Chapter 3
1319 Words
ARIA'S POV
I know he said, “See me after class,” but where would the fun be if I simply did as he requested?
So I didn’t.
I waited until all my classes were done. Took my sweet, delicious time. Fixed my hair. Reapplied my lip gloss. Slowed my walk just enough to hear the click of my heels echo down the marble hallway like a warning bell.
The professor’s lounge was quiet. Sleek and modern, all polished stone and whispering wealth. Everything in this place was designed to intimidate. But me? I liked the silence. I liked the feel of all that power sleeping behind soundproof doors.
“Left, right, left…” I muttered under my breath, scanning the nameplates beside each sleek black door. “Nope. Nope. Absolutely not.”
I stopped in front of one. Grimaced. “Ugh. Professor Thornhall,” I whispered, wrinkling my nose. That woman made me want to choke myself with her syllabus.
Then finally—finally—I saw it.
“Professor Kian.”
I smirked, c****d a brow, and raised my hand.
Knock knock.
"Knock knock," I said out loud, playful and shameless.
“Come in,” came that deep, velvet voice from inside. My breath hitched.
God.
“Get a grip of yourself,” I muttered, smoothing my skirt before twisting the handle and stepping in.
The scent of cedarwood and leather hit me immediately. Cold, rich, masculine. Like expensive cologne soaked into the bones of the room.
“Good evening, Professor,” I said sweetly.
He didn’t even glance up. Just sat behind his desk, legs crossed, reading a thick, hardbound book like I wasn’t even worth the ink on the page.
Rude.
My eyes scanned the room until I found it: a cream-colored sofa that screamed money and comfort. I strolled toward it with purpose.
But before I could sit—
“I don’t remember giving you permission to sit, Miss…” he said, voice low, unhurried, still not looking up.
I blinked. Then I laughed, one brow arching as I turned toward him. “Oh? Do I need permission to use furniture now, Professor?”
“I believe my office operates under my rules,” he said, flipping a page without even glancing at me. “Or did that not come up in orientation?”
God, the nerve of him.
I stayed standing, arms folding under my chest. “Duly noted.”
He hummed once, quiet and amused. “That outfit,” he said, still reading, “isn’t regulation.”
My mouth parted.
He hadn’t even looked up.
I tilted my head. “Why? Does it bother you, Professor?”
My voice dropped, soft and suggestive. He finally—finally—looked up.
And when he did, it was like being stripped bare.
His gaze moved slowly. From my heels, up the curve of my calves, across my thighs—pausing just long enough to make my breath catch. His eyes didn’t linger. They claimed. They made me feel seen. Hot. Naked.
His eyes finally met mine, and that half-smirk at the corner of his lips made something tighten in my core.
My legs clenched before I could stop them.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His smirk grew.
“Your little performance in class today,” he said, closing the book with a soft thump, “was disrespectful.”
I shrugged, keeping my tone light. “Sorry, I didn’t realize asking questions was considered disrespectful here.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, still unreadable. Still maddening.
A beat passed.
Then I smiled, slow and wicked. “Maybe you’re just not used to being questioned.”
His eyes narrowed just a fraction—so subtle most would’ve missed it. But not me.
He didn’t speak.
He just stared.
The kind of stare that felt like being dissected under a microscope. Not amused. Not irritated. Just quiet. Calculating. Too quiet.
I shifted, almost imperceptibly.
He leaned back in his chair, resting one ankle on his knee, the picture of ease—but that silence pressed down hard. Like a hand on the back of my neck.
Still no response.
I raised a brow. “Nothing to say, Professor?”
He steepled his fingers. Finally, a murmur. “You think that’s what that was? A question?”
I rolled my eyes. “What else would you call it?”
His gaze dropped to my lips, lingered, then returned to my eyes like a slow drag of heat. “A performance.”
I tilted my head. “For who?”
A beat.
“You’ll tell me.”
There was no bite to his words. No challenge. Just that slow, steady rhythm of a man who never reacts unless he wants to.
“I think you just like watching me talk.”
His expression didn’t change. “I prefer silence.”
“Then why haven’t you asked me to leave?”
“You’re not done yet.”
The words hit lower than they should’ve. I felt them in the space between my ribs.
“You’re not special, Aria.”
I laughed. “Neither are you.”
His eyes darkened. “Careful.”
“Why?” I asked, voice like silk. “You don’t scare me.”
“No,” he said. “But you should at least respect me.”
I leaned in closer. “Respect is earned, Professor.”
“You think you’ve earned the right to talk to me like this?”
“I think you like that I talk to you like this.”
There was a beat of silence.
I stood up straight, pulled my hair to one side, exposing my throat—not for him, but just to feel that shift in the air when he noticed.
“I didn’t realize you tracked my schedule.”
“You were supposed to come after class.”
“That was six hours ago.”
His brow barely twitched. “I’m aware.”
I lifted a shoulder, tugging at the hem of my skirt as I leaned against the desk. “I got caught up.”
“In what?”
“Life. You know. Hair. Heels. Habits.”
“Try again.”
I smirked. “Something more important than you.”
That did something.
His posture didn’t shift, but the air changed—condensed, heavy.
“You think I’m playing with you,” I said.
Nothing.
“You’re not going to say anything?”
“I don’t waste words,” he said finally. “Especially on things beneath me.”
I laughed, low and mocking. “You think I’m beneath you?”
“No.” His voice dropped. “I think you want to be.”
My throat went dry.
His eyes flicked down to my legs. “Clenched the moment I looked at you.”
“Maybe I had to pee.”
His mouth curved—barely. “That what you tell yourself?”
“I don’t tell myself anything,” I said. “I don’t have to.”
“You talk like someone who hasn’t been shut up properly.”
I exhaled—shaky. “And you talk like someone who’s all threat, no action.”
That earned me a pause.
Then, slowly, he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked.
“You’re trying to make me react.”
I didn’t answer.
“You don’t want control,” he said. “You want to be reminded you never had it.”
My body tightened instinctively. Damn him.
“Why did you come now?” he asked.
“I told you. I got busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I don’t ask twice,” he said.
I gave him a syrupy smile. “Should I dumb it down for you? Or would that hurt your ego?”
The book dropped.
He walked forward.
- Writer
