“It just won’t come off.”

The words came out thin. Frayed. Barely louder than the hiss of the water hammering against marble.

You scrubbed harder.

The bathroom was enormous—vaulted ceilings, white-veined marble climbing every wall, gold fixtures gleaming through the thick steam like dull halos. A place meant for quiet luxury. For long baths and soft robes and someone pouring wine while you sank into warm water.

Now it smelled like copper.

Now it smelled like you.

Your hands shook as they moved over your skin again, nails dragging, scrubbing, scraping like you could peel it away if you just tried hard enough. The water was far too hot—scalding, really—but you barely felt it anymore. Your new skin drank the heat greedily, nerves lit up too sharply, too alive.

Everything was too alive now.

Every scent.

Every sound.

The drain gurgled below you and the noise alone made your stomach twist. You could hear the pipes in the walls. The hum of electricity in the sconces. The faint, distant whisper of traffic outside somewhere beyond the estate walls.

And beneath all of it—

The smell.

God.

It clung to you.

Metal and salt and something darker, richer. The thick, iron tang of spilled blood worked itself into your lungs until you thought you might choke on it.

You scrubbed harder.

Your reflection blurred in the fogged mirror across the room, a ghost of yourself—hair plastered to your temples, eyes too bright, lips trembling. Your knees were planted hard against the marble floor of the shower, the stone biting cold into your skin while the water burned down your back.

You couldn’t stop shaking from the memory.

An awful, awful thing.

His face kept appearing the moment you blinked.

Not Remmick’s.

The other one. The man from the street.

Kind eyes. Gullible eyes. The kind that softened when he smiled.

You saw it again.

The moment he realized something was wrong.

The confusion first.

Then the fear.

Then—

Your stomach twisted violently.

You clutched the edge of the shower bench, knuckles white.

“I didn’t—” Your voice broke. “I didn’t mean—”

But you had.

Your new teeth had known exactly what to do. Your body had known. Your hunger had known.

And above it all—

That voice.

Low. Smooth. Patient.

Go on now, darlin’.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Remmick hadn’t touched him.

Hadn’t needed to.

He’d just stood behind you in the foyer, one hand resting warm against the back of your neck like a man steadying a nervous horse.

His mouth near your ear.

There ya go.

The memory made your stomach drop.

That’s it.

The praise had been soft.

Gentle.

Proud.

Show me what I made.

You gagged, the sound raw in your throat.

The water kept pouring down.

Still, the smell wouldn’t leave.

Still, the weight of it clung to your skin like something alive.

You were different now.

Changed.

It had only been days, but the world had already sharpened into something unbearable. Every scent was louder. Every heartbeat within range felt like a drum pressed to your ear.

You could still hear the man’s pulse sometimes, echoing faint in your head like an afterimage.

You curled in on yourself.

Then, the bathroom door opened.

The sound was so quiet, but it didn’t matter.

The room changed the second he stepped inside.

Remmick took over any space he walked into.

The air thickened with him in it, something warm and slow-moving through the steam. Even the light seemed to shift toward him.

Your head lifted slowly.

He stood in the doorway like he’d belonged there.

Dark slacks.

Suspenders hanging loose from his shoulders.

White shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show the strong line of his forearms.

His hair was still slicked back neat despite the late hour. A gold chain caught faint light at his throat.

And those eyes—

Blue at first glance.

Red glowing underneath if you looked too long.

Remmick’s gaze settled on you kneeling beneath the shower.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just watched.

Slowly, his head tilted.

“Well now,” he murmured at last.

That voice, again.

Low and syrup-thick.

It coated your brain like honey.

“Ya made yourself a mess.”

Shame hit you so hard your shoulders folded inward.

“I tried—” Your throat tightened. “It won’t—”

He stepped forward.

Shoes slow across marble.

Each step deliberate.

Agonizing.

Steam curled around him as he reached the edge of the shower.

You froze.

Remmick crouched down beside the glass partition, resting one forearm on the marble ledge like he had all the time in the world.

“Darlin’,” he said softly.

The word slid through you like oil.

“Look at me.”

You did.

You always did.

His gaze moved slowly over you—the trembling hands, the angry red skin, the faint streaks still clinging stubbornly along your wrists and collarbone.

And then he smiled.

Not cruel, not exactly.

Pleased.

That was the look that settled over his face. Quiet and satisfied, like a man admiring something he’d been patient enough to grow himself.

It made your stomach turn.

Remmick stepped fully into the shower.

The water soaked through him in seconds, white cotton clinging to his frame, turning translucent where it stretched across his shoulders, his chest, his abdomen. It should’ve looked ridiculous—leather on wet marble, clothes ruined—but somehow it didn’t.

It looked intentional.

Like everything he did.

Like this.

You shrank back on instinct, your spine brushing the slick tile behind you. “You don’t—have to—”

“Mm,” he hummed, cutting you off easy.

His hand found your jaw again.

Not rough.

Never rough at first.

Just heavy. Certain. Tilting your face toward him like you were something delicate he didn’t trust to hold yourself upright.

“Now why would I leave ya like this?” he murmured.

His thumb dragged slow along your cheek.

You flinched.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

A faint smile touched his mouth, softer than before, but no less knowing.

“That all too much for ya?” he asked, voice low, almost sympathetic. “World gettin’ loud?”

You swallowed.

Nodded before you could stop yourself.

Remmick’s eyes darkened—absent of concern. You knew this look all too well.

With interest.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I remember that part.”

His hand slid from your face to the back of your neck, fingers spreading wide, anchoring you there.

“Everythin’ feels sharper,” he went on, tone easy, conversational, like he was talking about the weather. “Smells stick. Sounds echo. Can’t outrun it, no matter how hard ya scrub.”

His gaze dropped—slowly—down your body.

To your hands.

Still trembling.

Still streaked.

“You’re fightin’ the wrong thing, darlin’.”

You shook your head, breath catching. “I can still feel it—”

“I know.”

The words came quick this time.

Firm, but not dismissive.

Confirming.

Which was so much worse.

Remmick stepped closer.

Too close.

The heat of him cut through the steam, a different kind of warmth entirely—denser, heavier, something that pressed in instead of wrapping around.

His hand slid down your arm again, slower now. His fingers followed the faint lines of your veins as he traced the map he’d memorized.

“You’re holdin’ onto it,” he murmured. “That’s why it won’t leave.”

His thumb pressed lightly into your wrist.

Right over your pulse.

It jumped beneath his touch.

He smiled.

“There it is,” he said softly.

It wasn’t triumph.

Recognition was the word you’d been searching for.

He’d been waiting for that exact note to surface in you. The crack where something human still tried to name what was happening, even as the rest of you leaned toward him.

He didn’t rush after that.

That was the worst part.

Remmick took his time the way a man admires something delicate before deciding exactly how to handle it. His hand stayed firm at the back of your neck, not forcing, just holding you in place as he leaned closer—slow enough that you could see every detail unfold.

His mouth parted.

And this time, there was no mistaking it.

The fangs weren’t subtle anymore. They weren’t tucked away behind charm or softened by that easy smile. They were there—fully bared, sharp and gleaming, lengthened into something undeniably monstrous. The water didn’t wash them clean. If anything, it made them glisten more, catching the light in a way that made your stomach tighten.

He was drooling.

Not a trickle. Not something you could politely ignore.

It was excessive. Thick. Strands of it clinging to his lower lip, gathering at the corners of his mouth before slipping free and vanishing into the torrent of water cascading over both of you.

You could see it.

Even through the steam.

Even through the heat.

Your breath caught, sharp and shallow.

For a second—just a second—you thought he might bite you.

The thought came uninvited, unwelcome, and yet it landed with a strange, desperate clarity. Pain would be clean. Immediate. Something you could understand, something that might cut through the noise in your head and the weight still clinging to your skin.

You wanted it.

The terrible realization of it all.

Remmick’s eyes flickered—subtle, but there. He saw it. That tiny shift in your breathing, the way your shoulders tensed not in retreat but in anticipation.

His mouth hovered closer.

Closer.

The fangs brushed your skin.

They didn’t puncture.

Just grazed.

A light scrape along your shoulder where the skin was already raw from your scrubbing.

It stung.

Wasn’t enough.

And then—

He licked you.

Open-mouthed and unashamed, his tongue dragging slow and broad across your skin, following the faint traces you’d failed to wash away. The sensation was overwhelming—heat layered over heat, the steady burn of the water mixing with something slick and invasive.

You flinched hard.

A sound caught in your throat, halfway between protest and something else you refused to name.

It was wrong.

God, it was so wrong.

The way he did it—no delicacy, no attempt to soften the act. Just the full press of his mouth, his tongue moving with a purposeful rhythm, gathering what remained and replacing it with something that felt heavier, thicker.

His saliva clung.

It didn’t rinse away like the water did. It smeared, spread, left your skin feeling coated in something that wasn’t yours.

Your stomach twisted.

Your fingers curled against his chest.

“Stop—” you tried, but it came out thin, unconvincing.

Remmick didn’t stop.

He shifted slightly, angling your arm, exposing more of your skin to him. His tongue followed, slow passes that bordered on methodical, like he was undoing your frantic attempts at cleansing and replacing them with something of his own design.

His fangs scraped again.

Another sting.

A shallow drag across your collarbone this time.

He didn’t apologize.

Didn’t even acknowledge it.

If anything, the faint hitch in your breath seemed to draw him in further.

The water poured down, relentless, but it couldn’t keep up with him. Wherever he touched, the sensation lingered—warm and slick and entirely his.

You should’ve pulled away.

Should’ve fought harder.

But your hands stayed where they were, braced against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms. Your body betrayed you in smaller ways—your breath coming uneven, your skin reacting to every pass of his mouth like it didn’t know how to separate disgust from something far more indefensible.

Remmick knew.

He always knew.

He paused—not pulling away completely, just enough that his mouth hovered a breath from your skin. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something only he could hear.

Or smelling it.

That faint shift.

That change in your core.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

“No,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

A quiet sound left him—almost a hum, low in his throat.

His hand at your neck tightened just enough to ground you, to keep you from retreating into yourself completely.

When he moved again, it was slower.

More deliberate.

His mouth found your shoulder once more, but this time the motion was almost… patient. Less frantic, more certain. Each pass of his tongue felt intentional, claiming rather than simply cleaning.

As if he was marking over what had already happened.

Replacing it.

Rewriting it.

The disgust didn’t leave.

It sat heavy in your stomach, coiling tight.

But it tangled with something else now—something warmer, something that made your pulse feel too loud in your ears.

Remmick didn’t comment on it.

He didn’t need to.

The way his breath shifted, the subtle press of his mouth, the faint scrape of fang against skin—it all spoke for him.

He lingered there, close enough that you could feel the shape of his smile without seeing it.

And when he finally spoke, it was barely more than a murmur against your damp skin.

“Mm.”

That was all.

But the way he said it—

Like he’d found exactly what he was looking for.

The understanding of it sat heavy in the air between you, thicker than the steam, heavier than the heat pouring down your back. Remmick didn’t move right away. He stayed close—too close—his mouth hovering just off your skin, breath warm, damp, alive with something that made your pulse stutter in your throat.

His hand never left your neck.

Not once.

It had settled there so naturally you almost forgot it wasn’t supposed to be—fingers spread wide, thumb resting just beneath your jaw, holding you upright without asking, without needing permission. It wasn’t forceful in the way violence was forceful. It was… inevitable. Like gravity. Like something you couldn’t reason your way out of.

Your breath came uneven.

He felt it.

Remmick drew back just enough to look at you properly. His head tilted slightly, studying you the way he always did when he was deciding something—eyes slow and calculated, dragging over your face like he was memorizing each flicker of resistance before it disappeared.

The red had spread.

You saw it now—clear as anything.

His pupils were blown wide, the blue swallowed whole by that deep, glowing red you’d only ever seen when something buried inside him slipped closer to the surface.

Hunger.

Your stomach dropped.

“Open,” he said.

No softness in it.

Not even a drawl curling around the word to make it easier to swallow.

Just flat.

Certain.

You shook your head before you could think.

It wasn’t a real refusal. Not the kind that held weight. Just instinct. Just something inside you trying—failing—to push back.

Remmick didn’t react.

Didn’t sigh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t threaten.

His fingers lifted from your neck and moved to your face, hooking lightly at the corners of your mouth. Not pulling. Not yet.

Just resting there.

Waiting.

“Open,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Worse, somehow.

The steam pressed in around you. The water kept falling, hot and relentless, but all of it faded under the way he was looking at you now. There was nothing rushed in him. Nothing uncertain.

He would wait.

He would get what he asked for.

The realization slid down your spine like ice.

You opened your mouth.

“Opened” was generous.

But it was just enough for him.

Remmick’s fingers slipped inside, slow and deliberate, pressing past your lips like he’d done it a hundred times before. The motion was controlled, careful in its own way—but there was no gentleness to it. No hesitation.

He pushed deeper.

Your breath hitched.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, a sharp gag catching in your throat as his fingers pressed further than you were ready for.

Remmick’s mouth curved.

A low, quiet chuckle vibrated against the space between you.

“Better,” he murmured.

Not praise.

Not quite.

But it landed like it.

You made a small sound—protest, maybe—but it got lost around him, swallowed up, turned into something softer than you meant it to be.

He didn’t remove his hand right away.

Let you feel it.

Let you adjust.

Or struggle.

It didn’t matter which.

When he finally drew his fingers back, it was slow—dragging, intentional, leaving behind the ghost of the pressure, the lingering warmth that refused to fade.

Your lips parted again, breath catching.

Remmick didn’t give you time to recover.

His mouth replaced his hand.

At first, it was almost gentle.

Almost.

His lips pressed to yours in a way that might have been mistaken for something soft if you ignored everything else—the fangs brushing against you, the damp heat of his breath, the way his hand returned to your neck with a firmer hold this time.

You froze.

Then—slowly—your body betrayed you again.

You softened.

Just a fraction.

It was all he needed.

The kiss deepened without warning.

His mouth opened wider, his tongue pushing in with a sudden, overwhelming insistence that stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t something you could meet halfway.

It overtook.

Consumed.

His fangs scraped faintly against your teeth, a sharp edge that never quite broke skin but never let you forget it could. His saliva was everywhere—warm, excessive, impossible to ignore as it coated your mouth, your tongue, slipping further back in a way that made your throat tighten reflexively.

You tried to pull away.

You couldn’t.

His grip had changed.

What had been steady was now unyielding—fingers pressing firm at the back of your neck, holding you in place with a strength that didn’t need to prove itself.

The world narrowed.

Just this.

Just him.

The sound of the water blurred into the background, replaced by the wet, overwhelming reality of the kiss—too much, too close, too consuming. You felt it everywhere. In your chest. In your throat. In the way your pulse stumbled and raced all at once.

It was suffocating.

It was—

You didn’t finish the thought.

You couldn’t.

Remmick pulled back just enough to breathe.

His lips hovered against yours, breath and spit mingling as his eyes still locked on you with that same unbearable focus.

You didn’t realize how unsteady your legs had gotten until his other hand moved.

Slow.

Unhurried.

It traced down from your waist, fingers dragging along the curve of your side before dipping lower—lower—until they brushed lightly against your thigh.

You tensed instantly.

Your knees drew together without thinking.

He paused, but didn’t push.

Just feeling the resistance.

His thumb pressed faintly against the inside of your leg, testing the line you’d drawn, the boundary you were trying so hard to hold onto.

Remmick’s gaze didn’t leave your face.

Didn’t need to.

He already knew.

The faintest hint of a smile touched his mouth again.

Not amused.

Not mocking.

