Corrupt me Professor

Detention

Chapter 2

The penthouse smelled like him.

Wood, smoke, and something dark that lived under my skin now. No furniture looked soft. Everything was glass, steel, and sharp edges. Like its owner.

Lorenzo didn’t speak in the elevator. He didn’t look at me. He stood two feet away, hands in his pockets, and stared at the numbers as they climbed to fifty-seven. I counted his breaths. Controlled. Mine were not.

The doors opened into silence.

“Shower,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion. “First door on the left. There are clothes on the bed. Wear them.”

I walked in. My legs were numb, but I walked. The bathroom was bigger than my dorm. Black marble, gold fixtures, and a shower that could fit three people. I didn’t turn it on right away.

I looked in the mirror.

The girl staring back wasn’t me. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were bitten raw. Her eyes were too wide, too dark. The silk robe hung off one shoulder, and the scar on my thigh stood out, pale and angry.

He had seen it. He had cataloged it.

I showered fast. The water was hot, and it hurt, but I needed the hurt. It meant I was still real. Still mine.

On the bed, there was a dress. Black, thin straps, and short. Too short. No underwear. No bra.

I understood the message.

I put it on. The fabric slid over my skin like water, and it clung to every place I didn’t want it to. My n*****s showed through. My thighs were bare. I looked like what he had bought.

When I walked into the living room, he was at the bar. He had taken off his jacket. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and I saw his forearms for the first time. Veins. Muscle. A scar that cut across his left wrist.

He didn’t turn around. “Sit.”

There was one chair in front of his desk. Wood, straight-backed, and uncomfortable on purpose. I sat. The dress rode up. I didn’t pull it down.

He finally faced me. In his hand, there was a collar. Thin, black leather, with a small silver ring at the front. It looked delicate. It wasn’t.

He walked to me, slow. Every step was a decision. He stopped behind my chair, and I felt his heat. He didn’t touch me. Not yet.

“You asked why five hundred thousand,” he said. His voice was calm. Professor calm. The kind he used when he explained premeditation. “I’ll tell you now.”

He leaned down. His mouth was next to my ear, but he still didn’t touch. “Because I saw you the first day of class. You sat in the front row, and you argued with me about _mens rea_. You were wrong, but you didn’t back down. You bit your lip when you were angry, and I thought about that lip for a week.”

My hands gripped the chair. The wood bit into my palms.

“Then I found out who your father was,” he continued. “James Voss. Good cop. He took three bullets for me ten years ago during a warehouse raid. I owed him a life. He died before I could pay it.”

He moved. Now he was in front of me. He crouched, so we were eye level. The collar was still in his hand.

“I went to the auction to pay his debt,” he said. “I didn’t plan to bid. Then I saw the file. Lot 17. Aria Voss. Twenty. Student. Virgin.” His eyes dropped to my mouth. “And I remembered your lip.”

He held up the collar. “This is rule one.”

My throat closed. “I’m not a dog.”

“No,” he agreed. “Dogs are loyal. You aren’t. Not yet.” He reached out, and his fingers brushed my hair back from my neck. The touch was light, but it burned. “This means you’re mine. In my house, you wear it. When I tell you to take it off, you take it off. When I tell you to crawl, you crawl.”

I should have said no. I should have run.

I didn’t.

He fastened the collar. The leather was cool, and the fit was perfect. Tight enough to feel, loose enough to breathe. The silver ring sat at the base of my throat. His thumb brushed over it, once.

“Good,” he said.

That word. _Good._ It did something to my chest, something warm and sick and addictive.

He stood and walked to his desk. He opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper. My midterm. He set it in front of me. The A+ was still there, still angry and red.

_See me after class, detention. My office. Eight p.m. Tonight._

He took a lighter from his pocket. Silver, engraved. He flicked it, and a flame lived.

“You don’t need this grade anymore,” he said. “You don’t need to be a student. You need to be mine.”

He touched the flame to the corner of the paper.

