The Professor's Forbidden Lesson

Chapter One - Stranger At The Bar Part2

“No.”

His laugh was immediate.

I laughed with him, and something in my chest loosened.

I didn’t know him.

I didn’t know where he worked, whether he had a girlfriend, or why he had arrived at an expensive hotel bar looking like a man who had spent the evening contemplating murder.

But I wanted to know more.

That was the problem.

I wanted to know more.

And the way he was looking at me suggested the feeling was mutual.

“Dance with me.”

I blinked.

Adrian had stood and extended a hand.

I glanced toward the small dance floor near the windows. A slow song had begun playing, the singer’s voice low and intimate beneath the murmur of conversation.

“Is that an invitation or an instruction?”

“An invitation.”

“Good answer.”

I placed my hand in his.

He led me onto the dance floor, his other hand settling at my waist.

The moment he drew me closer, I became acutely aware of the difference in our heights, the warmth of his body, and the steady pressure of his hand against my back.

I placed one hand on his shoulder.

He looked down at me.

“Still deciding whether I’m interesting?”

“I’m gathering additional evidence.”

“And your findings?”

“Preliminary.”

His mouth curved.

“Perhaps I should provide more data.”

I laughed softly.

“Is that your idea of flirting?”

“Is it working?”

I looked at him.

At the man who had approached me without hesitation, who had challenged me without belittling me, and who now held me as though he had nowhere else he needed to be.

“Unfortunately,” I admitted, “yes.”

His smile faded into something more serious.

“Unfortunately?”

“This is where I remind myself that you’re a stranger.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

The question was quiet.

There was no challenge in it, no attempt to corner me into an answer.

I appreciated that more than I expected.

“No.”

His hand remained at my waist.

“Then I’ll stay.”

The simplicity of his answer made my heart beat faster.

We moved slowly with the music.

I could feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of my dress. His thumb moved once against my waist, a small, absent gesture that made me look up at him.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“You’re staring, Bella.”

“So are you.”

“I have an excuse.”

“Which is?”

“I’m trying to decide whether kissing you would be a very good idea or a very bad one.”

My breath caught.

I could have made a joke.

I could have stepped back.

Instead, I looked directly into his eyes.

“Why does it have to be one or the other?”

His expression changed.

The humour remained, but something more intense moved beneath it.

“Because I have a feeling,” he said quietly, “that if I kiss you, I’m going to want to do it again.”

My fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder.

“That’s a terrible reason not to.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

“Bella.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me if you don’t want this.”

I held his gaze.

“I want this.”

He gave me a moment to change my mind.

I didn’t.

Then he kissed me.

The first kiss was slow.

Not hesitant, exactly, but deliberate.

His hand rose from my waist to my cheek, his fingers resting lightly against my skin as he tilted my face toward his. His mouth touched mine with a restraint that lasted approximately three seconds before I decided I had no interest in being restrained by a man I had been wanting to kiss for the better part of an hour.

I rose onto my toes and kissed him back.

He made a low sound of surprise.

I smiled against his mouth.

“What was that?” I whispered.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Bella.”

I loved the way he said my name when he was trying not to smile.

I kissed him again.

This time, there was no mistaking the response.

His arm tightened around my waist, drawing me closer, and I curled my fingers into the fabric of his jacket. The music continued around us, the world carrying on with its ordinary business while mine narrowed to the warmth of his mouth and the steady hand at my back.

When we finally separated, I was breathless.

Adrian rested his forehead briefly against mine.

“Well,” I whispered.

“Well,” he agreed.

“Are you going to tell me that was a mistake?”

His eyes searched my face.

“Absolutely not.”

“Good.”

I kissed him once more, just because I could.

He laughed softly when I drew back.

“You’re trouble.”

“You say that as if you aren’t enjoying yourself.”

“I’m enjoying myself far too much.”

“Then we have something in common.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he brushed a strand of hair away from my cheek.

“Would you like to get out of here?”

The question was direct.

So was the answer.

“Yes.”

He didn’t immediately move.

“I want to be clear about something,” he said. “I want to leave with you. I want to spend more time with you. But I don’t want you to feel that you owe me anything because we’ve been flirting or because I’ve bought you a drink.”

