THE PROFESSOR'S OBSESSION

CHAPTER 2

Monday morning came too fast.

I'd spent the entire weekend in my apartment, alternating between staring at the ceiling and stalking Marcus on social media like a glutton for punishment. He'd posted a picture with her—the blonde—both of them laughing at some brunch spot we used to go to. The caption read: "New beginnings ❤️"

I'd thrown my phone across the room.

Now I was standing outside Lecture Hall B, my hands shaking so badly I'd spilled coffee on my new blouse. The stain spread across my chest like a brand. Perfect. Just perfect.

I could skip. I could drop the class, take it next semester with literally any other professor in the entire university.

Except this was a required course. Except it was only offered once a year. Except dropping it would push back my graduation and I was not letting Marcus—or Professor Jameson—f**k up my plans.

I took a breath and walked inside.

The lecture hall was already half full, students scattered across the tiered seating, laptops open, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. I chose a seat in the back corner, as far from the front as possible, and pulled my laptop out with trembling fingers.

Maybe he wouldn't recognize me. Maybe in a class of sixty students, I could just blend in and—

The door at the front of the hall opened and Professor Jameson walked in.

My breath stopped.

He was wearing charcoal slacks and a black button-down that hugged his shoulders in a way that should be illegal. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd just showered, and he had his leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He looked every inch the hot professor, and I watched at least five girls in the front row sit up straighter.

He set his bag down on the desk. Pulled out his laptop. Connected it to the projector with movements that were calm, controlled, completely professional.

Then he looked up.

His eyes swept the lecture hall in what seemed like a casual scan, but when they landed on me in the back corner, they stopped. For just a second—maybe less—something flashed across his face. Recognition. Heat. Something dark that made my stomach clench.

Then it was gone, his expression smoothing into polite professionalism, and he turned to write on the whiteboard.

"Good morning. I'm Dr. Jameson, and this is Advanced Media Theory."

His voice carried through the hall, that same deep rumble that had said my name while he was inside me, and I felt heat flood my face. Several students glanced back at me like they could smell my shame.

I sank lower in my seat.

"This course will examine the relationship between media, culture, and power structures," he continued, his back still to us as he wrote. "We'll be analyzing everything from traditional journalism to social media influence to the commodification of image in late capitalism."

He turned around, and this time his eyes stayed carefully away from my corner of the room.

"Fair warning—this class is not easy. I expect critical thinking, thorough analysis, and active participation. If you're looking for an easy A, you're in the wrong place."

A few students shifted uncomfortably. One guy in the front raised his hand. "What's the grade breakdown?"

"Three major papers, one midterm, one final, and participation." Professor Jameson leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms. The movement made his shirt pull tight across his chest. "The participation grade isn't just showing up. I expect thoughtful contributions to discussions. I expect you to challenge not just the material, but each other. And me."

His eyes flicked to me, just for a heartbeat, and I felt it like a physical touch.

"Any other questions?"

A girl in the second row raised her hand. "Will you be having office hours?"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays, three to five. You can also email me to set up appointments." He pushed off from the desk. "Now, let's talk about the media landscape you've all grown up in..."

I barely heard the rest of the lecture. I was too busy trying not to stare at his hands as he gestured, trying not to remember how those fingers had felt inside me, trying not to see the flashes—his mouth on my neck, his body over mine, the way he'd groaned my name when he came.

Stop. Stop stop stop.

The ninety minutes felt like nine hours.

When he finally dismissed the class, I shoved my laptop into my bag and bolted for the door, keeping my head down. I was almost out when his voice stopped me.

"Miss Chen."

I froze. Slowly turned around.

The lecture hall was emptying, students filing out in clusters. Professor Jameson was still at the front, packing up his things, but his eyes were on me. Waiting.

Fuck.

I walked down the steps on shaking legs. By the time I reached the front, the last student had left. We were alone.

The silence was deafening.

"I need to see you in my office." His voice was carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in his jaw. "After your classes today. Five o'clock."

"I don't think that's a good—"

"Five o'clock, Miss Chen. We need to discuss your academic plan for this course." His eyes held mine, and the weight of everything unsaid hung between us. "Unless you'd prefer to have this conversation here?"

My cheeks burned. "No. I'll be there."

"Good." He turned back to his laptop, dismissing me. "Close the door on your way out."

I couldn't focus on any of my other classes. Couldn't eat lunch. By the time five o'clock rolled around, I'd chewed my nails down to nothing and changed my outfit twice.

Professional. I needed to look professional. Like a serious student who definitely had not f****d her professor.

