One Night Stand with My Lecturer

**The Night I Should’ve Said No** *I didn’t know his name. He didn’t know mine. But we both knew how the night would end.* His hands were on my waist before I could think, mouth brushing against my ear in a whisper that wasn’t a question, but a promise. “Tell me to stop.” I didn’t. Because it wasn’t the tequila or the flashing lights that made me press my body against his back in that dark club—it was the emptiness I carried, the silence that followed every unanswered hospital bill, every failed assignment, every weight of being twenty, broke, and pretending not to drown. So I kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Like I needed saving. He kissed me back like he didn’t care who I was. Neither of us asked. Not when we stumbled into the hotel. Not when clothes hit the floor. Not when he whispered filthy things that made me feel more alive than I had in months. And definitely not when I screamed his name—**the only time I actually heard it.** “Rowan,” I gasped into his mouth. “God, Ivy.” Then silence. The good kind. The forget-everything kind. *The kind that shatters when reality returns like a slap to the face.* — **Ten Hours Later** I stood frozen in the lecture hall, gripping the strap of my bag like a lifeline, my brain rejecting what my eyes confirmed. Because standing behind the podium—prim, polished, and ten times more terrifying in a tailored blazer—was the man I’d slept with the night before. Professor Rowan Hart. My professor. “Welcome back,” he said smoothly, eyes sweeping across the hall like a blade. “Let’s begin.” My lungs stopped working. My heart nose-dived into panic. No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be real. I fumbled into my seat, heat crawling up my neck, praying he didn’t recognize me with my glasses on, hair up, oversized hoodie doing its best to swallow me whole. But halfway through the lecture, our eyes met. And everything in his face changed. Recognition. Shock. Then amusement. He knew. The man I’d moaned under the night before now knew exactly who I was. And worse? He wasn’t even sorry. — After class, I tried to run. He caught me halfway down the corridor, his hand wrapping around my wrist like he had every right to touch me. “You should really learn to leave before sunrise, Miss Carter.” I spun around, heart hammering in my chest. “You’re my professor.” “Was I, last night?” I hated that my stomach flipped. “You knew,” I hissed. “You knew who I was and still—” “I didn’t,” he cut in, voice low. “Not until now. I don’t usually sleep with students, Ivy. I don’t sleep with anyone, actually. But last night... you didn’t look like a student. You looked like trouble.” “And you looked like a man who didn’t care.” He leaned in, lips ghosting my ear. “I didn’t.” I stepped back, fists clenched. “This was a mistake.” He nodded slowly. “Maybe. But unfortunately, it just got worse.” My brows furrowed. “Worse?” “I’m required to pair top-performing students with those who are struggling. Academic mentorship, university policy.” His voice dropped. “Guess who your mentor is for the next six weeks?” My throat dried. No. “I requested you,” he added, voice like velvet dipped in arsenic. “Figured if I’m going to burn in hell, I might as well drag you down with me.” I could barely breathe. “You can’t do this,” I whispered. “I already did.” — He stepped in closer—too close. The corridor was empty. The air between us snapped tight like a live wire. “You’re going to meet me tomorrow at my office,” Rowan said, tone unreadable. “And if I don’t?” His eyes darkened. “Then I’ll have no choice but to report our… *mistake* to the ethics board. It’ll ruin me. But it’ll *bury* you.” My mouth parted in disbelief. “You’re blackmailing me.” “No,” he said, voice low and deadly. “I’m giving you a choice.” And then he walked away. Leaving me breathless, horrified, and already craving him all over again.