My expression softened.

“I don’t.”

“And if you change your mind at any point, you tell me.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

I slipped my hand into his.

“And Adrian?”

“Yes?”

“If we stay here much longer, I’m going to kiss you again in front of everyone.”

His eyes darkened with amusement.

“Then we’d better leave.”

The lift seemed determined to move at the speed of an elderly tortoise.

I stood beside Adrian, watching the illuminated numbers change above the doors.

Neither of us spoke for a moment.

Then I glanced at him.

“So.”

“So,” he echoed.

“This is the part where we discover whether we’re capable of having a normal conversation without flirting.”

“Do you want to?”

“Not particularly.”

“Neither do I.”

I laughed.

He reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine.

The gesture was unexpectedly intimate.

Not because it was dramatic. It wasn’t.

Because it was easy.

As if holding my hand was something he had already decided he liked doing.

The lift doors opened.

We stepped into the corridor.

Adrian stopped outside his suite and turned toward me.

For the first time that evening, I felt a small flutter of nerves.

Not regret.

Not uncertainty about whether I wanted to be there.

Just the awareness that we were about to make a decision that would take us beyond the safe, flirtatious world of cocktails and clever remarks.

He seemed to understand.

“We can stop here,” he said. “We can get another drink, talk until sunrise, or say goodnight. You don’t have to decide anything because we came this far.”

I studied his face.

“You’re very determined to make sure I have a choice.”

“Yes.”

“Is that because you think I’m going to regret you?”

“No.” His expression softened. “It’s because I want you to choose me.”

The words settled between us.

I reached up, straightened his loosened tie, and smiled.

“Then stop talking and kiss me.”

He did.

And when the suite door closed behind us, I knew exactly what I wanted.

The suite door closed behind them with a soft click. Adrian turned, and Bella was already rising onto her toes, pulling his mouth down to hers.

The kiss was nothing like the careful one on the dance floor. This one was open, hungry, the accumulated tension of the evening spilling out the moment privacy surrounded them. His hands framed her face, then slid into her hair, tilting her head so he could deepen it. She answered by pressing closer, fingers working at the knot of his loosened tie until it came free.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at her.

“Bella.” His voice was rougher than it had been downstairs. “I need to hear it. You’re sure. Right now. Not because of the drinks, not because the night feels good. Because you want this.”

She was tipsy—warm, floating, every nerve lit—but the edges of the room were sharp and her thoughts were clear. She met his eyes without hesitation.

“I’m sure. I’m alert. I’m choosing this. If either of us starts to feel otherwise, we stop. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

She smiled, wicked and bright, and pushed his jacket off his shoulders. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about getting you out of this suit since you walked over to my stool.”

Something dark and pleased flashed through his expression. He let the jacket fall, then backed her toward the wide bed while she unbuttoned his shirt with impatient fingers. When the last button gave, she shoved the fabric aside and pressed her mouth to the warm skin of his chest. He made a low sound—half surprise, half hunger—and the polished control he had worn all evening cracked.

“Christ, Bella—”

She nipped lightly, then soothed with her tongue. “You talk too much for a man who’s about to f**k me.”

He laughed once, rough, and spun her so her back met the edge of the mattress. His hands found the zipper of her dress and drew it down in one smooth pull. The fabric pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it and stood in nothing but lace and heels, watching his gaze darken as it raked over her.

“On the bed,” he said, voice low. “Now.”

She climbed on, deliberately slow, and looked back over her shoulder. “Still deciding what you want from me?”

“No.” He stripped the rest of his clothes with efficient movements, then followed her down, covering her body with his. “I’ve decided.”

He kissed her again—harder this time—while his hand slid between her thighs. She was already wet; the first stroke of his fingers drew a soft, startled sound from her throat. He worked her with slow, deliberate pressure, circling, pressing, until her hips lifted and her fingers dug into his shoulders.

“Adrian—”

“I know.” He added a second finger, curling them just right. “Let me feel you come first.”

She did—sharp and sudden, thighs trembling around his hand, a broken moan against his mouth. He stayed with her through it, easing her down, then kissed a path down her body and replaced his fingers with his mouth.