His office was on the third floor of the Humanities building, tucked away at the end of a quiet hallway. The door was partially open, warm light spilling out, and I could hear the soft click of keyboard keys.

I knocked.

"Come in."

I pushed the door open. His office was exactly what I'd expected—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a large wooden desk covered in papers, expensive-looking artwork on the walls. But it was small. Intimate. And when he looked up at me from behind his desk, the air felt too thick to breathe.

"Close the door."

I did, and the click of the latch felt final.

He stood up, walked around the desk, and leaned against it, arms crossed. We were maybe five feet apart, but it felt like inches. I could smell his cologne—that same woodsy scent that had clung to me all weekend.

"This is a problem," he said quietly.

"I know."

"A serious problem."

"I know."

His jaw tightened. "I don't do this. I don't get involved with students. Ever. I have a reputation, a career, and I've worked too damn hard to throw it away because I—" He stopped himself, dragging a hand through his hair. "If anyone found out—"

"No one's going to find out," I said quickly. "Because nothing's going to happen. It was one night. A mistake. We were both drunk and—"

"I wasn't drunk."

The words hung in the air between us.

I stared at him. "What?"

"I wasn't drunk, Ava." He said my name like it hurt. "I'd had one drink. One. I knew exactly what I was doing when I brought you home."

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might break through my ribs. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I need you to understand the position we're in." He took a step toward me, and I backed up until my spine hit the door. "I need you to understand that this—whatever this is—it can't happen."

"I know that."

"Do you?" Another step. He was close enough now that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Because I've been trying to forget Friday night. I've been trying to forget how you looked in my bed, how you tasted, how you felt around me. And I can't."

Oh god.

"Professor Jameson—"

"Richard." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "When we're alone, it's Richard."

"This is insane." But I wasn't moving away. Wasn't pushing him back. "You're my professor. This could destroy your career. My education. We can't—"

"I know." His hand came up, and I thought he was going to touch me, but he pressed his palm flat against the door beside my head instead. Caging me in. "Believe me, I know all the reasons this is a monumentally bad idea."

"Then why—"

"Because I can't stop thinking about you." His other hand came up to the door on my other side, and now I was completely trapped. "Because I've taught a thousand students and not one of them has ever made me lose control like you did. Because I spent all weekend trying to convince myself that it was just the alcohol, just the circumstances, just a one-time thing. And then you walked into my classroom this morning and I—"

He stopped, his jaw clenching.

"You what?" My voice came out breathless.

His eyes dropped to my mouth. "I wanted to cancel class. I wanted to lock the door and put you on my desk and—" His hands curled into fists against the door. "This is inappropriate. I'm your professor. I'm fifteen years older than you. I should not be—"

"I'm twenty-five," I interrupted. "And I know exactly what I'm doing."

"Do you?" He leaned in closer, and I could feel the heat radiating off him. "Do you know what you're doing when you look at me like that? When you bite your lip the way you're doing right now?"

I hadn't even realized I was doing it. I released my lip, but the damage was done. His eyes had gone dark, that same predatory look from Friday night, and the air between us crackled with tension.

"We need rules," I heard myself say. "If we're going to... if this is going to..."

"If what's going to happen, Ava?" His voice was dangerously soft. "Say it."

"If we're going to do this." My hands were shaking. Everything was shaking. "We need boundaries. Rules."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "You're right." But he didn't move away. Didn't take his hands off the door. "Rule one: Not here. Never in this office, never on campus. Too risky."

"Okay." I could barely breathe. "Rule two: No one can know. Not my friends, not your colleagues. No one."

"Agreed." His gaze dropped to my mouth again. "Rule three: Your grades remain completely separate from... this. Whatever this becomes. I won't give you special treatment. If anything, I'll be harder on you than the other students."

"I wouldn't want it any other way." And I meant it. I wasn't doing this for a grade. I was doing this because my entire body was on fire and he was the only thing that could put out the flames.

"Rule four..." He paused, his breathing slightly uneven. "We stop this the second either of us wants to. No questions, no guilt. We just stop."

"Okay."

For a long moment, neither of us moved. We just stood there, him caging me against the door, me trying desperately not to close the distance between us.

Then his phone buzzed on his desk.

The spell broke. He pushed away from the door, putting space between us, and grabbed his phone. Read the screen. His expression shuttered.

"You should go," he said, not looking at me. "I have a department meeting in ten minutes."

"Right." I fumbled for the door handle behind me. "I'll just—"

"Ava."

I stopped, looked back.

His eyes met mine, and the heat in them made my knees weak. "Friday night. Eight o'clock. My place."

It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway.

"And Ava? Wear a dress."