I watched it burn. My name, my work, my C- turned A+. It curled, blackened, and died in a glass tray. The smoke smelled like endings.

“Rule two,” he said. “You don’t come unless I say so. If you do, I punish you. If you make me punish you, you’ll beg me to do it again.”

He came around the desk. He sat on the edge, right in front of me. His knees caged mine. With two fingers, he tilted my chin up.

“Rule three,” he said. “You call me Professor when I’m inside you. You call me Professor when you’re on your knees. You call me Professor when you come. Say it.”

My lips parted. No sound came out.

His thumb pressed my bottom lip. “Say it, Aria. Or we start detention with a punishment.”

“Professor,” I whispered.

His eyes went darker. “Again.”

“Professor.”

“Good girl.”

Those two words ruined me. Heat spilled low in my belly, fast and shameful. I hated it. I hated him. I hated that I wanted to hear it again.

He saw it. Of course he saw it. He saw everything.

He stood, and he grabbed my arm. Not hard, but not gentle. He pulled me up, and he walked me to the other side of his desk. His desk. The one he taught from, the one he graded papers on.

He pressed my chest to the wood. It was cold. The dress rode up to my hips. I was bare underneath, and he knew it.

“Hands flat,” he said. “Don’t move them.”

I put my hands flat. The wood was smooth, and my fingers spread.

He stepped behind me. I felt his body, but he still didn’t touch me. Not where I wanted.

“You argued with me for two months, Miss Voss,” he said. His voice was low, in my ear. “You told me my theories on control were outdated. You said power was an illusion.”

His hand slid up my back, under my hair, to the collar. He tugged, once. It wasn’t hard, but it reminded me. _Mine._

“Let’s test your thesis,” he said.

His other hand touched my thigh. Just his fingers, just the tips. He traced the scar. Slow. Like he was memorizing it.

“You cut yourself here,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Why?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

His fingers moved higher. To the edge of the dress, then under it. He didn’t touch me where I was aching. He just rested his hand on my hip. Possessive. Claiming.

“Tell me, Aria,” he said. “Or I stop.”

The threat was worse than any touch. The thought of him stopping, of him walking away and leaving me like this, was unbearable.

“My dad,” I choked out. “He was working. Always working. I was alone. I was fourteen, and I was stupid.”

He was quiet for a second. His thumb rubbed a circle on my hip. It felt like comfort. It felt like a lie.

“You won’t be alone anymore,” he said. “You won’t be stupid anymore. I’ll teach you.”

Then his hand moved.

He slid it between my legs, and he found me wet. I heard his breath change. Just a little. Just enough.

“Look at that,” he murmured. “Your arguments lack penetration, but your body doesn’t.”

He pushed one finger inside me. Just one. Just to the first knuckle. I gasped, and my hands fisted on the desk.

“Professor,” I said. I didn’t mean to. It just came out.

“Good girl,” he said.

He moved his finger, slow, in and out. Just once. Then he stopped. He pulled it out, and I almost cried at the loss.

He brought his hand to my face. His finger was wet, with me. He pressed it to my lips.

“Taste,” he said. “Taste how much you want this. Taste how much you want me.”

I opened my mouth. I tasted salt, and me, and him.

He pushed his finger past my lips. “Suck.”

I did. I sucked his finger like it was a promise. Like it was more.

His eyes watched my mouth. His jaw was tight. His control was a thing I could feel, a wall between us.

He pulled his finger out. “Rule four,” he said. His voice was rough now. Rough and real. “You don’t come tonight. Not until I say so. You’re going to beg me, Aria. And I’m going to say no.”

He stepped back. The cold hit me where his body had been.

“Stand up,” he said.

I stood. My legs shook. The desk was wet where my chest had been. From me.

He looked at me. Really looked. At my face, my collar, my dress, my thighs. At everything he owned.

“Detention starts now,” he said. “And you’re already failing.”

He went to his chair and sat. He steepled his fingers, and he watched me.

“Crawl here,” he said. “On your hands and knees. Like you mean it.”