The second orgasm built slower. He licked her like he had all night to learn every sound she made, tongue flat and relentless, two fingers sliding back inside her. When she came again it was longer, deeper, her hands fisted in the sheets and his name a hoarse plea.

He rose over her, eyes nearly black, the controlled man from the bar nowhere in sight. She reached between them, wrapped her fingers around his c**k, and stroked once, firm.

“Inside me,” she said. “Now.”

He didn’t make her ask twice. He rolled on a condom from the nightstand drawer, settled between her thighs, and pushed in with one long, steady thrust. The stretch pulled a gasp from both of them. He held still for a heartbeat, forehead against hers, breathing hard.

“Okay?”

“More than okay. Move.”

He did—deep, controlled strokes that quickly lost their polish when she wrapped her legs around his waist and met every thrust. The bedframe knocked softly against the wall. She raked her nails down his back; he answered by hitching her leg higher and driving deeper. The third orgasm hit her while he was buried to the hilt, her body clamping around him so tightly he had to grit his teeth and ride it out.

When she went boneless he rolled them, pulling her on top. She sank down onto him with a shaky exhale, hands braced on his chest.

“Your turn to work,” he murmured, hands spanning her hips.

She rode him hard—rolling her hips, lifting almost all the way off before slamming back down. His composure fractured further with every stroke. One hand slid up to cup her breast; the other found her c**t and rubbed tight circles. The dual sensation shoved her toward a fourth climax faster than she expected. She came with her head thrown back, nails biting into his skin, and felt him surge up beneath her, chasing his own release.

He didn’t finish yet. Instead he flipped them again, hauled her to the edge of the bed, and stood between her spread thighs. The new angle let him drive deeper, harder. She locked her ankles behind his back and held on as the rhythm turned punishing. The wet sound of their bodies filled the quiet suite. Another orgasm—fifth—ripped through her with almost no warning, leaving her shaking and gasping his name.

Only then did he let go. He came with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering, face buried against her neck. For a long moment neither of them moved.

Eventually he eased out, disposed of the condom, and returned with a warm cloth. He cleaned her with surprising gentleness, then climbed back into bed and pulled her against his chest. The city lights glowed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Rain still streaked the glass.

Bella traced idle patterns on his collarbone. “That was…”

“Yes,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “It was.”

She laughed softly. He tipped her chin up and kissed her—slower now, lingering.

They talked in quiet fragments: favorite cities, the best meal either of them had ever had, the ridiculous things people said when they were trying to impress someone at a bar. No last names. No jobs. No universities. Just the easy, post-s*x drift of two people who had chosen this and were in no hurry to leave it.

At some point he pulled the duvet over them both. She settled her head on his shoulder, listening to the rain and the steady beat of his heart, and decided the night could last as long as it wanted.

I woke briefly sometime after three in the morning, warm beneath the hotel duvet, with the city lights glowing beyond the curtains.

Adrian was beside me.

His eyes were closed, one arm resting loosely around my waist. Without the suit and the carefully arranged expression, he looked younger somehow. Less intimidating. Almost peaceful.

I turned my head to study him.

A ridiculous thought crossed my mind.

I could get used to this.

I immediately dismissed it.

I had known the man for one evening. One evening.

I didn’t know his surname. I didn’t know whether he drank his coffee black or took it with enough sugar to qualify as dessert. I didn’t know whether he was the sort of man who left socks on the floor or had someone whose entire job was to ensure that his apartment never contained a misplaced object.

And yet I knew that he listened when I spoke.

I knew that his laughter made me want to hear it again.

I knew that when he kissed me, I forgot every clever thing I had ever intended to say.

That was enough for one night.

I settled back against the pillow.

His eyes opened.

“Are you watching me sleep?”

“Maybe.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Probably.”

His mouth curved.

“Come here.”

“I am here.”

“Closer.”

I moved toward him, smiling when his arm settled around me again.

“Bossy,” I murmured.

“Observant.”

I laughed softly.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then closed his eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, I fell asleep without thinking about university.

I fell asleep thinking about Adrian.

I had no idea that by Monday morning, the man beside me would become the one person I should probably have stayed away from.

And I had even less idea that, when I discovered who he was, staying away would be the last thing either of us wanted.