Grade Me Harder

Chapter 2

KIAN'S POV

I got up later than usual, the linen sheets cool against my bare skin, faintly smelling of last night’s overpriced cologne and even more overpriced company. The girl had been beautiful—on paper. Glossy lips, an expensive laugh, soft thighs that knew how to wrap around a man like a ribbon. But I barely remembered her name. Or her voice. Or the way she begged.

It didn’t excite me. Not like it used to.

The marble floor was cold under my feet as I padded into the bathroom, motion-activated lights glowing to life like servants answering a call. I twisted the temperature knob. Water poured down in a sleek cascade from the rainfall showerhead, steam curling upward like smoke in a cigar lounge.

I stepped in, the heat slamming into me. Water coursed over my head, down my neck, across the ridges of my abs and lower. The sting of it peeled away the dull haze of sleep, waking every cell with precision. I stood there for a moment, hands braced against the wall, jaw clenched.

Another f*****g day at that pretentious university.

The halls reeked of entitlement and generational wealth. Designer bags swinging off shoulders that had never known weight. Their fathers' names bought their degrees. Their mothers bought their beauty. And they all thought they were untouchable.

And yet… amidst the noise and the nonsense, one little brat had managed to crawl under my skin.

I didn’t even know her name.

But god, did I notice her.

She made it hard not to. The way she stared when she thought I wasn’t looking. The way she challenged me—not out loud, not at first—but with her silence. Her body language. Her f*****g presence. Like a match daring to be struck.

It wasn’t subtle. She wanted me to see her. And I did.

I’m not a naïve man. I’ve been around long enough to know the difference between admiration and desire. I see the way women look at me. The way they lean in a little too close. The way their voices drop, soft, breathy, wanting.

She was no different.

But she was.

And that pissed me off more than I’d admit.

She wasn't exceptional. Not in any way that made sense. And yet when I had my c**k buried in some tight, willing body, it was her face I saw. Her full, pink mouth. Her sharp tongue gone silent around me. Her eyes—defiant, furious, wet.

It was f****d up.

I didn’t want to think about her.

Didn’t want to imagine her lips stretched around me, struggling to take all of me. Didn’t want to hear her gasp my name, whispering it like a curse, like a prayer.

Didn’t want to picture myself grabbing her by the throat and asking her if this was what she wanted when she kept poking the lion.

But I did.

Too often.

“f**k,” I groaned, palm slamming against the marble tile as my c**k twitched—thick, heavy, already straining at the memory of nothing more than her mouth.

This was getting out of hand.

I needed space.

Distance.

I needed to pull the f**k back before I did something I’d regret. Something I couldn’t walk away from.

Before I lost control.

Before I shoved her little desk aside, dragged her out of that seat, and reminded her what happens when a brat pokes at something dangerous.

I stepped out of the shower, water sliding down the hard planes of my body, dripping onto the polished marble like slow, deliberate footsteps in a cathedral. The mirror was fogged, but my reflection still stared back—wet hair slicked back, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. The same look I wore when I closed a seven-figure deal. When I took control of a room. When I bent someone to my will without lifting a finger.

Except now I looked like a man with too much on his mind—and all of it pointed at her.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and moved into the walk-in closet. Everything was arranged by color, by fabric, by weight. Shirts pressed. Ties rolled. Shoes polished to a mirror shine.

I selected a dark navy suit—Armani, tailored, the kind that whispered wealth and screamed authority. Crisp white shirt. Cufflinks gifted by an ex who still called when she was drunk. I fastened them slowly, deliberately. My hands were steady. My mind wasn’t.

I should’ve been thinking about the lecture I was about to give, the timeline I had to cover, the students I had to tolerate. But her face kept breaking through. That smirk. Those legs. The nerve.

No one challenged me in that school. No one dared.

Except her.

And that wasn’t just dangerous. That was f*****g suicidal.

I walked out of my penthouse, past floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city like I owned it. My driver was already waiting outside in the matte black Mercedes Maybach, engine humming like a well-fed beast.

“Morning, Professor Heyness,” he said, pulling the door open.

I nodded once, sliding into the backseat. Leather seats. Silence. Sanctuary.

As the car moved, I leaned back, one ankle resting on my opposite knee, hands steepled beneath my chin.

She had no idea what she was doing.

She thought it was a game.

She thought poking the bear would end with a growl, maybe a lecture, maybe another bored glance.

She didn’t realize that under this suit, under this calm, controlled exterior, lived a man who never played unless he intended to win.

And if she kept pushing me, if she kept pressing those f*****g buttons…

Well.

She was going to learn just how good I am at breaking people.

And I’d make sure she begged for it.

...

The halls reeked of entitlement and generational wealth. Designer bags swinging off shoulders that had never known weight. Their fathers’ names bought their degrees. Their mothers bought their beauty. And they all thought they were untouchable.

They weren’t.

They were just too stupid to see the predator sitting at the front of the room.

I didn’t belong here. Not really.

But Lucien—my oldest friend—ran this place like a private kingdom. He’d inherited the university when his father died, expanded it, corrupted it, polished it until it gleamed. And when I walked away from the business world, when I said I needed something—anything—to pull me out of my own head, he gave me this.

A classroom.

A cage to keep me sane.

A chance to play pretend.

So here I was. Professor Kian Heyness, the very definition of overqualified. Multimillionaire. Retired too young. Bored too easily. With blood on my hands and sins money couldn’t wash away.

People like me weren’t meant to be near students. People like me weren’t meant to teach.

But Lucien said it would “keep me occupied.”

He didn’t know the truth.

Teaching history was nothing. Living through it—surviving it—that was the real education.

And still, this job had one unexpected benefit: it let me study people again. Their arrogance. Their lies. Their weaknesses. The masks they wore just to feel important.

And her.

That girl.

That little thing with a mouth too smart and a skirt too short for her own good.

The one who looked at me like she wanted to be punished.

I stepped through the towering glass doors of the university building, polished to a shine by staff that were paid to be invisible. My shoes made no sound on the imported marble. My suit caught stares. Whispers trailed behind me like perfume.

“Is that him?”

“He used to run a hedge fund.”

“No, he owns half the buildings downtown—”

“He’s too young to be retired—”

I tuned it all out.

Let them talk.

Let them fantasize.

Let them wonder what a man like me was doing here.

Because if they knew the truth—if they knew what I used to do before I wore this mask—they’d run screaming.

And yet she? That bold little brat? She didn’t flinch.

She smirked.

She teased.

She interrupted me.

And worst of all?

I f*****g liked it.