Harder!..Professor ... Craving my Best Friend’s Father

Sophia’s POV The air in the penthouse suite was thick with the scent of jasmine from the courtyard below and expensive whiskey from the crystal decanter on the table. It clung to my skin, this Dubai heat, a heavy, possessive blanket. Or maybe that was just the weight of his gaze finally, finally landing on me not as a ward, not as his son’s friend, but as a problem he couldn’t solve with a ruler and a blueprint. I watched him from the archway of the living room, a statue of elegant ruin. Professor Sterling Allen, the man who built skyscrapers that pierced the clouds, was slumped in a low-slung leather chair, his tie undone and hanging like a noose. The gala had been a triumph. His speech on “The Architecture of Desire” had held two hundred of the world’s most powerful people in rapt silence. I’d watched from the back, my own desire a blueprints in my mind, every line pointing to this moment. Mavin was asleep, passed out in his room after one too many celebratory mocktails. The housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, was long retired for the night. It was just the two of us. The desert outside the floor-to-ceiling windows was a black void, the city lights below like scattered diamonds. A perfect, silent stage. I’d changed. The modest cocktail dress I’d worn to the gala was gone. In its place was a slip of silk the color of midnight, so thin it was almost a suggestion. It whispered against my thighs as I walked into the room, the cool air from the vent raising goosebumps on my skin. I didn’t speak. I just went to the sideboard, poured two fingers of his favorite Scotch into a fresh glass, and walked over to him. His eyes, that stormy grey I’d memorized from the back of a lecture hall, tracked my movement. They were glassy, unfocused from drink, but the intelligence in them was a low, smoldering fire. “You should be in bed, Sophia,” he said, his voice a rough scrape of sound. The authority was there, but it was frayed, worn thin by the night and the alcohol. “So should you,” I replied, my voice calm, a placid lake. I held out the glass. “You looked like you needed a refresher.” He stared at the glass, then at my hand, then up the length of my arm to my face. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “What are you wearing?” “A nightgown. It’s hot.” I let the statement hang, innocent and loaded. When he didn’t take the glass, I set it on the table beside him, letting my fingers brush the back of his hand. A spark. A connection. He flinched, but he didn’t pull away. “This is inappropriate,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. He reached for the glass and drained half of it in one go, wincing as the fire hit his throat. “What is?” I took a step closer, now standing between his sprawled legs. The scent of him—sandalo wood, Scotch, and sheer male exhaustion—wrapped around me. “Bringing you a drink? Caring if you’re comfortable? After everything you’ve done for me, for Mom… it’s the least I can do.” He laughed then, a short, bitter sound. “What I’ve done for you. Right.” I saw it then, the crack. The flaw in the foundation. The great Sterling Allen, burdened by his own goodness. I knelt. Not on the floor, but on the plush carpet, right between his knees, my hands coming to rest on the arms of his chair. We were eye to eye. The silk of my nightgown pooled around me. His breath hitched. “Sophia. Get up.” “Why?” I asked, tilting my head. “I’m comfortable here. Aren’t you comfortable?” “You know damn well why.” His gaze dropped to the neckline of my gown, where the silk gaped just enough to show the shadowed curve of my breast. He dragged his eyes back up to mine, a Herculean effort. “You’re not a child anymore.” “No,” I whispered, leaning in just an inch. “I’m not. I haven’t been for a long time. You just refused to see it.” “This is a mistake,” he breathed, but his hands came up, not to push me away, but to grip the arms of the chair tighter, his knuckles white. “A catastrophic, career-ending, life-ruining mistake.” “Only if we get caught.” I smiled, a small, knowing thing. “And who’s here to catch us, Professor? The sand? The stars?” I brought one hand up, slowly, so slowly, and traced the line of his jaw, rough with evening stubble. He shuddered under the touch, a full-body tremor that vibrated through the chair. His eyes slammed shut. “Don’t,” he pleaded, but it was weak, a ghost of his former command. “Don’t what?” My thumb brushed over his lower lip. It was softer than I’d imagined. “Don’t touch you? You’ve been touching me for years. Every time you looked at my schoolwork, every time you corrected my posture at the dinner table, every time you explained the tension and compression in a bridge… you were putting your hands on my mind. Shaping it. Owning it. This is just the physical manifestation.” His eyes flew open. They were wild now, the storm in them breaking. “That’s sophistry. Dangerous, manipulative sophistry.” “Is it?” I leaned in closer, my lips a hair’s breadth from his ear. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “Then tell me to stop. Tell me to get out. Tell me I’m just a silly little girl and you’ll call my mother in the morning.” He was silent. Agonizingly, beautifully silent. The only sound was his ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city. I pulled back to look at him. His resistance was a crumbling facade. I could see the want in him, a desperate, hungry thing he’d locked in a basement for decades. It was staring out through his eyes. I had him. The final load-bearing wall was about to give. So I said it. The words I’d practiced in the mirror for months. I let them out, not as a shriek, not as a demand, but as a soft, breathy sigh right against his mouth. “f**k me, Daddy. Do it.” The word Daddy did it. It wasn’t about parentage; it was about power. It was the ultimate corruption of his protector role. It shattered the last of his control. A low groan tore from his chest, a sound of pure surrender. His hands, which had been gripping the chair, flew to my face, cradling it with a terrifying tenderness. For a second, he just looked at me, his expression a war zone of lust and horror. Then he crushed his mouth to mine. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claiming. A punishment. A release. His lips were insistent, demanding, tasting of whiskey and despair. I opened for him immediately, a moan trapped in my throat as his tongue swept in, tangling with mine. The taste of him, the feel of his stubble scraping my skin, the sheer size of him as he leaned forward—it was overwhelming, electrifying. This was it. This was the chaos he couldn’t design away. His hands left my face, sliding down my neck, over my shoulders, pushing the flimsy straps of my nightgown down my arms. The silk sighed as it pooled at my waist, baring me to the waist. The cool air hit my n*****s, making them peak into tight, aching buds. He broke the kiss, his gaze dropping to my chest. His breath left him in a rush. “Christ, Sophia.” “Look at me,” I commanded, my own voice trembling now with the force of my need. “See me.” He did. And then he touched. One large, calloused hand, the hand that drafted masterpieces, cupped my breast. His thumb swept over my n****e, and a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure shot straight to my core. I cried out, arching into his touch. “You’re so… perfect,” he murmured, dazed, before lowering his head and taking the peak into his mouth. The sensation was devastating. The heat, the wetness, the gentle suction followed by the scrape of his teeth. A wave of dizziness washed over me. My hands flew to his hair, tangling in the thick, dark strands, holding him to me. He suckled deeply, switching to the other breast, lavishing it with the same desperate attention. I was panting, little gasps and whimpers filling the quiet room. The analytical part of my brain, the one that had planned this, short-circuited. There was only feeling. The rough texture of his suit pants under my knees. The incredible, wicked skill of his mouth. The hard ridge of his erection pressing against my inner thigh. I needed more. I fumbled for his belt, my fingers clumsy. He understood. He stood up, pulling me with him, my nightgown falling completely to the floor. In one swift, startlingly strong motion, he turned me and pressed me against the cool glass of the window. The endless drop yawned behind me, the city lights blurring. My reflection, pale and wanton, stared back at me, his large, dark form looming behind. His hands were everywhere. Mapping my ribs, spanning my waist, sliding down to grip my hips. He pressed himself against the curve of my ass, and I could feel the impressive, rigid length of him through his trousers. He kissed my shoulder, my neck, biting down gently on the tendon. “Tell me you want this,” he growled into my skin, a last, futile grasp at propriety. “Tell me you’re sure.” I pushed back against him, grinding my ass against his c**k. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. I want you. I’ve always wanted you. Now stop thinking and f**k me.” With a sound that was almost a snarl, he spun me around. His mouth crashed down on mine again, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other frantically working his belt and zipper. I helped him, pushing his trousers and boxers down over his hips. He sprang free, thick and heavy and velvety smooth, the tip already glistening. He was magnificent. All my late-night fantasies hadn’t done him justice. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking once, twice, feeling him throb in my grasp. He threw his head back, a tendon in his neck standing out in sharp relief. “Bedroom,” he gasped. “We should—” “No,” I interrupted, my voice firm. “Here. Now. Against the window. I want to see the city when you’re inside me.” He stared at me, his chest heaving. Then, a dark, possessive smile touched his lips—the first real, unguarded expression I’d ever seen from him. It was terrifying and thrilling. He hoisted me up as if I weighed nothing. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. The cool glass was a shock against my back. He guided himself to my entrance, the broad head nudging against my wetness. I was soaked, ready, aching. I looked him right in the eye, my arms locked around his neck. “Do it, Sterling. Ruin us.” He pushed in. The stretch was exquisite, a burning, filling pressure that stole the air from my lungs. I was tight, and he was so big. He moved slowly, inch by devastating inch, letting me feel every ridge, every pulse. My head fell back against the glass with a soft thunk. A choked sob escaped me. “God, you’re tight,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. He was sheathed fully inside me now, a perfect, shocking fit. We were joined. The thing I had orchestrated for years was now a physical, pounding reality. He began to move. Short, shallow thrusts at first, letting me adjust. But the friction was too good, the sensation too primal. His rhythm quickly became deeper, more urgent. He pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, hitting a spot deep inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids. “Yes!” I cried out, the sound echoing in the vast room. “Right there, oh God, right there!” He found a pace, a brutal, driving cadence that pinned me to the window. Each thrust jolted through me, a delicious collision. The world narrowed to the slap of skin on skin, our ragged breaths, the intermittent groan that rumbled from his chest. I could see our reflection—his powerful back muscles bunching and releasing, my legs wrapped around him, my breasts bouncing with each powerful drive. One of his hands slid between us, his thumb finding my c**t. The dual stimulation was too much. Pleasure coiled tight in my belly, a spring ready to snap. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice guttural, raw. I forced my eyes open, meeting his stormy gaze. He was lost in it, in me. The Professor was gone. In his place was a man of pure, unadulterated need. “I want to see you. I want to see what I do to you.” His words, his possession, tipped me over the edge. The orgasm ripped through me without warning, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched around him, milking his length. I screamed, my body bowing against the glass, my vision whiting out. It was endless, a tidal wave of sensation that left me trembling and boneless. Feeling me clench around him shattered his last shred of control. With a final, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt, he shouted my name—“Sophia!”—and came. I felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release deep inside me, each spasm triggering a smaller, secondary quake in my own core. He held me there, pinned, as he emptied himself, his body shuddering against mine. Slowly, the world came back. The hum of the air conditioner. The distant blare of a car horn from the street below. The frantic beating of our hearts, slowly syncing. He was still inside me, still holding me up, his face buried in the crook of my neck. His breathing was gradually slowing. He didn’t move to pull out. I nuzzled against his sweat-damp hair, a profound, terrifying satisfaction settling in my bones. I’d won. The architecture of his discipline was in ruins around us. But as I stared out over the glittering, indifferent city, a new thought crept in. I had brought down the fortress. Now, I was responsible for whatever monster I’d unleashed from within its walls.