Obsessed ang Teacher ko Sa’kin

Chapter 13

Liyro’s POV

The dinner had been a performance, but this—this was the reality. I stood by the door, the click of the lock echoing with a finality that made Elara flinch. She stood in the center of the room, her white silk dress partially unzipped from my touch in the hallway, looking like a sacrifice at an altar.

I walked toward her, shedding my waistcoat and tie. My hunger for her hadn't diminished after a month; it had mutated into something deeper, more carnal. I wanted her to feel the weight of the Ferrer name, the weight of the mansion, and the absolute weight of my obsession.

"You were so quiet at dinner, Elara," I whispered, reaching her and sliding my hands over her bare shoulders. My skin felt like ice against her feverish heat.

"Were you thinking of him? Were you wondering if Julián is touching his new bride-to-be the way I touch you?"

"Stop it, Liyro... please," I gasped, my eyes closing as his lips found the sensitive curve of my neck.

I hated how my body reacted to him. I hated that after weeks of his constant, dominant presence, my skin seemed to recognize his touch before my mind could protest. He was like a drug I was forced to take—poisonous, but addictive in its intensity.

"I am the only one who matters now," he growled, his voice vibrating through my chest.

In one swift movement, he turned me around and pressed me against the heavy mahogany door. The wood was cold against my front, but his body was a furnace against my back. He didn't waste time with tenderness. He stripped the silk dress down, letting it pool around my ankles like a discarded skin.

He was relentless. His hands, those long, pianist fingers that used to point at business charts, were now mapping my body with a terrifying, expert precision.

Liyro’s POV

I wanted her broken and beautiful. I turned her to face me, lifting her until her legs wrapped instinctively around my waist. I didn't want a "bed warmer" tonight; I wanted a wife who understood the depth of my darkness.

I entered her with a sharp, forceful thrust that drew a ragged cry from her lips. It was a raw, uncensored declaration of war. Every movement was a calculation of pleasure and power. I watched her face—the way her head fell back, her throat exposed, her eyes clouded with a mix of tears and a desire she was too ashamed to admit.

"Look at where we are, Elara," I hissed, my pace increasing, the rhythm echoing against the walls of my ancestral home. "This is where I became a man. And this is where you become a part of me forever."

The night became a blur of friction and gasps. Liyro was a storm that refused to break. He moved me from the door to the bed, his mouth never leaving mine, tasting the salt of my surrender.

Every time I thought I was too weak, too drained to continue, he found a way to pull more from me. He was searching for something deep inside—a part of the orphan girl that still belonged to her—and he was intent on crushing it.

Naramdaman ko ang bawat haplos niya, ang bawat kagat na nag-iiwan ng marka sa aking balat. It was erotic in the most dangerous way. I felt a terrifying rush of heat that made my toes curl and my heart stutter. For a moment, I forgot the island. I forgot Julián. I forgot the scholarship. There was only the friction, the heavy scent of sandalwood, and the man who was claiming my soul through my body.

Elara’s POV

When the final wave of release hit, it was so intense I felt like I was shattering. I clung to his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, as he let out a low, triumphant groan into my ear.

I lay there afterward, my chest heaving, my body feeling like it had been through a battlefield. Liyro didn't pull away immediately. He stayed heavy on top of me, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against mine.

"Happy anniversary, Elara Ferrer," he whispered, his voice finally softening, though the possessiveness remained.

I looked at the ceiling of the White Mansion. I was exhausted. I was drained. I was his.

I looked at my hand, resting on his back. The diamond on my finger caught the dim light, sparkling like a cold, beautiful eye. I realized then that there was no going back. The orphan girl had died on that private island, and the woman who remained was the creation of the Ice Professor.

I am the ink in his journal. I am the paint on his canvas. And as he eventually fell asleep beside me, his hand still locked firmly around my waist, I realized that I no longer wanted to run. Not because I was happy, but because I no longer knew who I was without the man who had stolen me.