Something far more patient than that.

His hand remained there—resting, waiting, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make it unbearable.

The water kept falling.

Hot. Relentless.

It struck the crown of your head, ran down your face, your throat, your chest, pooling and slipping and taking nothing with it—not the memory, not the smell, not the way your body had begun to hum in spite of everything.

Remmick watched you.

He bore into every part of your face.

That was where the truth lived.

His thumb shifted—barely—against the inside of your thigh, a slow, testing press that didn’t push, didn’t force, but didn’t retreat either. It lingered there, warm and deliberate, drawing your attention down to the place you were trying so hard to ignore.

Your knees stayed locked.

Your breath didn’t.

It gave you away.

Remmick’s mouth curved, subtle. Quiet. More private. Like he was letting himself enjoy the moment instead of performing it.

“Well now,” he murmured, voice thick with that slow drawl that came out strongest when he was most certain. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

Your throat tightened.

“Don’t—” you started, but the word came out weak, unraveling before it could hold shape.

He leaned in just enough that you felt it before you heard it—his breath brushing your cheek, warm despite everything.

“Go on,” he said, almost conversational. “Open up for me.”

You shook your head.

It wasn’t enough to matter.

Remmick’s hand didn’t move.

“Darlin’,” he added, softer now, almost playful in a way that made something sharp twist behind your ribs. “Y’know I’m a gentleman.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I’d hate to go and ruin that reputation.”

The lightness in his tone—the ease of it, like this was a game, like this was something small—it nearly brought tears to your eyes. It made the room tilt, made everything feel even more unreal than it already did.

You swallowed hard.

“I can’t,” you whispered. “Not here. Not—like this. I can’t—”

Your voice broke.

“I can’t do this right now.”

The words sounded fragile.

He heard them.

Remmick leaned back just enough to see you again, properly this time. His head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly—not in anger, not in disappointment.

In consideration.

For a moment—just a moment—it almost looked like he might give it to you. That small mercy. That pause you were so desperate for.

His thumb stilled.

His hand eased.

The pressure lifted just enough to make your chest ache with the sudden absence of it.

“Mm,” he hummed, thoughtful.

Then he smiled.

Slow.

Measured.

“Alright,” he said.

The word settled over you like a false promise.

“Just this once.”

Relief hit you too fast.

Too deep.

It made your shoulders sag, your breath rush out in a shaky exhale you couldn’t quite control. Your knees loosened—not opening, not yet, but no longer braced so tightly shut.

Remmick noticed.

Of course he did.

He didn’t rush you.

Didn’t need to.

He waited.

And that patience—God, that patience—did more than any force ever could.

Because now it was you.

You who moved.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

Your legs eased apart.

Just a fraction at first.

Then more.

Each inch felt like something slipping, something giving way inside you that you weren’t sure you’d ever get back.

Remmick’s expression changed.

The lack of subtlety alarmed you.

The restraint broke into something brighter, wider—something that showed teeth, showed hunger, showed the full, unfiltered satisfaction of a man watching something unfold exactly the way he knew it would.

“That's my girl,” he murmured, and you knew he caught the corner of your mouth twitch in response.

The words hung there, low and approving, wrapping around your spine like smoke. His hand didn’t waste the opening. It slid higher, fingers parting the slick heat between your thighs with a certainty that made your breath snag hard in your chest.

You bit your lip.

Remmick’s mouth was already on you again—wet, open presses against your jaw first, then trailing lower, scattering kisses along the line of your neck like he was mapping territory he’d conquered long ago. Each one landed heavy, saliva-slick and unhurried, his lips dragging just enough to leave your skin gleaming under the falling water. The heat of him everywhere. Breath ghosting your ear. Fangs grazing faint, teasing threats that made every nerve scream alive.

“Goddamn,” he breathed against your throat, voice rougher now. “Look at ya. Soakin’ for me already.”

His fingers found you.

Two of them pressed in slow—inch by burning inch—stretching you open with a precision that reminded how well he knew this part of you. Knew the exact angle that made your hips jerk. Knew the rhythm that turned resistance to ruin.

You clenched around him on instinct.

Tried to hide it.

Failed.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, raw and unfiltered, echoing louder than the water in your sharpened ears. Everything was amplified. The slide of his fingers inside you felt like lightning—wet, obscene sounds mixing with the shower’s roar, your own pulse thundering in your temples, his scent flooding your lungs. Cedar and smoke and something darker, primal, overtaking every sense until there was no room for shame.

No room for anything but him.

He chuckled low, the vibration humming against your collarbone where his mouth lingered, sucking a mark that would bruise just right. “Tryin’ to play coy, darlin’? Ain’t workin’. I feel that little flutter. Ya love this.”

His thumb circled your clit—slow, firm circles that built pressure like a storm gathering. In. Out. Deeper each time, his fingers curling just so, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

You hated it.

Hated how he played you like an instrument he’d tuned himself. Every twist, every press, pulled euphoria from you in waves you couldn’t swallow down.

Your hands fisted in his soaked shirt.

Pulled him closer.

“Remmick—” It came out broken, a plea wrapped in protest.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

His free hand stayed firm at your neck, thumb stroking your pulse like he was counting the beats racing under his touch. His mouth moved again—kisses peppering your cheek, your temple, the corner of your eye where salt mixed with water. Wet. Messy. Stealing every inch.

“That’s it,” he praised, fangs nipping light at your earlobe. “Take it so pretty. My perfect girl, openin’ up just like I knew ya would.”

The words sank into you, hot as the water scalding your back. His fingers thrust deeper, faster now, but still controlled—twisting on the outstroke, crooking to drag against your walls, thumb relentless on that bundle of nerves. Pleasure coiled tight, insane and overwhelming, your new senses turning it into something unbearable. You could hear your own slickness, feel every ridge of his knuckles, smell the sharp tang of arousal cutting through the steam.

You tried to bite it back.

Tried to keep your hips still.

They bucked anyway.

A whine slipped free—high, desperate, nothing like you.

Remmick's mouth found your neck again, sucking hard enough to mark, tongue laving over the spot before kissing lower, open-mouthed and dripping. “Hear that? That’s you, darlin’. So wet for my fingers. Actin’ like ya don’t want it, but this pussy’s tellin’ tales.” He teased, voice a rumble you felt in your bones. Another curl of his fingers—precise, devastating. “Gonna make ya come so hard ya forget every damn thing but me.”

He was everywhere.

Filling you. Surrounding you. His body pressed close, shirt clinging translucent to the hard planes of his chest, suspenders heavy with water slapping wet against his thighs as he moved. Kisses rained down—jaw, throat, the hollow of your collarbone—each one leaving trails of spit that the shower couldn’t rinse away fast enough. His breath in your ear. His growl when you clenched again. His scent choking out the copper ghost that had haunted you.

You hated this too.

How he knew.

Knew to slow just when the edge loomed, drawing it out with shallow thrusts that made you chase him. Knew to whisper filth against your skin—“Fuck, ya grip me like ya never wanna let go. Good girl, just like that”—while his thumb flicked faster, building that euphoric blaze higher.

Your thighs trembled, spread wide now, knees digging into marble that no longer felt cold. Everything narrowed to the thick slide of him inside you, the wet smack of skin, the relentless press of his mouth claiming your face, your neck, like he’d devour you piece by piece.

“Remmick—please—” You didn’t know what you were begging for. Stop? More? It didn’t matter.

He laughed soft, dark, lips brushing your pulse. “Please what, sugar? This?” Deeper thrust. “Or this?” Thumb grinding hard. His fingers pumped steady, unyielding, chasing every hidden spot until euphoria drowned you—wave after crashing wave, your body arching, toes curling, every sense screaming his name.

You were lost.

Floating.

So close.

The coil snapped taut, pleasure cresting, ready to shatter—

Then, he stopped.

Fingers still buried deep, but unmoving.

Why the fuck did he stop?

Your body clenched around him, desperate, chasing what he’d yanked away. A whine built in your throat—weak, needy—but before it could spill, Remmick’s eyes held yours. Blazing red. Unblinking. Pinning you there under the relentless pour of water, steam curling like fingers around his shoulders.

No words.

Just that gaze.

Then his mouth moved.

Kissing down from the frantic pulse in your neck—soft at first, lips parting to suck light marks that bloomed under his touch. Water streamed between you, mixing with his spit, but he didn’t care. Didn’t pause. His free hand braced your hip, steadying you as his kisses trailed lower, grazing collarbone with fangs that scraped just enough to sting.

You sucked in a breath.

Tried to form protest.

“Remmick, I—”

Too late.

His lips found your breast.

One.

Then the other.

He lingered.

God, he lingered.

Mouth sealing hot over your nipple, tongue swirling broad and slow, lapping like he was starving for the taste. Suction pulled tight—wet, obscene—drawing a gasp from you that echoed off marble. His fangs grazed the sensitive peak, not piercing, just pressing, threatening, sending jolts straight to your core.

He switched sides without mercy, sucking harder, biting down just enough to ache, tongue soothing the sting before diving in again. Your back arched. Hands fisted in his wet hair. Everything was too sharp, too much—pleasure spiking through your heightened nerves like knives wrapped in velvet.

He hummed against your skin.

Approval.

Hunger.

Kisses scattered lower—sternum, ribs, the soft plane of your stomach. His fingers slipped free at last, leaving you empty, throbbing, a slick trail dragging along your inner thigh as he went. His mouth followed, pressing open kisses that smeared heat, fangs nipping faint at your hipbone.

You were spread before him now.

Knees weak against marble.

Pussy bare, aching, dripping under his gaze.

But before his mouth could descend—

The flash hit.

Sudden.

Vicious.

The man’s face again. Those kind eyes widening—not in pleasure, but terror. Blood. Gurgling. Your fangs sinking deep, the hot spill over your chin. Remmick’s voice praising from the shadows.

Show me what I made.

Disgust crashed over you.

Thick as the steam.

You were soaked in it now—his touch, your arousal, all of it twisted into something vile. Pleasuring yourselves to this. After that. Your body betrayed you even as your stomach heaved, sobs ripping free, raw and jagged.

“N-no,” you choked, curling inward, hands shoving weakly at his shoulders. “I can’t—God, the blood, his eyes—I killed him, Remmick, and you—you made me a monster, and now this—”

Tears mixed with water, hot streaks down your face you couldn’t tell apart.

Remmick froze.

Just for a beat.

Then he rose—slow, fluid—cradling your face in both hands, thumbs wiping tears he’d caused. His eyes softened. Red dimming to something almost blue, almost human. “Hey now, darlin’,” he cooed, voice dropping to that velvet murmur, thick with drawl. “Shh. I gotcha.”

He eased you down.

Gentle.

Marble chilled your back as he laid you out, water pooling beneath, his body shielding you from the spray. He hovered close—not crowding—but everywhere. Mouth brushing your forehead, your temples, soft kisses peppering your eyelids. “I know, sugar. I see it tearin’ ya up. That ain’t right.”

You sobbed harder.

He shushed you soft—lips against your brow, hand stroking damp hair from your face. “Listen to me. I feel it too. That weight. Makes my chest ache seein’ ya hurt like this. He was just a man walkin’ his path, and now… hell, it sits heavy on me same as you.”

Lies.

Smooth as silk.

But your senses drowned—water roaring, his scent overwhelming, touch grounding you in the now. No room to question. Too raw. Too much.

“I didn’t want this for ya,” he murmured, kissing your cheek, your jaw, nuzzling close like a lover grieving with you. “Not the pain. Not the ghosts. I turned ya ‘cause I love ya, darlin’. Wanted ya forever with me. But this? This guilt? I hate it eatin’ at ya. Let me take it away. Just for now. Let me make ya feel good. That’s all this is. All for you.”

His hand trailed soothing paths down your side—light, reassuring. Kisses dotted your throat, your collarbone. “It’ll be okay. I promise. We’ll figure the rest. Together. But right now? Let me love on ya. Wash it all clean.”

You hiccuped.

Clung to him.

Not convinced—not fully—but the overwhelm crashed too hard. Sobs tangled with shivers, his words weaving through like balm on burned skin.

He felt it—the softening, the brief surrender.

Like clockwork, he moved.

Eased down your body again.

Settled between your thighs.

Eyes locked on yours one last beat—red flaring hungry beneath the feigned concern.

Then his tongue dragged.

Bottom to top.

He dove in.

A long, flat lick through your folds, gathering slick, pressing firm against your clit at the very end. The taste of you exploded on him. A growl rumbled low, ancient, and whatever mask lingered shattered.

Ravenous.

Unrelenting.

His mouth sealed over you—sucking hard, tongue thrusting deep like it aimed to replace his fingers and more. No tease now. No patience. He devoured—lips pulling at your folds, fangs grazing outer lips with dangerous precision, never breaking but threatening ecstasy edged in peril. His tongue swirled wild inside you, curling, lapping every drop, then flicking frantic over your clit—fast, messy, insatiable.

You cried out.

Body bowed.

Tears streamed—guilt? Pleasure? Blurred into one endless salt. Sobs choked into moans, your hands yanking his hair, hips bucking into his face despite everything. He was everywhere again—growls vibrating through your core, nose grinding against your mound, saliva mixing with your arousal in thick, dripping strands that clung and stretched. He ate like famine gripped him—sucking your clit between lips, teeth nipping light, tongue plunging deep, fucking into you with wet, obscene thrusts.

“Fuck—Remmick—”

He didn’t stop.

Wouldn’t.

A hand pinned your thigh wide—claws pricking faint, holding you open as his mouth worked ruthless. Lick after lick after lick—broad stripes, pointed flicks, circling that swollen peak until sparks lit your veins. Your heightened world exploded: every lap thundered like thunder, his hums rattled your bones, scent of sex and him choking the air. Pleasure built savage, coiling tighter than before, guilt fracturing under the onslaught.

He pulled back just enough—barely—to growl against your dripping core. “Taste so goddamn sweet, darlin’. All mine.” Then back in—fangs scraping inner thighs, tongue spearing deep, lips sealing to suck like he’d draw your soul through your cunt.

Your tears were endless.

Sobs melting to screams.

Hated it.

Needed it.

His free hand slid up—fingers pinching your nipple, rolling hard, syncing with the frenzy below. Mouth unrelenting—lapping, sucking, biting faint at tender flesh. Growls turning feral, drool slicking your thighs, water doing nothing to dilute the mess. You were soaked. Ruined. Every sense overtaken—his heat, his hunger, his everything consuming you whole.

The edge loomed again.

Faster.

Harder.

His tongue lashed with renewed fury, plunging deep into your core before flicking up to your clit in a rhythm that bordered on brutal. You couldn’t take it anymore. The pleasure bordered on pain now—too intense, too all-consuming for your sharpened senses to process. Your hands shot to his head, fingers tangling in his slick hair as you tried to push him away. “Remmick—stop, too much, I can’t—”

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t even pause.

Instead, his grip tightened. His claws dug deeper into the soft flesh of your thighs, pricking skin with sharp points that drew faint beads of blood. The sting barely registered amid the onslaught, but it anchored you, held you mercilessly open. He locked you against his mouth, nose grinding into your mound, lips sealing tight as he devoured you with even more ferocity. Growls vibrated through your folds, low and animalistic, drowning out your pleas. He didn’t seem to hear you anymore.

Or if he did, he didn’t care.

His tongue thrust relentlessly, curling inside you, lapping every inch like a beast denied for centuries. Fangs scraped your inner lips, teasing peril without piercing, while his lips sucked hard on your clit, pulling it between them with obscene pressure.

You thrashed.

