Who would risk something like this? In an old classroom, of all places?

The sounds grew louder, more urgent, and my pulse raced. My better judgment fought desperately for control—but lost.

I swung the door open and I froze. My eyes oogled at the sight of Mr. Kingsley who is half-naked, by the way. His pants are pulled down with his wholeness inside of a cunt—

Holy s**t!

My jaw dropped when I saw my other professor lying on the desk with buttons of her polo open, revealing her plumpy breasts—one had a piercing on its n****e.

My mind screamed.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

What… the… actual… f**k?