Tease Me, Sir [Completed]

Chapter 6: A Game of Fire and Control

Noah stood beneath the punishing spray of the shower, his head bowed, hands braced against the cool, slick tile. The water, scalding at first, became a welcome sting, a preferable alternative to the gnawing emptiness within. His wife's satisfied sigh still echoed in his ears, her whispered gratitude a phantom clinging to the heavy, humid air of the penthouse.

He had given her what she craved, what she'd silently yearned for.

But what of himself?

He clenched his fists, the knuckles whitening. He'd tried to exorcise Maxine from his soul, to drown the memory of her in another woman, in the woman he'd vowed to cherish. Instead of relief, however, he found only a sharper, more agonizing torment.

Because it wasn't her. Not really.

The water cascaded down the drain, swirling away, but the scent of Maxine clung to him, a tenacious curse. His fingers curled into his palms, nails digging into flesh as he inhaled sharply, a ragged breath catching in his throat.

He had to stop this. He had to stop her.

He abruptly turned off the shower, his weight pressing against the cool porcelain of the sink. He stared at his reflection in the fogged mirror, his gaze sharp, stormy—a tempest brewing within those storm-gray eyes. Maxine was dangerous. And if he wasn't careful, she would consume him utterly.

The morning arrived too soon, but sleep had eluded him. He'd spent the night pacing the penthouse, drowning himself in alcohol, but the fire within remained unconquered. By the time he reached the university, his expression was a mask, his stride measured, controlled. A predator stalking its prey.

But when he saw her—when his eyes found Maxine amidst the throng of students, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin, defiant line—his carefully constructed composure threatened to shatter.

She hadn't noticed him yet, engrossed in conversation with a classmate. But he observed everything: the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the faint furrow of her brow, the subtle tension in her shoulders. A week had passed, and still, she haunted him, a ghost he couldn't exorcise.

He tightened his jaw, reminding himself of the vow he'd made the previous night: this was the end. He wouldn't let her control him any longer.

But as Maxine turned, her gaze finally meeting his, something within him shifted, a seismic tremor in the carefully constructed landscape of his control.

And in that moment, Noah knew—this was far from over.

Maxine froze, her breath catching in her throat at the intensity of his gaze. He stood at a distance, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—those storm-gray eyes—burned with something dangerous, something possessive, something that sent a chill snaking down her spine.

She'd tried to push him away. She'd thought she'd succeeded. But the way he looked at her now, with that quiet, simmering intensity, told her otherwise. Her throat went dry. She forced a smile, turning back to her classmate, pretending she hadn't just locked eyes with the man who had invaded her thoughts—her nightmares—for days.

But she could feel him. Even as she laughed at something inconsequential, even as she tried to appear unfazed, she sensed his gaze, a predatory presence stalking her.

Then, as if his patience had finally snapped, he moved. Deliberate steps. Slow, calculated strides that made her heart hammer against her ribs. She willed herself not to react, not to shrink under the weight of his presence, but when he reached her, his closeness was suffocating.

"Miss Nievez?," his voice was low, smooth, yet laced with something indefinable, something dangerous.

Her classmate's gaze flickered between them, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere. "Uh, I should get going," he mumbled, making a hasty retreat.

Maxine clenched her jaw. Coward.

Now, it was just the two of them. She swallowed, ignoring the frantic rhythm of her pulse. "Professor."

His lips curved slightly, but there was no humor in the gesture. Only cold detachment. Or perhaps—frustration.

"You've been avoiding me." A statement, not a question.

Maxine lifted her chin, defiance flickering in her eyes. "Should I not?"

Something flashed in his eyes—a warning.

"Don't play games with me, Maxine." His voice was quieter now, intimate, meant only for her ears. "You know that won't end well for you."

Her stomach twisted. There was something terrifying about the way he said her name, as if it were a possession, as if she belonged to him, body and soul.

She let out a short, sharp laugh. "And what exactly do you plan to do about it, Professor Castellano?" She tilted her head, feigning confidence she didn't feel. "Fail me?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Don't test me."

Her bravado faltered.

Noah took another step closer, his voice a whisper of steel. "I know why you're running, Maxine. I know what you're afraid of."

Her breath hitched. Because he was right. She was afraid. Not of him, but of herself, of the way she responded to him, the way his presence alone sent a thrill through her veins, despite everything.

"I don't what you're talking about," she muttered, turning to leave.

But before she could take a step, his fingers brushed against her wrist, a light touch, barely there, yet it ignited her skin.

She yanked her arm back, glaring at him, but his eyes—dark, consuming—only deepened her panic. There was something terrifying in their depths, something that told her he wouldn't let this go.

And worse—neither would she.

Maxine felt the weight of his gaze long after she'd fled, her heart still thundering against her ribs, her wrist tingling where his fingers had grazed her skin. It was maddening—the way he got under her skin, the way his presence lingered even in his absence.

Don't test me. The warning echoed in her mind.

She stormed through the corridors, her hands clenched into fists, determined to shake the feeling off. She hated this, hated the way he could unravel her composure with a single look, a single word. And yet, she had tested him. She had taunted him, pretending she held the upper hand. But deep down, she knew the truth. She wasn't in control.

She was falling. Damn him.

She needed to escape.

But as she rounded a corner, heading for the exit, a firm grip caught her arm, yanking her into a quiet alcove.