Sobs tore from your throat—pleasure and overwhelm twisting into something frantic. “Please—Remmick!” Your hips bucked wildly, but his claws pinned you down, unyielding. He ate you like he owned you, tongue swirling faster, wetter, more invasive, saliva dripping in thick strands that mixed with your arousal and the shower’s endless cascade.

Every sense screamed: the wet smacks of his mouth, the copper tang of your own blood mingling faint with the air, his scent choking everything else. You loathed how it built again, coiling savage despite your protests, euphoria crashing higher until your vision blurred.

It hit like oblivion.

You came.

Hard.

Your body seized, back arching off the marble as waves ripped through you—insane, shattering, so high you nearly blacked out. A scream echoed off the walls, raw and broken, as you soaked him completely. Slick gushed from you in hot pulses, flooding his mouth, his chin, dripping down his neck to mix with the water. He drank it all, growling deep, tongue still working through the spasms, prolonging every twitch until you shuddered boneless beneath him.

Only then did he relent.

He lifted his head slowly, face glistening—your release smeared across his lips, his cheeks, clinging in strands to his fangs. Red eyes glowed triumphant, pupils blown wide. He crawled up your body with deliberate grace, water sluicing over both of you, and captured your mouth in a kiss.

You accepted it.

Couldn’t do anything else.

Your limbs felt like lead, spent and trembling, every muscle drained from the high. His lips pressed soft now—loving, almost tender—as his tongue slipped inside, mingling saliva thick and warm. You tasted yourself on him: sharp, sweet, intoxicating. Your fangs brushed his, a faint scrape that sent aftershocks tingling through you. He kissed you deeply, slowly, hand cupping your jaw like you were fragile porcelain. No rush. Just possession wrapped in gentleness.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips. “There ya go, darlin’. All better now.”

And it was.

He had done exactly as he promised. The memory of the man—the kind eyes, the blood, the guilt—had faded to a distant echo, washed away in the flood of him. Nothing remained but Remmick. His touch. His taste. His voice coiling through your mind like roots taking hold.

Time blurred in the steam-filled haze.

Minutes?

Hours?

You couldn’t tell.

The shower poured on, relentless, but he made no move to stop it at first. He simply held you there, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, whispering soft nothings that wove deeper into your bones.

“Ya did so good for me,” he said, voice a low rumble, thumb stroking your damp cheek. “My brave girl. Lettin’ me take care of ya like this. Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt ya now. Not while I’m here.”

His words wrapped around you, gentle and addictive, each one a thread pulling you tighter to him. You melted into it, eyelids heavy, body limp against the marble. He shifted, reaching past you with one arm, and the water cut off abruptly. Silence rushed in—broken only by your shared breaths and the faint drip from fixtures. Cool air kissed your heated skin, raising goosebumps, but he didn’t let you shiver long.

Remmick gathered you up effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as he stepped from the shower. His clothes clung sodden and ruined, but he ignored them. He carried you to the marble counter, perching you there gently, like you weighed nothing.

“Hold still, sugar,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple before turning to the linen closet.

He returned with a towel—plush, oversized, warmed somehow in his hands. He draped it over your shoulders first, rubbing slow circles to chase away the chill. His touch stayed reverent, obsessive in its thoroughness: drying your arms, your back, lifting each leg to pat tenderly along the claw-marked thighs. He lingered there, eyes darkening faint at the red welts, but his fingers soothed rather than tormented—light strokes that made you sigh. “Look at these,” he whispered, voice thick with feigned regret. “Got carried away lovin’ on ya. I’ll kiss ‘em better later. Promise.”

You nodded faintly, too spent to argue, leaning into his care. He dried your hair next, fingers combing through the wet strands with shameless intimacy, tilting your head back to blot the nape of your neck.

Every motion screamed possession: the way he murmured praises—“So beautiful like this, all soft and mine”—the way his eyes never left you, red glow simmering possessive. “Ya don’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing. I got ya forever now. No more scrubbin’, no more ghosts. Just us.”

Time slipped further. He wrapped you in the towel like a cocoon, lifting you again to carry you from the bathroom. The estate’s halls blurred past—dark wood panels, faint lamplight casting long shadows—but you barely registered them. Your bedroom materialized: the massive four-poster bed, silk sheets rumpled from earlier nights, air heavy with his scent. He laid you down reverently, peeling the towel away to slide cool sheets over your naked skin.

He stripped then—efficient, unhurried—tossing wet clothes aside before joining you. His body pressed close, warm and solid, one arm banding around your waist to tuck you against his chest. “Sleep now, darlin’,” he cooed, lips brushing your ear, hand splaying wide over your stomach in a move that felt like protection. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Gonna hold ya all night. Dream of good things. Dream of me.”

His fingers traced lazy patterns—spine, hip, the curve of your breast—gentle caresses that lulled rather than aroused. Kisses dotted your shoulder, your hair. “You're perfect,” he whispered, obsessive litany spilling soft. “My heart. My everything. Turned ya right, didn’t I? Feel that strength in ya now? All mine to keep safe.” Delusions layered sweet, each word erasing cracks, filling you with him.

The man’s face flickered once—faint—then vanished, overwritten by Remmick’s touch, his breath syncing with yours.

Your eyelids drooped.

The world narrowed to his warmth, his voice humming low lullabies in that hypnotic tone. “That’s it. Drift off. I love ya more than anythin’. Forever, sugar. Just like this.”

Sleep took you then.

Deep.

Dreamless.

You'd been happy, the two of you. You really had.

It was springtime, nearing summer, where the days felt like they grew hotter and longer, when the nights wouldn't cool off either. You had met Wade at the market. You both reached for the same can of corn and touched fingertips, an electric current passing through you two. The way he looked at you, and the way that you shyly, through thick lashes, looked back at him. Neither of you said a word for a good moment, until Wade finally introduced himself. Everyone and their mother talks about love at first sight, but no one dares talk about the fiery connection when you touch your lover for the first time. A connection built on physical touch, on lust, on want.

It was a whirlwind romance after that, and before you knew it, you were married, joined under the good Lord, and he'd bought you a house with a porch and a dog. A shepherd.

Warm summer days were spent in the Mississippi Delta, in your quaint little home, set about twenty-five minutes outside town. He'd treated you better than you'd ever imagined a man could, made you feel like an angel on Earth. But the way he fucked you… was anything but holy.

Your nights were spent in passion, bodies entangled together like the branches of the trees outside your window, swaying back and forth like dancing lovers. You explored every inch of him, and he, every inch of you. There wasn't a freckle on either body that the other didn't know about, and you'd never experienced such happiness in your life.

Then… one night, after a particularly heated coupling, he'd just left. Kissed your forehead before lumbering out the front door to smoke a cigarette. The dog had followed him outside. And they never came back. Ever. It had been two weeks.

You assumed the worst — Wade didn't love you. He was just lookin' for an escape, for a clean way out. The marriage had been a mistake — too quick maybe — and he took the first opportunity to leave. He could've at least said goodbye, given you that last scrap of dignigty. Instead, he kissed your forehead and said, "I'll be right back, sweetheart."

You never thought for a minute that something bad had happened to him. He was a grown man, always took care of himself. Nothin' bad woulda' happened to that man.

So, here you sit, in your empty little house. It's not a home anymore, only the bones remain — tall and lanky and changing with the shadows that dance across the walls, moonlight filtering in through your lace curtains. You're nursing a cup of black coffee even though the sun's just gone down. It's as bitter as you are, drowning in your own sorrows and loneliness. The damn dog hadn't even stayed. Never liked you as much as he did Wade, really. You let out a plaintive sigh, bringing the cup to your mouth.

Outside, the wood of your porch creaks under some undisclosed weight. You set the cup down and abruptly scoot your chair back, standing upright. With your house being out of the way, visitors were rare, unless they were explicitly invited. Your attention's on the door, and though it's closed, you can feel the presence behind it, burning through the wood like an iron pressed against the grain.

You hesitate, staring at the door like you can see through it.

"Hello?" As though they can hear you.

Another creak.

You take careful steps forward until you're hesitating in front of the door. Your fingers wrap 'round the knob, twist it and pull it towards you with a sharp motion. The warm, humid night air rushes in, settling heavy on your exposed skin like a sheet that hasn't quite dried yet. The sounds of nighttime fill the space between you and the stranger, and your breath catches in your throat.

At first glance, there's nothing unusual about him; he's dressed like any other man. Light blue cotton shirt, suspenders, dark slacks. Put together. He's standing at the bottom of your porch, one foot perched awkwardly on the first step.

"Can I help ya'?" Your voice is laced with expectancy.

"Ah, I been walkin' an awful long time. Yer' the first one to answer."

You find that odd; you didn't answer anything. He didn't knock.

"Can ya' find it in yer' heart to let me in n' spare a glass of water, ma'am?"

He has a chain round his neck. Reminds you strongly of the one that Wade used to wear. The one that used to sway in front of your face as he fucked you, the one that you'd reach up and wrap your finger around, careful not to break it, but just tight enough to yank him closer.

You blink, coming back to reality just as the forest seems to loom forward around the stranger, but in an eeriely inviting sort of way, like a pair of giant hands beckoning you to just step into them. Something settles in your stomach and your eyes flit to Wade's shotgun leaning up against the door frame. The man notices this and shakes his head once.

"Now, don't go an' do that. Ain't necessary, ma'am." He whispers your name like a prayer, so quiet that you almost don't catch it. Almost.

"How you know my name? Huh?"

"I'm Remmick."

You furrow your brows. You hadn't asked his name, and you didn't want to know it. "I asked you a question. How d'you know my name?"

This must amuse him because a smile splits his face. He lifts his hands, feigning innnocence, and zeroes his gaze in on your features. He scans over them, one by one, and nods slowly.

"Well, ain't you every bit as pretty as he said you'd be…?"

The look on his face told you that he intended it to be a compliment, but something about it landed oddly. Made your skin crawl. "I beg your pardon?"

"Wade," he responds, defending himself. "I was just sayin' how he —"

"Wade?" You perk up like a dog. The name derails your intensity, and your gaze drops just slightly. Your question is breathless, desperate and mournful. "You talk to him?"

"Ohhh… Wade and I go way back," he says, sliding his finger underneath the suspender at his shoulder, pulling it forward. He pauses a minute and allows it to snap softly back into place. "Real shame he ain't with us no more."

No. God have mercy on his soul. That was the last thing you wanted to hear from a stranger's mouth. You're so grief-stricken that you don't even think to ask why Wade never mentioned this man.

"He… what happened to him?"

The man's brows pinch together as though he's filled with sorrow over what he's about to say. "Messed with the wrong sort of folks."

Your heart seizes in your chest, a desperate pump of blood to remind you of your husband and how much you missed him. The closure you didn't want, the closure you never expected. You dip your chin to your chest, trying to hide your disappointment, the feelings of grief. It takes a moment, but you harden. You force healin' over all those searin' open wounds and straighten up, setting your shoulders. If there was one thing Wade would've wanted…

"Well, you may've known my Wade, but I don't know you and —"

"Oh, but I know you," he says low. "I know everything about you, darlin'."

You furrow your brows in disbelief, taking a step back from the door. "No you don't."

"Sure… sure, I do. I know everything that Wade knew."

Not missing a beat, he takes a step forward, and something lurches in your stomach. Something that moves like fear, but tastes like longing.

Your grip on the doorknob loosens, and a shudder, a chill runs down your spine like cool water. Given the heat of the night, it ain't exactly unpleasant. Or unwelcomed.

"I know how you like to be kissed, from yer' neck to between that beautiful chest uh' yours… those soft n' tender kisses behind yer' ear, whisperin' about how bad yer' wanted. That spot behind your knee that makes you whine like a banshee. How you like it when you finally get to it. Rough."

His accent hangs heavy on that last word, the 'R' pronounced harder than usual.

You snap to attention, looking the man in the eye. They're dark, and seem to catch the moonlight in an odd way that chills your very bones. He wasn't wrong, and that was all well and good, but Wade would never tell anyone that. Wade would never divulge anything 'bout his personal life to anyone, no matter how convincing they were. Wade was a private person, and he stood by his secrets. Your facial expression doesn't deter the man at all. He continues, taking a step up onto your porch.

"…how you like to be eaten. How good you taste when you're screamin'. So, why don't you let me in and I'll see if he's good on his word?"

That chill returns, but you promptly feel a betraying heat pooling between your legs, soaking into the cotton fibers of your panties.

"You gotta' lot nerve, Remmick." His name falls off your lips like an expletive, a stark difference to the way he whispered your name.

He just smiles. Nods. Takes another step up onto the porch.

"Just let me in, and I'll show you what else I got."

You're suddenly lingering at the threshold, leaning forward as though you're prepped to wrap your arms around him and pull him in for a kiss like a lover who had just returned from a long day's work. There's a pulling in your feet, your limbs seem to float towards him, as if he's willing them to him. Maybe he is.

I'm nothing if not strong, you think.

"I'm not… I won't."

"Sure you will. You ain't gotta' be afraid. I can make all that hurt go away. All that pain in yer' soul…"

There was pain. Lots of it. Plenty of it. You were lonely. Hungry. Desperate. And stood in front of you was a man that could smell it, and according to him, ease it. Something deep in your soul, rooted down like an old Cypress tree, told you that this was the closest thing to Wade you'd ever get again.

Remmick holds your gaze tight, coiling around you like a serpent — tighter and tighter as the seconds drag on. Something feels wrong, but something else feels right enough to make you forget the wrong thing. Your momma' woulda' warned you about men like this, if she was still with you.

You hadn't gone to church since Wade left, so you weren't in good graces, you knew that. Still, you bite your lip, clasping your hands at your breast as a last shot attempt at redemption, at some sort of understanding or forgiveness for the sins that slither in your mind. You lift your head to the heavens, and even though your lids snap closed, tears welling at the corners, you speak to the dark skies above in a hushed tone, barely above a whisper. "Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."

Remmick grins and takes yet another step, like a man who knows he's already won the game. He's standing at your doorway now, hands tucked in his pockets.

"Let me in, won'tcha'?"

You open your mouth to speak again, to protest with your new found courage from the heavens, but instead, all that comes out is a squeak of a breath.

"I'll beg if need be…" His tongue glides appentently across his bottom lip.

"Wade used to beg," you say, forlornly.

"I know it." Remmick says, nodding, his eyes sweeping over the curves of your body, memorizing them, tasting them with his gaze. "For a sweet thing like you? He had good reason, I reckon."

With that, he says your name over and over again, longing braided into his voice. "Please, baby… don't you tease me like this."

Just like Wade used to say. Just like Wade used to say when you'd playfully deny him what he wanted most; your sweet, glistening cunt. Just like Wade used to say when you'd swat him away and he'd fall to his knees, pressing his face in between yours. Nuzzling between your kneecaps, forcing them apart, the feeling of his stubble scratching at your soft, plush skin as he pushed his way towards his goal. You missed that. You missed the feeling of being wanted… needed.

"Gimmie' what I want, baby… c'mon."

Hot tears prick at your eyes and well up in the corners. "S-stop…"

"Sure sounds good, don't it?"

You inhale sharply at his question, and nod. You can't deny him that answer, even if your whole body is screaming at you to.

"When's the last time you had someone appreciate you, darlin'? Huh?"

Though it's unspoken, he knows the answer and so do you.

"Just—" he starts, hardly getting the word out before you're cutting him off.

"Come in."

The flesh is weak.

Your hands fall from your chest, shocked at your own feeble resolve. The failure stings like a mad hornet when Remmick closes in the distance between you two, leisurely. Like he's got all the time in the world. He wastes no time in getting close to you, though. Real close. Too close.

He smells like iron, dirt and lust — something cloyingly sweet that makes your knees buckle. You know damn well what you smell like; the impure fragrance of desire seeps from your pores with the sweat and that smell has his nostrils flaring as soon as he's next to you. You're like a ripe peach, hanging low in front of his mouth. He parts his lips, exhaling over them as he nears you, presses his body against your warm one. You can feel the planes of his body through his clothes, and you know he can feel your soft, supple body underneath your thin sundress.

He's taking you in lungfuls, savoring you like he knew he would. You didn't know it, but everything he'd gained from your now late husband drove him crazy. He'd become obsessed with you from memories alone, memories he longed to run his tongue over, slowly, ravenously. For two weeks, he'd craved you in ways he understood deeply. A craving that he had to sate.

Your wanton gaze falls to his lips and it's then that you notice he's drooling. Really drooling. Not just wet around the lips — a generous stream of thick saliva cascades steadily from the corner of his mouth. It frightens you, but not as much as the way you want to kiss him. That terrifies you. He sees you looking at the spit, but he doesn't bother to wipe it away. If he has his way, you'll be adding to it any second.

The feeling returns. The pulling feeling. It's deep, and tugs at your cunt in a pulsing grip. Remmick lifts his hand slowly, inching it towards you and you watch, wordlessly, as his fingertips near your feverish skin, tiny beads of sweat pooling up in the hollows of your collarbone. He runs those fingers delicately along your exposed skin, just underneath your neck. Your skin immediately flushes with heat in response, growing hot under his touch.

You shudder against the feeling of skin against skin. For someone who experienced the finer pleasures of the flesh on a daily basis, you were hungry, you'd been deprived for days and she longed to feel it again.

"He woulda' wanted you to be happy, y'know." As he speaks, his lips brush the delicately sensitive skin of your neck, trailing along it with chaste kisses. His tongue slips past his lips, dragging along the length of your neck.

The tiniest moan tumbles off your lips, hanging weighted in emptiness of your house. You feel her clench between your legs, leaking betrayal as your hand climbs to his shoulder, supporting some of the burdensome weight of your arousal.

He was so convincing when he spoke like that, playing to your worries and fears. Or maybe it was the way he was kissin' you. Maybe it didn't matter how he was talkin' or what he was sayin', maybe all that mattered was that he was touchin' you.

You tilt your head to the side, allowing him more room and his hands find your hips, taking fistfuls of your cotton dress in his hands. He starts kissing your neck in a way that almost overwhelms you; feverishly, hungrily, and quickly — kiss after kiss, smeared against the column of your neck. He continues his assault, but climbs towards your chin, then up to your mouth. He grips your jaw with his thumb and forefinger, pulling it down and opening your mouth. Without warning, he licks into your mouth and your lids flutter, tantalized by the sensation. His mouth is wet and inviting, and when he leans in, sealing his mouth with yours, you moan down his throat, making a fist in his shirt. You feel the sweat dripping down the length of your spine, feel the dampness of your dress as it absorbs it all.

Your tongue darts out to lap up the flow of saliva that coats his chin. A string of it stretches from your mouth to his as you pull back, just for a moment, just to breathe. There's something deeply sinister in his taste, something that you don't want to think too hard about. Something that leaves you breathless and wanting more. So you do. You lick at his bottom lip hungrily, and he catches your lip with his teeth, biting down just enough to cause pain. Any harder and he would've drawn blood.

Remmick's other hand winds around your back, holding you with a tight grip. It's the kind of grip that says you ain't gonna' make it to that front door. So you don't try. You aren't sure you even want to, because the way he's walking you backwards has your core muscles tightening in a way that you haven't felt in weeks. Anticipation.

"I wanna' taste that honey he talked so fondly of…"

You hit the wood of the table, and Remmick's urging you up onto it before you can protest. The half-empty coffee cup gets shoved off the edge and shatters, black liquid seeping into the floorboards like blood. Neither of you seem to notice.

Remmick continues talking, buttering you up and praising your body before he's even had the chance to taste it. It's working. You're slick and ready, wordlessly begging for him.

You prop yourself up on your elbows as you get comfortable, digging your heels into the surface of the table. The sound of your shallow, wanton breaths fills the small room, and Remmick presses his chest against your shins, reaching around your thighs to hitch your dress up around your hips. Greedy hands reach under the fabric, finding the hem of your underwear. With an esurient touch, he reaches between your legs and curls his fingers around the damp fabric, twisting it tight and tugging it down your legs. You hum at the quick brush of his knuckles against your swollen clit, bucking your hips forward. Remmick discards them, allowing them to fall lifelessly to the floor next to his feet.

His long, lithe fingers trail around your kneecap, and dip back, touching the sensitive flesh behind them. Your back arches, fingers clawing at the wood.

Without another thought, your legs drop open for him, revealing your aching, wet center. Having felt the movement, he raises a curious brow, looking between your bodies. "What's this now?"

He's looking at you, waiting. Waiting for you to explain yourself. Your chest heaves with breaths, but you don't answer; you ain't got nothing to say. You're done talking with your mouth. Your gaze bores into his, fiery and intense and filled with the desperation that your lips don't convey. His eyes widen, just for a moment, and you know he understands.

With one firm tug, he pulls you to the edge of the table — your back slides against the smoothed wood like butter. With his gaze locked on his target, Remmick lowers himself down between your legs one knee at a time, situating his face right in front of your cunt. The proximity has you reeling, writhing on the table like a cat in heat. You hear a low chuckle and feel the rush of his breath as he speaks, washing over your skin. "Well, ain't that just the prettiest thing I ever did see… you got yerself' worked up nice n' good."

It wasn't you. It was him.

You try to feel embarrassed, to feel shame, but the only thing that sizzles in your system is your pride. You're proud that he's about to do what he wants with you, proud that you're already wet for him.

You watch him between your legs as he looks at her, tilting his head to and fro, leaning in and inhaling your personal scent. He's clearly not keen on disguising his lust as his dark, glimmering eyes roll back in his head, jaw hanging slack. Another stream of drool. Fear bubbles up in your gut, but Remmick's fingers scratch it away as he grips the sides of your hips, kneading your flesh. Your head lolls back between your shoulders, heavy, as his tongue slips out to taste you, licking a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit. Your essence coats his tongue, pulling a low, gratified growl from his throat. Wade used to growl, but not like that. You ain't never heard a man growl like that.

You lift your gaze and your chest fills with air as Remmick presses his mouth into your cunt, lapping at it. Your next exhale comes out as a moan, and he digs in deeper, tongue stroking your clit, making your hips writhe unconsciously.

"Ah-ah, where you goin' now?" He asks, pulling you right back to the edge of the table. He knows better know, knows he can't leave that body unattended, so his hands, his fingers grip your hips tight, pressing them down into the wood. The table creaks underneath you, moans low like you do every time Remmick's dirty, hungry mouth seals to your cunt. The tip of his tongue encircles your clit, teasing it with single-minded precision. Pleasure. White, hot pleasure. The coil in your stomach winds tighter around itself, aching to snap. A few more passes of his tongue, and you'll be done for.

The curtain patterned moonlight stretches across your body, casting lacy shadows across your bare thighs, illuminating Remmick's fingers as they crawl around your skin like serpents, hunting for some unsuspecting prey.

The other starved beast, his tongue, delves further down into your slickened entrance, scooping back some of the nectar that wells up to meet it. You hear him swallow wetly, and close your eyes, digging your head into the table.

"Oooh, yer' close, I can taste it," he says between swallows. His voice is lower now, lubricated with his own tangible desire. You really were everything Wade had given him. Every thought rang true. "Sweeter than a summer peach…"

You whimper loudly, fighting against his grip. "Don't stop…. don't you stop…"

Remmick lets out a surprised chuckle before pressing his mouth back to you, tongue first. He slips inside you, humming in pleasure as you clench around the welcome intrusion. His tongue thrusts a few times, fucking into you with an unbridled hunger, before he swallows again and returns his efforts to your clit.

And suddenly, you're lost in a tidal wave of pleasure. Waves of euphoria crashing over you, drowning you. Your toes curl, muscles seize up. There's nothing but the feeling of his tongue as it laps at your throbbing cunt. A ribbon of sweat descends from your hairline, winding down to the hollow of your shoulder.

Your chest heaves long, shallow breaths, but your eyes pierce his with a sluttish intensity. You never were satisfied with just one orgasm. You longed to feel the searing, shivering pain of overstimulation.

"Fuck me," you plead as you stretch the suspenders over the curves of his shoulders. "Fuck me hard."

Remmick's head cocks to the side, as if to ask for confirmation. When you don't reply, he hurriedly pulls his shirts from his trousers, exposing his pale, toned stomach. It heaves with laboured, hungry breaths as he reaches for his belt, the button of his slacks. Nimble fingers make quick work of them both, and before you can blink, he's pushed his trousers down. You blink a few times, focusing on his face and realize… he's changed. His mouth looks bigger somehow and it hangs open like a hungry beast's. Sharp, jagged fangs have replace his pearly whites, and when he reaches up to wipe your slick from his chin, his fingers are even longer than before, lengthed by sharp claws.

The man you let in wasn't a man at all, but it was too late for you to care. Your cunt was too wet for you to worry, to protest now. This is it, you think. This is how I die.

"I love me a woman with a healthy appetite," he snarls.

His body folds over yours. His leaking cockhead nudges your entrance, like it, too, needs permission to enter and who are you to deny it? His gaze searches yours, and though it's laden with desire, there's a longing, a question, underneath it all. His hips jerk, pressing the velvet hot tip harder against you and Remmick lets out a whine, something that sounds like pleading. You grip his shirt at the collar, pulling him closer to you. There's a comforting familiarity in your grip and for a moment, you're latched onto the collar of your lover. You sigh.

It's all he needs. In a single thrust, Remmick bottoms out, sinking himself deep into your hot, slick walls. His rhythm, when he finds it, has intention. The force of his thrusts shake your body, your breasts move against your ribs with every drive forward. The wooden table creaks in a singsong melody beneath you, a sinful hymn of your coupled desire.

Your hands grapple furiously for his shoulders, finding comfort in the toned muscles that meet your grip. You wrap both arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him, and Remmick nuzzles into your scent, breathing heavy.

Still sensitive from his tongue, it doesn't take long for you to climb and fall from a second orgasm, clenching tightly around his dick. Your cries fill the house, staining the walls and your legs shake in his grip when he doesn't relent. Remmick whines again and leans forward, whispering something in a language you don't understand. He leans over you, looming above you and deepends his thrusts, bullying your cervix with each one. The gold chain sways in front of your face, and your lids flutter close.

Thoughts of your husband feel far away, because as hungry as he was and as much as he claimed your body, he never fucked you like this. Above you, Remmick leans back, his hips continuing to snap hard against yours.

He calls you girl, calls you sweet and withdraws himself to the head. Gazes down at your swollen, used cunt. With a sharp breath, he plunges himself back in. His release is imminent, and with a few more thrusts, he finds it.

Remmick's hand lifts, clawed fingers curling around your soft jaw to pull it to the side. He leans forward again, presses his lips against the nape of your neck, smearing them against the sweaty skin. You can feel your pulse thudding, visible against the delicate flesh, and know he can too. You don't scream when his mouth opens against your skin, tongue lashing out to taste the succulent flesh one final time. A sickening, squelching sound of flesh tearing fills your ears, followed by a wet swallow. You wince hard as his fangs dig into your flesh, but ease into the sensation of Remmick's mouth as it suckles around the mangled, torn skin, drinking your blood down in gulps as your arteries pump it out. You feel the blood as it cascades down your back, warm. There's so much pain — white, hot fire — that your body begins to quiver. But just for a moment. A single moment.

Your head lolls first before the rest of your body goes slack. Fingers fall from his shoulder, twitching involtunarily. Remmick doesn't let you go, though, if anything — he holds you tighter. Closer. Sucking you down and draining you of your lifeblood.

As your lids flutter heavily, the last image burned into them is his monstrous visage, and the last sensation is the gentle feeling of clawed cupping your face, stroking your sweaty cheek with his thumb.

When you first signed up for the Irish Folklore course this semester, you never imagined it’d turn out like this. Every student is required to take a Humanities course for their degree and this one seemed to be the perfect fit. It piqued your interest, fit into your schedule with work and other classes with a meeting time in the evenings, and you (foolishly) figured it’d be easy enough to pass without much effort. 

You were very wrong.

It’s a Tuesday night when class convenes, a handful of students scattered about at their desks in the small room stationed on the first floor in one of the oldest academic buildings on campus. You preferred small classes like this, it was more intimate, helped you be immersed, and provided better opportunities to connect with the professor. If only this Professor didn’t seem to have some personal vendetta against you, targeting you every chance he got. Professor Remmick, he insisted you all call him. Not Dr. O’Brien or Professor O’Brien, just Professor Remmick. 

“Alright, now. Before we pick up where we last left off on the discussion of Filidh, I’m returnin’ your last graded assignment.” Remmick peers down at the stack of papers in hand through the clear lenses of the glasses fixed on the bridge of his nose before he shifts, standing from his spot leaning against his desk to begin walking down the aisles. “Most of y’all did well.”

Most.

The word echoes in your ears and a heavy weight settles in your gut, churning with each appraising comment he gives to the other students upon returning their graded work.

Nice work, Chris. 

Good job, Jess.

Your teeth begin to nervously chew on the inside of your lip as he draws nearer, hoping for the string of praises to continue but dreading for more of the endless criticism you’ve received since the start of the semester.

Polished black cap toe shoes scuff against the linoleum as he stops by your desk. You chance peering up at him, but he doesn’t even glance your way before sliding the paper onto the desk like it’s a discreet, dirty secret.

A silence passes, quiet but resoundingly loud, before he moves on to the next student. He doesn’t say a word and that’s somehow worse than if he had told you it’s the worst work he’s ever seen in front of the entire class. Your eyes immediately search for the damage, landing on the C- circled and written in red ink at the top of the paper.

Disappointment floods through you before frustration, and finally anger. You’ve never gotten a C in any college courses until this class, until this Professor. If someone had told you before that the hardest class you’d take in college would be an Irish Folklore course, you would’ve laughed and looked at them like they grew two heads. 

Your eyes trail down the paper, glancing over every note written in red. 

Grammar.

You’re rambling a bit much here. 

Not quite. 

?

There is room for improvement. I expect better on the next assignment.

You don’t get it. You could’ve sworn you did everything right and had all the correct information. Hell, you probably could’ve spent hours working on it and he still wouldn’t give you an ‘A’. A heavy exhale huffs out through your nostrils as you lean back into the hard plastic seat, arms crossing over your waist. 

This class is shaping up to be more trouble than it’s worth, and you can’t help but wonder how you’d have fared with the original professor, Dr. Hughes.

It was only a few months ago when Remmick found himself in this little college town. He didn’t seek it out intentionally, only meaning to pass through on his journey to an undesignated destination. He’d been wandering for so long, he couldn’t tell you a specific number of years. After so many failed attempts to find connection to his old home, he’d begun to lose hope. That was until that December night when he found himself strolling across the quiet, concrete paths and grassy patches of your campus. When the familiar words of the legend of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the Giant’s Causeway floated through the night air and to his ears, it stopped Remmick in his tracks. He followed it to an open window in one of the campus buildings where he lingered in the shadows, watching and listening as this Dr. Hughes butchered the retellings of the legends and myths from Remmick’s homeland, the stories near and dear to his heart. What else could he have expected from a damn Englishman. Worst of all, these students were victims of it. 

And Remmick… Well, he just couldn’t have that.