She gasped, her back colliding with the wall, her breath stolen by the sudden movement. Before she could react, before she could even think, she was face-to-face with him. Noah.

His body caged hers, his hands braced against the wall on either side of her.

"Running again, Maxine?" His voice was dangerously soft, a caress laced with menace.

Her pulse skittered. "Let me go."

He didn't. Instead, he leaned in, his scent enveloping her, his presence suffocating. "I don't think you want me to."

She glared up at him, ignoring the way her breath snagged in her throat. "You don't know what I want."

His lips curved into something dark, something knowing. "Don't I?"

His gaze dropped to her lips, lingering just long enough to make her stomach clench.

Damn him. Damn him for always being right.

Her body betrayed her. She felt herself drawn to him, pulled into his gravity despite every warning screaming in her mind.

"Noah," she whispered, the name a surrender.

Something in his expression flickered—a moment of hesitation, a crack in his carefully constructed armor.

Then, his hand brushed against her jaw—soft at first, almost hesitant. And for a second, just a second, she thought he might kiss her.

But he didn't. Instead, his grip tightened. His touch became possessive, demanding.

"Tell me to stop." The words were low, almost guttural—a command, a plea.

Her nails dug into her palms. This was her chance, her moment to push him away, to set a boundary.

But she didn't. Because the terrifying, inescapable truth was that she didn't want him to stop.

And Noah knew it.

A slow, dangerous smirk curved his lips.

"That's what I thought."

And then—his lips crashed against hers.

Maxine barely had time to register the impact before Noah's lips consumed hers. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was punishing, demanding, a collision of fury and desire, of unspoken words and buried tension. Her breath hitched as his hands moved, one cupping the back of her neck, the other pressing against her waist, pinning her firmly against the wall. There was no escape—not from his touch, not from the way her body instinctively melted against his.

She should stop this. She should shove him away. But every time she thought of resisting, his fingers tightened, his body pressed closer, and the fire between them burned hotter.

His tongue swept across her lower lip, and she gasped—just enough for him to take control, deepening the kiss with a raw desperation that sent a shudder down her spine.

She hated him for this. Hated how easily he unraveled her. Hated how, in this moment, she wasn't thinking about consequences or revenge or the carefully built walls she had spent years fortifying.

All she could think about was him. Noah. His name was a whisper in her mind, a curse and a prayer all at once.

A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her lips. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging in as if trying to ground himself, as if she was the thing he needed to steady him.

And maybe she was.

Maxine's fingers found the fabric of his shirt, clutching it like a lifeline. Her nails dragged across his chest, and he shuddered, his breath hitching for just a second—just long enough for her to realize something.

He wasn't unaffected. For all his control, for all his arrogance, Noah was just as consumed as she was.

The thought sent a thrill through her, igniting something reckless inside her.

So she kissed him back. Harder. Deeper. Her teeth scraped against his lower lip, a challenge, a provocation. And he responded instantly—his grip turning bruising, his body pressing even closer, until there was nothing between them but heat and desperation.

"Maxine," he murmured against her lips, his voice rough, almost strained.

It was her undoing. The way he said her name—like it was something sacred, something dangerous—sent a sharp, aching need through her.

But it was also a warning. A reminder of what this was. A game of power. Of control.

And she was losing.

Maxine's eyes fluttered open, and reality crashed into her like a cold wave. She wasn't supposed to want this. She wasn't supposed to want him.

With a sharp intake of breath, she tore herself away.

Noah let out a growl of protest, his fingers instinctively tightening before he forced himself to release her.

The space between them felt suffocating. Maxine's lips were swollen, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. She refused to meet his eyes.

This was a mistake. A terrible, devastating mistake.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "This doesn't change anything."

Noah exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched tight.

"Don't lie to yourself," he muttered.

Her pulse pounded.

She turned on her heel and walked away. She didn't look back. Because if she did—she might not be able to leave at all.

Noah watched her go, his fists clenched at his sides. The heat of her lips still lingered on his, a phantom touch that refused to fade. He could still taste her—wild, intoxicating, and utterly forbidden.

His breathing was ragged, his heart slamming against his ribs in an erratic rhythm. Maxine had kissed him back. Not out of duty, not out of obligation, but because she wanted to.

And then she ran. Coward.

His jaw tightened, fury and frustration twisting inside him like a storm with no outlet. Noah wasn't the kind of man who lost control, who let emotions dictate his actions. But with Maxine, control was a fleeting illusion, slipping through his fingers the moment she looked at him with those defiant, fire-lit eyes.

He wanted to chase after her, to grab her wrist and force her to face what had just happened between them, to make her admit that no matter how much she fought, no matter how much she hated him—she felt it too.

But chasing her wouldn't fix anything. Not yet.

Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and strode toward the bar at the far end of the room. His hands moved on instinct, pouring himself a drink, but even as the burn of whiskey slid down his throat, it did nothing to silence the chaos in his head.

Maxine was getting under his skin in ways he couldn't afford. This was never supposed to happen. She was supposed to despise him. She was supposed to be just another pawn in his carefully orchestrated game.

And yet—every time she defied him, every time she stood her ground, every time she challenged him—he only wanted her more.

Noah set the glass down with a hard clink, the sound reverberating through the empty penthouse. This couldn't continue. Whatever this was, whatever she was doing to him—he had to end it. Before she destroyed him completely.