So he continued watching Dr. Hughes’ flimsy lecture until the class adjourned, waiting as the students filtered out of the old building until finally, the professor emerged. Remmick followed him as he made the walk to the Faculty parking lot, oblivious to the danger lurking in the shadows. By the looks of the dark and quiet campus there didn’t seem to be many night classes, and after that night the college would lose one of its professors.

After that, all it took was a forged degree and resume, which along with his vast knowledge on the course subject landed Remmick a position as an adjunct professor. 

He’d finally found something to give him purpose.

Remmick, oblivious or uncaring to the anger simmering within your body, continues on with class as usual, picking up where he last left off in the discussion of Irish filidh and traditional music. Palpable enthusiasm and confidence ooze from him as he lectures with an undisputable knowledge on the subject. Qualities that initially sparked excitement at the beginning of the semester, that now annoy you like an itch under your skin you just can’t scratch.

Remmick leans back against his desk as the oldest recording of The Rocky Road to Dublin plays through the computer speakers, the only time he elects to utilize electronics in class. You should be paying attention, immersing yourself in the tune, but your mind wanders elsewhere. 

Still ruminating on your bad grade, on your workday, other classes, upcoming exams, your boyfriend, James. 

At the thought of your boyfriend, your eyes fall to the Claddagh ring fixed on your right ring finger. A soft smile graces your lips, briefly remembering the moment James had gifted it to you on your birthday, telling you it symbolized love and loyalty with two hands holding a crowned heart. 

You’re distracted as you admire the ring before the hairs on the back of your neck rise with the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Slowly, your eyes lift to seek out the culprit of the discomforting sensation in the surrounding classroom. A look to the left toward your classmate Chris makes you pause, catching his eyes slowly trail up your legs to the curve of your ass and up to your breasts, until they finally lock with yours. He catches your look of disgust and before he can even react Professor Remmick clears his throat, loud and abrupt from the front of the classroom. Chris’s head snaps forward like an obedient dog following a command before it lowers, whether from shame or embarrassment, you aren’t sure.

Remmick doesn’t look at you, only exhales sharply and licks his lips before delving back into the lecture as the song comes to a close. The distraction of catching Chris undressing you with his eyes pulls your focus back to the lecture for a moment, but as Remmick discusses the significance of the traditional ballad, your mind drifts once again. This time, it isn’t toward thoughts of your boyfriend, work, or your other courses. It’s solely focused on your professor. Your frustration with him is still tangible and simmering in your body, but it begins to mix and fuse with another emotion.

Your eyes follow Remmick’s movements as he slowly paces at the front of the class. 

The way he talks with his hands.

Thick, calloused fingers. You imagine they’d feel both rough and soft dragging along your bare skin.  

The gold chain hanging from his neck. You wonder how it would catch the light as it swings back and forth above you.

That crooked, almost boyish yet calculating smile. 

The soft curve of his cupid’s bow, plump bottom lip shining under the overhead lights as his tongue darts out to lick them once more.

The way those lips wrap around each word, moving in a way that seems downright vulgar.

Biceps outlined by a light blue button up shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. You imagine how much strength is harbored within them.

The ego that earlier wrought your irritation now mixes with admiration for his passion and knowledge.

Your mouth grows dry as the heat rises in your body with the wavering thoughts. Remmick’s eyes catch yours briefly with what you perceive to be a heavy weight of unspoken words within them, and it’s enough to send a tingle right between your clenched thighs. His eyes leave yours just as quickly as they met, but the undeniable signs of arousal pulse through you, a wet warmth resonating at your core.

A glance at the clock on the wall. 9pm. Still another hour left.

With each passing minute the hunger residing in your body only grows, becoming harder to ignore. You can’t make it another hour like this.

“-explores the mostly misfortunate adventures of a man on his journey to-”

“May I go to the bathroom?” You blurt out with a raised hand, too impatient to wait for him to call on you.

The classroom falls silent as Remmick takes a deep inhale, his lips forming into a thin line from exasperation at your interruption. His gaze meets yours before he reluctantly gives a curt nod, freeing your thrumming body from the seat. Your feet quickly follow the path to the door at the front classroom, only for his voice to stop you.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

You can’t help but roll your eyes before turning to face him. A fiddle bow turned bathroom pass sits in his outstretched hand, though his gaze remains cast forward to the rest of the class. You huff under your breath at the ridiculousness of it, no one else is even in the goddamn building. Nevertheless, you cross the short distance to retrieve the bow from his hands, but he doesn’t release it.

A sharp tug jerks your body toward him, close enough to feel his breath fan over your skin as his eyes finally meet yours.

“Don’t take too long.” He murmurs a low and gravely warning that practically sets your body ablaze, flames licking at your most sensitive, aching parts.

As soon as his hand drops from the bow and eyes shift back toward the other students, you turn and exit the classroom as quickly as your feet can carry you.

One of the advantages of taking a night class was having the entire academic building to yourself. Something you’re grateful for as your fingers part your slick pussy lips in the bathroom stall. You’re so goddamn worked up and throbbing for release with the confusing mix of anger and arousal.

You can’t decide if you hate Professor Remmick or want to fuck him, but it’s becoming painfully obvious that it’s both.

Who the hell decided to hire him in the first place? He’s far too hot to be a professor, let alone a hard-assed one. 

You sigh softly with a jerk of your hips, a finger finding the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your thoughts drift to wonder how his tongue might feel instead of your fingers, imagining he knows just the right places to lick and suck, since he seems to know everything.

“Fuck” The soft moan fills the empty bathroom, mixing with heavy breaths as you rub your clit in tight, slow circles.

You can’t decide if you want more of his punishment or to take your anger out on him.

If you want him to bend you over that mahogany desk and spank your bare ass until you give him the correct answers,

Or if you want to straddle him in that desk chair and ride that cocky grin off his pretty, plump lips.

Your walls pulse and squeeze, body vibrating with waves of pleasure as your fingers move faster, teeth biting your bottom lip to muffle the whimpers.

He’s big and thick, stretching you wider than any other man has, but the way you wrap around him would have him a whimpering mess beneath you, suddenly devoid of arrogance as his hands grip onto your body like it’s the only thing keeping him from blowing his load inside you.

The pleasure builds in your core, a single thread on the brink of snapping. 

You’re so goddamn close.

His calloused hands would soothe your reddened, sore flesh before moving to the wet patch of your panties. “How badly do you want that ‘A’?”

With a stutter of your hips and a muffled cry, the thread finally snaps, granting the release of intense pleasure to course through your shaking body. The tight, fast circles on your clit slow and loosen as you ride out the high until your breaths finally even out. 

It isn’t long before guilt replaces lust. You have a boyfriend for god sakes and here you are, in the bathroom of the lecture hall masturbating to your professor. With a groan, you pull out your phone and open the Messages app.

Are you coming over after class?

You hit send before setting to clean up the evidence of the escapades between your thighs and head back to class, unsure if you’ve been gone long enough to raise suspicion. Head down and gaze averted, you hope not to draw attention to yourself as you slip the bow back onto Remmick’s desk and return to yours with a silly worry that everyone knows exactly what you just did.

And he does.

Remmick takes note of the flush of your skin, the shame written all over you, the smell radiating from between your thighs and into his flared nostrils. He’s unable to stop the small smirk that tugs at his lips before steeling his mask and resuming the lecture as if he wasn’t aware of your very presence or absence.

The cool night air is a welcomed respite against your still warm skin as you step out of the building and onto the concrete pathways of campus. You love walking around at this time of night, sidewalks and roads devoid of the daytime bustle of bodies and cars. A few straggling students camping out in the library until closing time and the small group of your classmates being the only signs of life.

“So, what did you think of tonight’s lecture?” The cheery sound of your classmate Sarah’s voice pulls you from your thoughts as she comes into step at your side. You cock an eyebrow at her with an exasperated, scoffed laugh.

“What?” She questions with an oblivious but amused tone, to which you sigh.

“I mean… the subject matter is interesting.” 

“Okay…? What, you don’t like Professor Remmick?”

“Like? I think he’s a bit of an asshole, actually. I had an easier time in Chemistry, for christ’s sake.” The bitterness for what you perceive as unfair treatment seeps into your voice.

In the solitude of the now empty classroom, Remmick listens in through Sarah, letting out an amused chuckle at your crass retort.

“Yeah, I guess he can be a hard grader. At least he’s kinda cute though, right?” Sarah counters with a shrug and a coy smirk. Your eyes widen slightly and you’re caught off guard for a moment before quickly brushing it off with a laugh.

“I have a boyfriend, remember? I’m not worried about how cute a professor is.” It’s a flimsy lie, you know it is, but it’s all you can conjure up in the moment. You can hardly handle the confusing feelings the professor provokes in you, let alone admit them outloud. 

Remmick rolls his eyes. 

“Okay.” Sarah murmurs, sounding unconvinced. “How are you and James doing anyway?”

Your phone vibrates at that moment, the screen illuminating with a new text.

Not tonight, babe. Me and the boys are watching the game.

That stupid goddamn fraternity. You fight back the urge to let the irritation reflect in your expression before dimming the screen and turning your attention back to Sarah, just as the lights from the dorms begin to come into view.

“Oh, you know. We’re both busy with classes and work but we’re good.” 

Not for much longer. 

You give Sarah a tight-lipped smile, unsure how effective it is, but she returns it and nods nonetheless.

A bid good night sends the two of you parting ways where the sidewalk splits, leading to your respective buildings. Under Remmick’s selfish influence, Sarah’s eyes follow your movements. Watching the way your hair flows with the wind, the bounce of your ass with each step until your form disappears through the glass doors of the dormitory.

It turns out turning a few students had its advantages. At first, it was merely for information, inserting a few spies into the web of the college. It didn’t take long for Remmick to lose himself in the role of a professor, and even a centuries old vampire like himself wasn’t immune to falling into the allure of petty professional rivalries. Particularly that bastard of an English professor Dr. Michaels, who seemed to turn every compliment Remmick received into a boast about himself.

That was until you. Until he first saw your pretty face and that tempting body strut into his classroom. Everything Remmick’s done since then has been with tunnel vision. 

And boy, has he learned a lot about you and that boyfriend of yours.

It doesn’t take long for exhaustion to overtake you upon returning to your room and stripping off the clothes carrying the weight of the day. A few hours later, you’re deep in the throes of sleep. Campus is dead silent at this time at night with the exception of a few students pulling an all nighter for one reason or another. That meant no witnesses as Remmick helps himself through the window you conveniently left open in an attempt to seek the cool night air to aid in your slumber. Remmick just can’t help himself as it becomes increasingly harder to stay away from you. And after what he knows you did in that bathroom tonight, he needs more. He needs something to hold him over until he can have you completely. 

Upon entering, his eyes immediately fall to your sleeping form scantily clad with the covers thrown about. Restless sleeper, it seems. An oversized shirt hands loosely around your body, the hem ending dangerously close to the curve of your ass, leaving your bare legs on full display. A deep, shaky inhale passes through him in an attempt to offset the onslaught of raging emotions and desires seeing you like this spurs within him. He forces his focus to shift to the surroundings of your room, to soak up the opportunity to be in your space.

He takes everything in, from the trinkets that line the desk and shelves, to books housing stories of romance and mystery, fingers running along them as if to commit every memento that is you to his memory.

Posters of musicians and movies line the painted brick walls, along with pictures of you with friends, family… that loser boyfriend. Remmick scoffs lightly at the photograph, knowing soon enough he’d be out of the picture. He’d make sure of it.

His exploration continues until his eyes land on the laundry hamper by the foot of the bed, a discarded pair of underwear lying on top. The faint smell hits him as soon as he sees it, beckoning him closer step by step.

Hands grasp the flimsy lace material before lifting it to his face. A deep inhale of the unmistakable scent that was wafting off of you earlier fills his nostrils. The smell of pure, lustful desire. He can’t help but groan softly, the sound of satisfaction and hunger rumbling in his chest. His hand curls, balling your underwear in his fist before slipping the fabric into his pocket. He’s not leaving without a token of yours and this is just what he was looking for.

Just as he considers it’s time to leave, Remmick’s eyes fall to your sleeping form once more and his feet draw him closer to the side of the bed. You could only look more beautiful than you do now whilst in the throes of pleasure, he imagines. A sight he aims to see for himself very soon.

His breathing slows as his hand gently clasps around your ankle, warmth radiating off your body and into his palm, a sensation that both balms and ignites the restless desire for you residing in his chest. Even as his heart hammers against his ribcage, his fingers trail up your skin leisurely but with full intent. Intent to memorize the feeling of this, your warm, soft skin beneath his hands at last. The touch is tender, ghosting, and reverent.

“Rem-”

The movement stills over the plush flesh of your thigh, eyes darting up to your closed ones at the sound of the muffled groan. You’re still sleeping soundly, eyes moving behind the closed lids. His heart stills, breath catching at the realization he hadn’t imagined the beautiful sound.

“You dreamin’ about me, doll?” A low and raspy whisper leaves his dry throat. Teeth digging into the plump flesh of his bottom lip, his hand presses more firmly against your skin, caressing the meat of your thigh and inching higher and higher to the hem of your shirt.

“Remmick…”

There it is. The airy, needy murmur of his name from your parted lips goes right to his hardening cock. You put on a good front in class, but even in the depths of sleep he is the one you want, the one you desire. The one you call out to within the realm of filthy dreams, fueled by unbridled lust. There’s no denying it now.

And fuck, look at you. So tempting. Laid out like a platter of ripe fruit, begging to be tasted, to be savored. And who is he to deny you, to deny himself? He only came for a token to keep with him while you’re gone but now, he’ll have the memory and lingering taste of you on his tongue. Just a little taste, right from the source. 

The path of his hand continues traveling up the back of your thigh until reaching the hem of your shirt where he pushes past, hiking the fabric up to reveal the bare globes of your ass.

“Fuck…” Remmick mutters under his breath, mouth salivating at the sight of your juicy ass and pussy completely bare with no panties on. A wicked smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, “Always hoped you were a naughty girl.”

Carefully, his body lowers onto the bed between your parted thighs, one leg bent and hiked up. Your swollen lips aren’t even parted yet and he can still see the wetness held within them, seeping out of the glistening folds. His hands gently squeeze the fat of your ass, eyes fixed on the way it makes your puffy lips spread to give him a glimpse of the paradise held within- like digging into a succulent, juicy peach.

“So wet for me…”

He leans closer, the tip of his nose nudging along the slit before taking a deep inhale that sends a wave of shivers down his body, filling his mind with a hungry, lustful haze. Parting your slit with a flat tongue and a breathy moan, he collects the juices from your clit to your throbbing hole,  taking a moment to savor the flavor spreading along his tongue, like a man dying of thirst cherishing that first sip of water. 

You’re magnificent.

With a groan, he dips back in for more. Curled tongue delving into your tight, wet channel, licking up every drop of your sweet nectar he can. Remmick moans at the taste, the feeling of your walls squeezing around his tongue, the soft, breathy moan that slips past your lips. He’s drunk on you, on your taste, the sounds you make. He needs more.

Satisfied he’s licked up every drop, his mouth lowers to your swollen clit. With a glance up toward your sleeping, blissful face, his tongue flicks against the bundle of nerves teasingly, eyes watching for any reaction. Satisfied you won’t stir, he presses the muscle more firmly against you, swirling around and licking the sensitive bud. A mix between a sigh and moan rises from your throat, like beautiful, sinful music to his ears. It spurs him on, eliciting his lips to seal around your clit and gently suckle it into his mouth.

Your pussy pulses against his nose with a slight jerk of your hips, the movement pushing your cunt firmly against his face. He obliges your unspoken plea, fingers digging into the meat of your ass as he sucks harder on your tender clit. Within the confines of his pants, his cock strains and throbs against the material, pre-cum no doubt staining them.

“Remmick…” The words slip from your lips so quickly in a stifled, high-pitched moan, but he hears it, the sound sinking in and echoing in his ears. Even in your slumber, your body and mind associate pleasure with him and it only strengthens his raging desire for you, the resolve to make you cum on his tongue before he leaves.

A low groan rises from deep in his chest, muffled against your slick folds as his mouth continues to work your throbbing clit to a heightened bliss. Until he hears your breath hitch, your body tense beneath him, and a shaky gasp burst from your mouth. Remmick’s eyes roll back behind closed lids, moaning softly as you cum with a buck of your hips. He softens his attack on your clit as the waves of pleasure course through your lush body, and only when you relax and fall slack against the sheets does his tongue return to your still spasming channel, lapping up your release like a reward. 

With a sigh, his face turns to rest against the delicate flesh of your inner thigh as the haze of lust in his mind and body calm to a low thrum, one he won’t be able to ignore for much longer. He can take care of that later, for now he knows he needs to depart with your token stored in his pocket and lingering on his taste buds. But, not before he leaves you with a token of his own. Remmick’s lips kiss your tender skin before latching onto it, sucking gently to leave behind a small bruise to form overnight, effectively marking you as his.

Reluctantly and with one last kiss along your skin, Remmick carefully rises and slips off the bed, pulling your shirt back down to its previous position. With your arousal stained panties in his pocket and one last look over your peaceful form, he leaves the way he came, through your window and out into the dark depths of the night.

It isn’t until hours later with the sun risen above the treeline, the chirping song of birds flowing into your open window that you finally awaken to the obnoxious alarm on your phone. You silence the nagging sound with a tired groan before sitting up, legs lazily shifting to hang over the edge of the bed. As the full depth of your senses slowly return, you’re unable to ignore the slick, wet feeling between your thighs. You can’t usually remember your dreams beyond small details and flickers of images, but you know last night’s sleep consisted of another ‘wet dream’ involving your professor. 

Only when your vision drops to your legs do you see something purple and part them to reveal a small bruise on your inner thigh. Your brows furrow in confusion regarding its creation. Was it from the last time you and James had sex and you just didn’t notice until now? Maybe you need to get your iron levels checked at your next doctor’s appointment…

Regardless, you don’t linger on questioning the source of your new bruise for long as the reality of your day full of work and exams comes to the forefront of your mind.

The following night, you return to the old, cracking stone building for your next Irish Folklore class. Your movements are sluggish upon entering the classroom and taking your seat, brain exhausted but anxious as your eyes mindlessly survey the antiqued items and posters reflecting Irish culture hanging along the walls. You’d already had a number of exams today with more scheduled tomorrow, not to mention the one you’d be taking in the next few minutes.

You hadn’t studied as much as you probably should’ve for this exam with your other classes taking priority, and it leaves you with a growing pit in your stomach. You fool yourself into believing you can still perform well on it, all while knowing Professor Remmick would no doubt slap that hope down just as quickly as it bloomed. The thought beckons a restless bouncing of your leg under the desk as class convenes and Remmick begins to walk down the aisles, handing out the exam to each student. With a nervous gulp, you don’t dare to meet his eyes as he passes your desk, wordlessly sliding the multi-paged, stapled test on top.

You close your eyes and take a deep inhale that does little to unravel the knot residing in your stomach before diving in. There’s no turning back now. As you begin, the questions seem easy enough, mind readily recalling the information from previous classes. Then there’s the questions you have no recollection whatsoever of going over, and with it a wave of embarrassment passes through, realizing you may have missed those moments while daydreaming about fucking your professor. Then, there’s the questions that are worded in a misleading way. The kind of question that you think you immediately know the answer to, only for there to be another very similar answer… fucker. It prompts you to begin second-guessing all your other answers thus far, eyes tracking over every single word until you feel an ache begin to form in your temple. He’s gotten in your head, making you doubt yourself even when you were so sure. 

Your hand moves to your forehead, supporting the weight as your fingers massage your temples. Your mind is foggy and exhausted, frazzled from lack of sleep, hours of studying, classes, and work on top of the very specific stress of this course you just can’t seem to function in. Suddenly, a crimson drop splatters onto the test beneath you, dark red staining and spreading into the white paper.

Remmick’s nostrils flare and eyes squeeze shut as the scent hits him like a wave. By connection and nature, the other students can smell it too, but as Remmick’s eyes open to land on you, he directs them to focus elsewhere. With brows furrow in confusion, your fingers seek out the source at the opening of your nostrils where the slickness of blood quickly coats them. 

One second, you’re staring down at the drops of blood along the pads of your fingers and in the next, Remmick is standing before you, expression concerned as his hand gently curls around your bicep.

“Let’s step outside,” His tone is soft and hushed with a cocking of his head toward the classroom door.

You nod absentmindedly, standing from the desk to follow behind him with fingers pressed against your bleeding nose.

The empty silence of the hallway engulfs the two of you, the classroom door shutting behind to leave you truly alone. Your eyes catch sight of a white tissue in his hand as it lifts toward your face. 

“Oh, thank-” You attempt to take the tissue from Remmick’s hand only to be immediately cut off by an “aht” as he shakes your hand away, raising his own to dab the tissue against your nose.

Your eyes widen, staring up at him dumbfounded and confused by the seemingly tender gesture, a stark contrast to the treatment you’ve received from him thus far. You hate the way your body reacts to it, the flip in your stomach, the breathless hitch in your throat, the flutter in your chest. 

He notices your confused expression and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, “What? It’s just blood.” 

Just as your vision flickers down to admire the plumpness of his lips, he gently tilts your head back, pressing the tissue gently against your nose.

“Didn’t know I was workin’ you hard enough to bleed.” He murmurs, but you can hear the subtle amusement in the words. Your face twists up with a weak scoff, a mixture of bewilderment and frustration flaring at the weak concern, but it fizzles out just as quickly with his close proximity and caring touch. 

Does he not know how much of a pain in the ass he is to you?? Surely he does, there’s no way it’s not intentional.

“It’s just been a stressful week is all.” You manage to reply, earning a soft hum in response.

He pulls the tissue from your nose and you sniffle in response, tilting your head back down to meet his eyes.

“Well, you need to take better care of yourself then, darlin’.” The pet name stuns you, spurring a warmth to bloom and grow inside you. Still stunned as you watch his fingers close around the bloodied tissue before it disappears into his pocket, not thinking anything strange of it.

His nostrils flare with a deep inhale, squaring his broad shoulders and expression growing stern. “I’ll have to mark your exam as incomplete. You’ll just have to come back tomorrow night and make it up.”

Taken aback, your head shakes side to side at the directive.

“Seriously? On a Friday night?” You blurt out, anger flaring by what you perceive to be yet another set back personally handed to you by Professor Remmick.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have more important plans to attend to?” He feigns concern, leaning closer and daring you to argue further, effectively fizzling out the protest that was dancing on your tongue.

“No…” With a quiet mumble and deep sigh, your shoulders slump in defeat.

“Good.” A flicker of that cocky grin flashes across his lips before it disappears. “Now, go collect your things and head home. Ya need to get some rest.” He leaves no room for argument, reaching for the handle and holding the door open for you to reenter the classroom.

Even with stubborn reluctance you follow his instructions, collecting your bag and now blood-stained exam, returning the latter to his desk where he stands.

“Tomorrow at 8. Don’t be late.” Remmick’s low voice stops you just as you’re about to depart the classroom, eyes locked from over the rim of his glasses.

You nod curtly before stepping out and back onto the cement pathways leading to your dorm room, a nervous excitement bubbling in your gut at the prospect of being completely alone with Remmick in the empty classroom tomorrow night. James won’t be happy about your delayed Friday night plans, but part of you that you’re afraid to acknowledge doesn’t really care.

Given your spectacle in class, you know you should be in bed, likely mindlessly scrolling through social media while trying to fall asleep. But instead, you’re sat in the desk chair, laptop open and idly sitting on the google home screen as your professor permeates your thoughts once again. Your thumb nail has found a temporary home amongst teeth as your mind tries to make sense of the confusing mix of emotions he’s brought onto you, trying to make sense of him. This feels beyond the scope of a standard crush, and there’s something… off about him.

Within the solitude of the now empty classroom, Remmick sits at his desk replaying the events and images of you over the last few days in his mind. Your now dried and bloody tissue rests in his palm before he lifts it to his nose, taking a deep inhale of the intoxicating, coppery scent. A groan rumbles in his chest, the smell sending an electrifying frenzy through his body all the way to his already hardening cock. He palms it as his mouth begins to salivate and fill with thick drool, bringing the tissue to his lips and sucking, trying to taste the little bit of your blood that’s trapped within the fibers.

You can’t quite put your finger on what it is about him. He looks rather young for a professor, especially compared to the others at your university. Despite this, there’s an older, wiser air to him in the way he speaks and runs the class. Old-fashioned, for sure. No electronic assignments, a stark contrast to what’s been the standard for as long as you can remember, instead insisting that everything be hand-written and physically turned in. Then, there’s the way he speaks during lectures. You’ve always appreciated professors that are passionate in their taught subjects, but Remmick seems to be on another level. He speaks of the Irish folklore myths and legends with such reverent fondness and innate knowledge, knowing the information like the back of his hand.

The hints of your blood spread across his taste buds, making his cock throb and strain against the tight fabric of his slacks. Hands make quick work of the button and zipper to free his hard, red cock from its confines, the swollen head leaking as he sucks the last little bit of your blood from the tissue. It tastes just as divine as your cunt. He hums, reaching for the panties kept within his back pocket with his free hand. He wraps the fabric stained with your juices around his leaking tip, letting his own arousal mix with the evidence of yours.

Then there’s the somewhat off-putting love all the other students in class seem to have for him, the kind of power he seems to hold. Like Chris. The way he ripped his eyes from ogling your body the second Remmick seemed to notice, like a dog heeding its owner’s command. The Google search bar reflects back to your blank stare, questions and suspicions looming in your mind. You need to know more. With a sharp breath, your fingers land on the keyboard and type out “Remmick O’Brien” into the bar and hit search. Within seconds only 2 results are presented back, both of which are from your university’s website. One from an article welcoming him to the department, another from the department’s staff listing page. Your brows furrow and brain short-circuits for a brief moment of bewilderment. Everyone has some kind of digital footprint bigger than this. Shouldn’t there at least be some kind of result from whatever college he attended?

Remmick’s head falls back as the fabric slides down his thick, throbbing shaft, his hand guiding the slow, stroking movement. He imagines it’s your tight, wet cunt wrapped around his girth instead, squeezing and pulsing around him. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, tongue darting out to wet dry lips, low groans slipping out as he squeezes the flimsy fabric around the base of his cock. 

You think, searching for any memories where Remmick might’ve shared where he got his degree, surely he mentioned it during your first class. Boston, that’s it. “Remmick O’Brien Boston”. Search. 0 results. You huff, crossing your arms and leaning against the back of the chair. There’s just no way. No social media, you can understand. But not even a Dean’s List or Commencement article? Shit, did your university even verify his degree? Surely, they’d have had to… right? Teeth dig into your bottom lip, chewing on the cushioned flesh as your thoughts race with confusion. 

Remmick’s hand moves faster, jerking himself off with your panties and the lingering taste of your blood dancing on his tongue. The swollen tip continuously leaks and soaks into the fabric as his mind is filled with images of you in every goddamn position imaginable, remembering the way you called for him in your sleep, the way your cunt tasted, the sight of your doe eyes, the way your cheeks burn with a heady mix of frustration and desire for him. It’s just enough to get him there, to hold him over until tomorrow night, when this little game you’ve been playing finally comes to a head. When he can finally have you all alone and make you his.

You’re left with no answers to your questions, your lack of findings only fueling the conflicting emotions swirling inside you, adding to the nervousness residing in your gut ahead of tomorrow’s ‘make-up exam’ all alone with him. Sure that you can’t possibly get anywhere farther tonight along with the exhaustion weighing heavily in your body, you slam the laptop shut before standing from the desk, cutting out the lights and crawling into bed. It’s another in a string of recent nights where your professor has overtaken your thoughts and dreams, and as much as part of him is unsettlingly mysterious and frustrates you to no end… you don’t object to his residence there in your mind and fantasies, with an undeniable craving for more growing hungrier every day.

A choked groan of your name, a stutter of his hips, and a hard squeeze of his cock sends Remmick barrelling over the edge, his seed seeping into your panties. A dazed, sloppy smile adorns his lips at the sight before using the fabric to clean himself up as the high slowly wanes. Only one more day and he’ll have you fully within his grasp.

There’s an anxious gnawing in your stomach, a quickening of breaths with every step toward the old stone building that houses the Folklore class. It’s quiet. Not a soul in sight wandering the buildings this time of night on a Friday. You can hear the distant buzzing of cars, people in town just down the street starting their festivities for the night. Festivities you’d otherwise be partaking in, likely at your boyfriend’s frat house. Another sweaty party filled with drunk college kids, loud music, and meaningless conversations. Your boyfriend surprisingly didn’t seem too upset about your absence for the first part of the night, and you yourself aren’t too upset about it either.

The creaking of the building’s glass entrance doors echo down the empty hall, followed by your singular footsteps. You chew on your bottom lip as your feet bring you closer to the classroom door, taking a deep breath before entering. He’s the first thing you see, sitting at the desk fashioned at the front of the classroom grading papers. At the sound of your steps, his gaze rises from the collection of papers, meeting your eyes over the brim of dark framed glasses with the flicker of a smile and a murmur of your name.

“I do hope you’re feeling better tonight.” Remmick leans back into the leather chair, gaze slipping to taking in your form.

You step closer toward the edge of the desk, skin tingling under his probing gaze.

“I am, thanks.” A beat of silence. “So um, am I just finishing yesterday’s exam?”

“Oh, no. Of course not.” He chuckles as if you cracked a joke. “I made a new exam entirely for you. Can’t trust that one of your classmates didn’t give you the answers.”

There’s that cocky grin again, a playful gleam in his eyes. You stifle the scoff bubbling up your throat, eyes closing with a deep inhale at the insinuation you’d cheat. “Okay…”

Another stretch of silence hangs heavy in the air as you survey on another.

“You know,” He speaks up just before you can try to break the tension. “I suppose I’m glad things worked out this way. I’ve been meanin’ to have a talk with you.”

“Okay. A talk about what?” You ask, despite already knowing it must be about your ‘performance’. Preparing for the onslaught, you stand before him confidently, arms crossing as your hip leans against the edge of his desk..

“About your grades. Should come as no surprise to you that you- well… you’re not doin’ well.” His fingers interlock, hovering above his chest as if contemplating. “Lackluster papers, missin’ assignments, often distracted in class… Quite frankly, I don’t think you’re puttin’ in the effort.”

You sigh, briefly looking away to collect your thoughts. Confrontation has never been one of your strong suits, let alone being put on the spot like this.

“Look, I know I’ve missed some assignments or turned them in late but it’s just… I’m busy-” You regret the words as soon as they come out and in turn, word vomit the rest. “I’m taking a lot of classes. I work. I have club meetings. Sometimes I just forget or I’m too tired to-”

“Well,” A scoff cuts you off, shaking his head with a smirk at your excuse. Your body grows fidgety with a wave of frustration at his interruption and dismissive gesture. “Your classmates have the same responsibilities and still manage this class just fine.”

His eyes bore into yours as he stands, sliding one hand into the pocket of his slacks as the other plants onto the desk, propping up his leaning body. “In fact, I’ve spoken to a few of the other professors and they all speak very highly of you. You seem to excel in their courses. A star student.” His words are almost mocking as he takes another step closer.

“So tell me… why is that?” His gaze is scrutinizing all the while that soft smile plays on his lips. He’s enjoying this.

You falter for a moment, mind racing as you contemplate what to say.

“I just… sometimes I don’t have time to do everything and I have to decide what’s more important to work on…”

“Oh. So what you’re saying is this class isn’t a priority for you, is that it?” 

“No, that’s not-”

“That just because this class isn’t in your major, it’s not just as important and worthy of the same attention?” 

It feels like the walls are closing in around you, like he is closing in around you. Judging and critiquing, pushing your buttons to get a rise. 

“No.” The word comes out weakly as your mouth goes dry, a lump forming in your throat as your heartbeat quickens.

“What is it then, hm? Does all the intelligence in that pretty lil head of yours just dissipate the moment you cross that threshold?” He motions dramatically with the words, tilting his head to survey you, waiting expectantly for whatever grand explanation you’ll give.

Your eyes widen with a scoff, mouth falling open in shock before resentment replaces it with the furrow of your brows.

“You’ve got some nerve…” You bite back with a little surge of confidence, even as his face softens in amusement. In that moment, your mind flutters back to your findings, or lack thereof, on his background and credentials online. 

“It’s funny how hard you’re hounding me right now, considering it’s unclear if you’re even a real professor. Yeah, I looked you up and there was nothing to be found. Nothing from the college you attended, no Dean’s List or Commencement mentions, no social media. In fact, if you hadn’t started working here, there’d be no evidence you even existed!” The volume and confidence in your voice rises with anger at the disrespect that tainted his words, reflecting his own scrutinization back onto him as you place your hands on your hips.

You watch his expression, looking for any signs of panic or his smirk faltering. But it doesn’t. The lines around his eyes crinkle as a rumbling snicker slips past his lips that pull into a wide grin. He nods, almost out of respect at your little outburst before leaning in closer.

“Ya know, if you put this much effort into your classwork, you wouldn’t be failin’ miserably… maybe think about that.” He mutters lowly, eyes trailing over your faltering expression before he steps back and turns away, leaving you to stand there dumbfounded.

You’ve always known yourself to be a little sensitive at times and you can’t deny the way his words sting.

“You don’t have to be so mean about it!” Your voice has lost its edge despite you, faltering along with your resolve.

“Aw, sensitive lil thing aren’t ya?” A low hum as he looks toward you again, tone lacking any actual sympathy or concern. “In more ways than one I bet…” His voice lowers, gaze faltering to trail down the curves of your body.

“What?” The question comes out in a shocked whisper, brows furrowing as you question if you actually heard him right.

“Maybe it’s somethin’ else that’s affectin’ your performance in class… maybe it’s this boyfriend of yours.” His eyes fall to the inaccurately placed Claddagh ring on your finger. “Or maybe it’s just me…”

You roll your eyes at the first suggestion before they narrow with the second. Of course it’s him. 

“Uh, yeah. I’d say it’s you.” You retort matter of factly. “You’re the one being an ass and critiquing every little thing I do-”

“No, no…” Remmick shakes his head softly, his voice a breathy rasp. “I’ve seen the looks you give me, even when you think I’m not lookin’. Not to mention those long bathroom breaks you take. Ya think I don’t know what you’re doin’ in there?”

Your eyes widen in surprise, had you really been so foolish to think he wouldn’t notice? You didn’t think you were that obvious, but you’re definitely not about to admit it to him.

“You’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You hope your words are more convincing than you feel. 

He grins at you, seemingly unconvinced by your proclamation. Despite your words, you feel your body ignite with his close proximity and unwavering gaze from your eyes and body, prompting the return of that familiar pulsing between your thighs that he always seems to awaken.

“Well, let’s just see about that then, hm? If that’s the case, you should be able to pass this oral exam no problem.” 

Oral exam? 

The words send a spike of anxiety through you. Written exams are enough of a pain in the ass, but being expected to verbally recall the answers on the spot with no time to contemplate? You grimace, watching as he steps back to return to the leather chair like he’s settling in for a show.

“Please,” Remmick gestures. “Both palms on my desk.”

“W-What?” Your body stills, staring at him like a deer in headlights.

“Both. Palms.” The deep timbre of his words sends an electric charge through your immediately flushing body.

With a gulp and lick of your dry lips, you obey. Stepping closer, you turn to face the desk, your back facing toward him merely a foot behind you and lay your palms flat against the cool, polished wood surface.

You mentally chastise and thank yourself for wearing a skirt tonight, the slight lean forward of your body causing the fabric to hike up just a fraction, enough to feel the air hit the tender flesh of your upper thighs. You can only imagine the view from his seated position behind you, heat spreading up your neck and across your face at the thought.

“Let’s start with something easy, hmm?” Remmick’s eyes glide up your bare legs to where the hem of your skirt rests dangerously close to the curve of your ass. 

“Name 5 of the ancient Celtic gods.”

A brief moment of silence passes as your brain catches up to your ears, recalling the names repeatedly mentioned throughout class.

“Rhiannon, Morrigan, Lugh… Dagda… Bridgid.”

No praise or criticism, he simply moves on.

“And the four cycles?”

“Mythological, Ulst-” You stutter, feeling the sudden touch of calloused fingers gently caressing the back of your knee, a ticklish sensation that shoots up your thigh and throughout your body.

“Ulster… Fenian… Cycle of Kings.” Your voice and breaths waver as his touch, feathery light and painfully slow, glides up the back of your thigh, leaving a trail of rising goosebumps behind.

“Good.”

“Profes-”

“When is St. Brigid’s Day?” A swift cut off, moving onto the next question.

“The first day of spring?”

“Which is?” The dancing of his fingers along your thigh ceases, waiting as you hesitate and struggle to recall the answer. You’re almost ashamed of the way your body reacts to his halted touch, spurring a flicker of panic and racing heartbeat. 

“Um, February… 1st?” It’s a guess you’re only half-confident in, but a lucky one nonetheless as his touch resumes, hand moving under your skirt to caress the bare skin of your ass.

A shaky exhale escapes your parted lips, eyes fluttering closed as the stroke of his fingers turns the kindling fire flickering in your core into a wild blaze. Your body automatically reacts by bending forward slightly to lean into the touch, the meat of your ass pressing fully against his palm. You hear his hum of approval, the palpable hunger in his low, breathy voice.

“The mother goddess of Tuatha Dé Danann?” Remmick pushes the fabric up, fully revealing the round globes. No panties… He groans at the sight of wetness already slicking your puffy folds and the sound goes right to your core, a shiver running up your spine as the air hits your bare cunt. You can’t think straight, mind focused solely on your professor’s groping and caressing hand, your most private regions exposed to his ravenous gaze.

Remmick himself is distracted until a moment passes and he realizes you haven’t answered the question. “Oh, don’t disappoint me now, darlin’. You’re doin’ so good.”

The soft creak of leather hits your ears, his presence shifting behind you until the fabric of his clothes brushes along your skin, mouth hovering by your ear.

“Fuck,” You mutter under a breath, palms growing sweaty against the polished wood. Think. “Morrigan?”

The tsk hits your ears as a disappointed chide, all movement stalling before his gravelly voice whispers, “Lay your chest against the desk.” Breath fanning over your ear, a sick and anxious thrill shoots through you with the command.

You obey and bend over fully, upper body flush against his desk. The coolness of the polished wood is a welcomed shock, a stark contrast to your blazing, flushed skin. He makes you wait, only just for a moment to make you antsy and anxious, fidgeting with anticipation for what you know will inevitably come. 

Knowing doesn’t prepare you.

Remmick’s hand collides with your bare ass, a smacking sound that echoes off the walls of the empty classroom, pulling a broken gasp from your parted lips pressed against the desk. 

“One more chance. Try again.”

He’s trying to utterly wreck and humiliate you. You try your best to think of the correct answer, at this point you’ve nearly forgotten the damn question.

“Fuck. Eriu? I don’t know!” He grins at how pathetically desperate you sound, returning the incorrect answer with another resounding smack against the tender, already reddening skin of your rear. 

Your body jerks against the desk with a whimper and then a yelp when he spanks you again, unexpectedly and hard. He’s not sure he wants to stop, seeing the way his handprint is beginning to mark the flesh, watching the way it jiggles with each smack. “That one was for being a mouthy little brat.”

Another smack. 

The pain bleeds into pleasure, reverberating throughout your body and spreading right to your soaking cunt. You don’t think you’ve ever been so wet in your entire life. Remmick seems to take notice too as his calloused hand soothes the red, beaten flesh.

“I think I’ve found the root of your problem, sweetheart.” He hums before his hand trails down and two digits slowly part your puffy, slick lips. The two of you moan softly in tandem, body trembling with the touch as your pussy throbs with want, with need.

“Too busy thinkin’ with this,” A flinch and a gasp as his hand spanks your cunt. “instead of your brain. Isn’t that right?”

You can barely nod, too focused on the way his fingers soothe your pussy just as they’d done with your ass.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, Professor.” You answer obediently, voice thick with barely restrained desperation that mirrors your restless body, unable to resist the impulse to rock your folds back against his hand.

“Poor thing. ‘Course you can’t pay attention when all the blood in your body is between your legs.” The outline of his hard cock nudges along your thigh, breath hot against your ear. “I could give you what you need, darlin’. If you want me to fuck you, all you have to do is ask…”

His touch stalls, waiting for you to obey, to beg him for what you both know you want. But even in the haze of arousal, a moment of clarity passes through as you remember your supposed commitment, the loyalty you’ve already broken.

“I shouldn’t… I- I have a boyfriend.” Your protest is shamefully weak and your cunt, well she has a mind of her own, pulsing pathetically in protest from the lack of your professor’s touch. Remmick knows it too, can hear it in your voice, can see it in your eyes.

“Ah, yes. James…” A breathy laugh and devious smirk. “Quite a flirt from what I hear.”

Your eyes widen, visibly taken aback. “Excuse me?” You question despite knowing you have no ground to stand on to be hurt or upset, given you yourself have already crossed the line.

And Remmick, well, he’s more than heard that James is a flirt. He happens to know that in this very moment under the guidance of that powerful little hivemind, James is currently tangled up with his spawn and your classmate, Sarah. It hadn’t taken much convincing at all. 

He won’t tell you that part, though. You don’t need to know. You’ve already let Remmick in, let him touch you in your most intimate area and now, all you need is a little push.

“You heard me, darlin’. Your little ‘relationship’ clearly isn’t serious to him… and judgin’ by the way you’re soakin’ my fingers right now, I’d say it’s not serious for you either.”

A muffled gasp slips past your lips with a flick of his calloused fingers stroking your throbbing, needy clit.

“This pretty lil pussy is all wound up. She needs a man to take care of her… all you gotta do is beg me for it.” He practically growls, hunger lacing the filthy words as his lips brush against your ear.

The little voice reminding you of your commitment to James grows quieter until fizzling out all together, leaving just the raw arousal for your professor behind. Your body is trembling and aching for it, to give into your forbidden carnal desires.

“Yes,” The words slip eagerly from your tongue with a languid nod. “Please.”

The pad of his thumb continues its ministrations against your clit as his other hand grabs your jaw, not enough to hurt but enough to exert his power. His fingers flex against your soft skin, grip forcing your lips into a pout that you’re sure looks as pathetic as it feels, even as a newly discovered part of yourself loves it.

“Please what? You’re gonna need to get more specific, darlin’.” Remmick taunts, lips moving to the blazing skin of your cheek.

“I want you to fuck me. Please, Sir.”

Remmick’s cock aches behind the confines of his slacks at the pure, unbridled need in your voice. He could push you further, make you beg and edge you until tears stain those pretty blushing cheeks. Hell, maybe he will later.  But for now, even he can’t hold back anymore.

Remmick uses his grip to turn your head to face him, the rest of your body quickly following suit as his lips crash against yours in a demanding kiss. It’s wet, sloppy, and full of ravenous hunger as you readily return it, lips moving in a frenzied, passionate dance. There isn’t an inch of space between your bodies pressing flush together, his hands greedily roaming your backside as your own grip onto his biceps to ground yourself amidst the dizzying sensations of his touch.

As soon as your lips part, his tongue delves in to explore and claim the depths of your mouth. He swallows your wanton moan at the feeling of his tongue against yours, licking and tangling together as one of your hands trails up his arm to thread your fingers into his short, curled strands of hair. Rumbling groans rise from his throat with the mixing of your spit and you’re too lost in a daze of arousal to question the thick, viscous consistency of his. You readily lap it up as the throbbing between your legs intensifies with every brush of his tongue against yours, every breath that presses your chests closer together.

With a shuddering gasp, Remmick pulls his lips from yours, a thick string of saliva still connecting your lips. He sees the same glazed over look in his eyes reflected in yours. With his hand cupping the side of your jaw, the calloused pad of his thumb slowly rubs along your now swollen bottom lip, breaking the chain of spit and collecting the rest off the plump skin. 

A grin appears as he pushes his slick thumb into your mouth, eyes locked in an intense gaze as you softly suck the remnants of the kiss from his finger. 

“Good girl” The raspy praise washes over you in a wave of sweet relief, settling into your knees that wobble under the weight of it. His praise is a refreshing drop of water down your parched throat, a substantial load off your shoulders that leaves you stumbling after weeks of persistent criticism.

A soft smacking sound leaves your lips with a slow pull of his thumb, dragging down to your chin before his palm leaves your face entirely. His body follows, eyes locked onto one another as he steps back, watching in amusement when your brows furrow in confusion from the loss of touch.

Your eyes follow as he casually sits back into the leather cushioned desk chair before you, thick fingers working the button and zipper of his slacks with practiced ease. “You wanna pass this class? Want me to fuck you? I can give you everything you want, baby, but you gotta earn it first. On your knees.”

All it takes is a slight push down of the waistband for Remmick’s aching cock to spring free and stand at attention in all its engorged glory, the swollen head red and leaking. Your eyes take in every detail, following the pulsing veins that run the length of his thick girth, mouth watering at the sight alone. It feels like you’re in a trance as your body slowly lowers until your knees land on the cold tiled floor, lips parted with every heavy breath flowing freely. On hands and knees you crawl toward him and his waiting cock, his own eyes flickering between your hungry expression and the sway of that sinful ass with each shift of your hips.

The movement halts once your shoulders become caged between his knees. A tentative glance up to those eyes staring back, shadowed by the overhead light behind him. There’s a light twinkling within them. It flickers, the white glimmer shifting to crimson before it disappears just as quickly. It should scare you, should send a shiver of fear down your arched spine… but it doesn’t. The heat radiating throughout your body, the hunger residing in your core only grows. The moment only adds to the looming mystery around your professor, but also, his intoxicating allure and pull.

Your gaze settles back onto Remmick’s leaking cock before you, watching as it twitches in anticipation before you can no longer deprive the both of you. With your tongue sticking out flat, it slowly drags along from the base to the tip, gathering a taste before curling to flick at the cleft marking the underside of his swollen head. A swirl to collect the drops of dripping pre-cum onto your tastebuds sends a shudder through his heaving chest, eyes falling half-lidded as he watches your pursed lips pepper kisses between kitten licks along his throbbing shaft.

“That’s it.” He breathes out, fingers anchoring into the hair on the back of your head when your lips finally wrap around him. The warm, wet cavern of your mouth feels better than he could’ve imagined, hot saliva engulfing his length with the teasing wiggle of your tongue that makes his breath hitch. 

The grip on your hair tightens with each inch that disappears past the plump curve of your lips, testing just how much of him you can take before a gag, pop, and a gasp bursts from your lips with the incessant nudging of his head deep down your throat. He smirks, tongue darting out to wet his lips when you do. But if anything, you’re determined and already craving more of the salty, heady taste of him.

A deep satisfaction settles into his bones, mixing with the sparks of toe-curling pleasure your mouth ignites throughout him. “Look at that,” A breathy chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Turns out you are good at somethin’ besides runnin’ your mouth.” He comments as his fingers work to undo the buttons of his shirt, voice beginning to strain when your tongue swirls around the tip with each bob of your head.

His words only spur you on more, prompting your fingers to reach for the waistband of his slacks and impatiently push them all the way down and off until there’s no barrier, no resistance to keep you from fully sliding yourself between his legs. Your arms straddle his strong, thick thighs, hand joining your mouth to move in sync stroking up and down the thick girth, eliciting a deep groan of approval.

Despite his fingers remaining tangled in your hair, he doesn’t try to guide or force your movements. He can tell by your closed eyes, the moans that vibrate through his length, the deeper you take him, the faster your mouth moves, the harder you suck, that you’re enjoying this as much as he is. So he lets you, reveling in the most pleasure he’s had in a long time, so long that the past pales in comparison to this, to you.

Then, you open your gorgeous eyes to lock onto his just as your free hand falls to cradle and rub his heavy, aching balls. All the strength in his body can’t stop the drawn-out moan that leaves his mouth or keep his eyes from rolling back. “Fuck… so good, darlin’.” The shaky guttural praise only heightens your resolve and hunger to a degree you’ve never felt before. You’ve been horny and aroused, but this, this is a different level entirely. 

Your lips pull from his cock with a wet pop while your hand continues to pump him, body lowering and back arching as your mouth moves down to his heavy sack. Your hot, heavy breath surrounds his balls before your mouth does, licking and swirling before gently sucking them into your mouth. Remmick practically growls at the intense stimulation and your eyes watch as his head falls back against the cushioned headrest. His jaw tenses, chest shaking with every exhale, veins protruding along the thick column of his throat.

You lather his sensitive sacks with attention amid the dripping arousal between your legs. You crave more, you need more. More of him, every inch you can get, every depraved sound and moan you can pull from those plush lips. You’re lost in the throes of hunger, with the desire to please him, to taste every inch of his alluring body you can. 

With a mind of its own, your tongue slips lower in hopes of exploring more of him and his pleasure, moaning as it lavishes the stretch of skin below his balls. An experimental zigzag of your tongue against it elicits a shaky moan, Remmick’s eyes opening to watch you sink lower and lower. Your own eyes lock onto his as your tongue flicks out, giving a testing lick against his puckered hole. It’s uncharted territory for you, but you can’t resist the intoxicating urge to keep going, especially with the way his breath hitches.

“Fuck, I knew you were a filthy girl.” He groans as the feeling of your mouth becomes dizzying, his cock rock hard in your still stroking hand. His grip on your hair tightens as he spreads his legs wider, shifting lower on the seat to grant easier access as your tongue presses firmer with another lick and swirl against his asshole. 

“Oh god,” Remmick’s head begins to fall back before he catches himself, forcing his eyes to focus on the dirty, sinful sight of you. On all fours, back arched with that perfect ass in the air, glazed eyes fluttering up at him with your mouth buried beneath his balls. “You eat your boyfriend’s ass like this?” His breathy, strained voice reflects his quickly crumbling composure, only furthered by the way he can practically feel your smile in response.

“Uh uh,” You gasp, only pulling from his core enough for him to hear you. “Just you, Sir.” He groans as you waste no time diving back in, your tongue incessantly licking and prodding at the sensitive hole with a one-track minded hunger that reflects his own.

Fuck, you’re going to be his unravelling. Body, flesh, soul… his entire being.  

The pleasure coursing through him builds at a rapid pace, balls drawing up tight with the coil in his lower stomach with each lewd lick and moan muffled against him.

Using the leverage of his fingers in your hair, he pulls your mouth from him with a guttural curse, almost busting right there on the spot upon seeing your expression. You gaze up at him like a newborn dazed and drunk off their first taste of blood. His cock aches and twitches at the sight before his lips collide against yours with a swift speed.

Strong arms lift your body with his as he stands from the chair, tongue invading your mouth to taste himself from you. A few stumbling steps and the cool surface of the desk presses against your backside. “Bend that ass over the desk again, now.” Long gone is the cool, snarky and collected persona from earlier, stripped away to leave only the primal, feral lust behind.

There’s no time wasted on stripping off the remainder of your clothes, the impatient need to be connected on the most carnal level taking precedence. With your body resuming its previous position bent over his desk, Remmick settles behind you and flips up the flimsy fabric of your skirt. His cock slots between your puffy lips, thrusting slightly to coat the length with your slick. 

“Tell me you want it,” He pleads, rasping your name against your ear with his last bit of restraint, your sweet, depraved begging the last thing he needs to hear before he fully lets go. You swear you’ve never heard your name sound so beautiful and with such desperation before.

“Yes. God, yes! Please, Professor. I need you.” Your bottom lip trembles as you beg, your entire body thrumming with need, hips rocking back in an attempt to chase the promise of what you both know only he can give you. Ecstasy beyond your comprehension, beyond what you’ve ever experienced. 

The swollen head of Remmick’s cock breaches your cunt with a shuddering exhale before slowly sinking deeper. He leans back to watch his length disappear inside you, the tight, wet warmth of your pussy surrounding him inch by inch until he’s fully hilted inside. Your gasping whimpers are like music to his ears, tight walls fluttering as they attempt to accommodate his thick girth. So thick it makes your eyes roll back, stretching you farther than anyone before ever has, filling your walls with an intoxicating ache that borders on painful.

“So fucking tight.” He grits out through clenched teeth, fingers digging into the fat cushioning your hips. His eyes follow the slow unsheathing of his cock from your cunt before a roll of his hips sends him plunging back into you with a deep, hard thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.

Remmick doesn’t give you time to catch it, setting a rough and fast pace as one hand slides up the curve of your spine to land at the nape of your neck, curling his fingers around the tender skin with a tight grip.

“Oh, fuck!” A high-pitched whine bursts from your lips, body jerking against the desk with every sharp thrust that sends your fingers searching for purchase along the cool, smooth wood. His body brackets you against the solid furniture, forcing you to take the full brunt of his relentless pounding.

The desk begins to shake, sending pens, papers, and books clattering to the floor. The sound joins the echoing symphony of your combined, debauched moans and the slapping of skin against skin.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Remmick’s hand moves from your neck to collect your hair, gripping and tugging it back. “For me to fuck you and put you in your place, hm?” His voice takes on a unrestrained, feral quality that matches the way he’s fucking you, juxtaposing your choked, wanton cries.

“Yes, Sir!” The way your words jumble with each thrust only makes his cock twitch and pulse inside you, you’re already so fucking wrecked and drunk off him.

“Yeah? You wanna be my good little pet?”

“Oh god, yes!”

“Yes what?” A harsh tug on your hair and a sharp smack against the bouncing meat of your ass. “Yes, Professor!” Actual tears begin to brim your eyes with the overwhelming sensations, your pussy throbbing from the unrelenting abuse of his cock while aching for more.

A near animalistic growl rises from his throat, sweat beading and slipping down his forehead. His eyes are locked onto the way your ass recoils with each stroke, the sight of his length repeatedly disappearing inside you, the feeling of your tight cunt squeezing him like it never wants to let go.

A shift in angle sends your hands grasping at the edge of the desk with a high-pitched gasp, stars beginning to bloom behind your eyes. Remmick’s length rubs against that spongy spot inside you that James could never find, sending radiating waves of intense, hot pleasure through you. It rapidly builds, walls fluttering with a deep throb.

“Fuck, harder!” You beg, craving more of that intoxicating feeling that already has your body trembling.

“Louder!” He demands, not caring if anyone left on this side of campus at this time of night hears the utterly depraved sounds he’s pulling from you.

“Please! Harder, Sir!” You use all your breath to raise your voice into a desperate cry, one that seems to satisfy as his cock hits that sweet spot even harder. It’s nearly too much to handle as your nails dig into the wood, feeling yourself begin to slip. “I-I think I’m gonna-”

“Let it out. Give it to me. Now.” 

Your body immediately reacts by obeying his command, releasing a flood of pure, blinding ecstasy with a scream of carnal rapture. Remmick’s guttural groan joins you at the feeling of your juices flooding his shaft, walls spasming around him with a vice grip. He fully hilts himself inside you as his own release crashes over him, cock twitching as it fills up your cunt with his seed, possessive satisfaction mixing with pleasure.

The sounds of your heavy breaths fill the room, chests heaving and cores pulsing together, still joined. Remmick slowly pulls his now drenched cock from your pussy, smirking at the way it clenches around nothing from the loss. Despite the intense orgasm and his seed stuffed deep in your cunt, he’s not done with you yet as desire still simmers between your bodies.

He tears off the already unbuttoned shirt hanging off his arms, one hand rubbing along the arched curve of your back as the other grips the base of his cock. His tip slides up and down your soaking slit, collecting your combined juices before teasingly rubbing the swollen head against your puckered, unused hole.

“Ya ever let your boyfriend fuck you here?” The raspy question meets your still ringing ears with the feeling of his tip teasing your asshole.

“No, Sir…” Teeth dig into your bottom lip and even as your body tenses with the unfamiliar territory, a thrill shivers down your spine with the prospect.

A grin pulls at his lips, muffling a short, rumbling chuckle before he lets the thick saliva pooling in his mouth drip out onto his cock and your unused hole.

“Good…” His voice hits your ears like honey laced whiskey, twinged with an undeniable dark, defiling possessiveness. 

He braces a hand on the desk next to your waist as the other guides his cock, steadily pushing forward until the head breaches your opening. A grunt and heavy breath escapes him at the feeling, your ass is even tighter than your pussy, the walls resisting his exploration. 

“Just relax, baby. Let me in.” The cooing of his voice combined with the soothing touch along your spine sends sparks fluttering throughout your body. You try to focus on steadying your breaths, relaxing your muscles to ease his way inside.

With each inch he sinks deeper, his body lowers until he’s fully hilted inside your pulsing walls and his chest is flush against your back. The uncomfortability slowly fades as he holds himself there, waiting for your breaths to even out until all that remains is a foreign ache and you fully relax around him.

“There you go.” Remmick praises as he withdraws and thrusts back in at a leisurely pace with less resistance, hearing the soft gasps that begin to leave your lips. “You’re takin’ me so well, baby.”

The praise goes right to your head, already spinning and hazy from the stark shift in his disposition, from rough and feral to the now slow and tender that makes your stomach flutter. This, it’s just as charged with hunger and desire, but far more intimate. 

His hips set a steady rocking rhythm, thick cock stretching your virgin ass with long and deep strokes. You feel every heavy breath tickle the sensitive skin along your neck and ear, making your walls squeeze around him, rewarding you with another wrecked moan from his lips.

Soon, the shift in your moans and body is palpable, eyes fluttering as waves of pleasure flow through you with each plunge of his dick inside you. “Yeah… you like that, darlin’?” A breathy whisper fans across your cheek with a tilt of Remmick’s face, pressing his forehead to rest against the side of yours.

“Yes. You feel so good, Sir.” You answer with a needy whimper, turning your face slightly to lean into him. A shuddering sigh passes through him in response and despite already being inside your tight ass and feeling the parts of your body flush with his, he still needs more, needs to be even closer, needs you to feel absolutely surrounded by him.

“Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He murmurs, lips brushing against the flushed skin of your cheek as one hand searches for more, reaching around to grasp at the low neckline of your shirt. A slight tug is all it takes for the soft mounds of your bare breasts to fall free, his hand immediately moving to grab and massage the tender flesh.

“Yes, Professor.” You practically purr for him, the added stimulation of his fingers tweaking your sensitive nipples making your eyes roll back.

“Say it, baby. Tell me who you are.” Remmick pushes further, shifting his other hand to cover yours that’s holding onto the edge of the desk. He flinches as the silver of your Claddaghs ring burns, but he doesn’t pull away, instead slotting his fingers into the spaces between yours.

“Oh, god. I’m your good girl, Sir.” You answer with a broken, breathy moan, eyes opening to meet his half-lidded ones.

They gaze back at you with affection and desire, his lips parted for every breath and groan to slip freely. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.” The blissed out expression on your face, the glazed look in your eyes, put there by him. 

There’s no time to respond before his lips capture yours in a deep, passionate kiss. The speed of his thrusts picks up slightly, spurred on by your moans that muffle against his lips. You part them, tongue freely and languidly sliding in to tangle with his. That familiar blinding heat begins to bloom in your core once again, heightened and building with each added layer of stimulation.

The full, pleasureful ache of his cock in your ass. The feeling of his body and skin flush against yours. His hand fondling your breast, teasing your hard, sensitive nipples. The other covering yours, fingers laced together. Mouths swallowing each other's moans as your tongues engage in a dance as old as time.

The forbidden filth and yet intimacy of it all.

Remmick can tell you’re getting closer, can feel it in his own tightening coil. Your breaths quicken, tight walls squeeze rhythmically around him, your sweet, muffled sounds growing higher-pitched.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, waves of pleasure crashing over your trembling body. Remmick holds you through it as he cums with you, the tight grip of your ass around his thick girth spurring on new heights of ecstasy. Your moans and heavy breaths mingle, chests heaving in sync as he pumps you full, laying claim to both of your holes with his seed. 

You remain there together joined over the desk, basking in the afterglow of your orgasms until it eventually wades. Remmick presses a soft kiss to your lips before easing his length out of your sensitive, still pulsing hole. You remain there on the desk, catching your breath and waiting for the haze of ecstasy to clear from your mind amidst the sound of shuffling clothes, the buckling of Remmick’s belt. 

When you lift your chest from the desk to stand straight and turn around, Remmick’s stepping back toward you. His slacks are back on, shirt pulled back over his arms but still unbuttoned. His hands quickly return to your body, moving to adjust and fix the neckline of your shirt as you look at him with those doe-eyes.

“Now, given our… discussion, I’m willin’ to look past those missing assignments.” A wide, bashful smile pulls at your lips, matching his own grin as his hands drag down your sides.

“And my exam? Do I get an A?”

“Greedy now, are we?” He chuckles at the tilt of your head, the innocent batting of your eyelashes. “I’ll give you an A… but you’re still gonna run home and do your reading for the next class like a good girl, aren’t you?” His voice grows deeper, hands sliding to smooth the now wrinkled fabric of your skirt back down over the curve of your ass.

“Yes, Sir.” You answer with a dazed smile, heart still pounding against your ribcage.

Remmick’s gaze shifts down as his hand moves to take yours in his palm. His expression falters for a moment upon seeing the Claddagh ring gifted to you by James before a smug grin returns.

“Ya know, the way you’re wearin’ this ring… it means you’re single.” Your eyes shift down to watch as he reaches for it, already prepared for the burning sting once he grasps and slowly pulls the silver band off the column of your finger. He turns it so that the heart is facing inward and slides it back onto your right ring finger. “That means you’re in a relationship.”

You blink in confusion, unaware there was a significant meaning in the ring’s placement, James had surely never told you so either. The feeling of your professor’s fingers along your jawline snaps you from your thoughts as he gently lifts your face to meet his once more.

“And don’t be mistaken. It’s not with that boy, either… You’re mine now, ya understand?”