9. Dusty, Sacrosanct Air

CHAPTER NINE

Dusty, Sacrosanct Air

W inter falls beneath a startling and powerful spring, which brings pink flowers to the trees on campus. Coats and sweaters turn to T-shirts and dresses.

I'm busy with Professor Thorne's course. She's a strict taskmaster, but she's not the only thing I have to do. I have Mexican-American literature, Sociolinguistics, and a chemistry class to fulfill the single science requirement that I've been putting off.

I cannot care less about oxidation-reduction reactions, unfortunately.

I steel myself against his annoying charm. The last thing I need is a repeat of our last mentorship session. The memory of his touch, the way he commanded my body with such ease, sends a shiver down my spine. I can't—won't—let that happen again. I'm here to win the Tempest Prize.

Nothing more.

As I approach our secluded table, hidden by towering stacks of books, I see him already there, engrossed in a thick volume. His dark hair is tousled, as if he's been running his fingers through it in frustration or deep thought. He looks up as I approach, his deep brown eyes meeting mine with an intensity that momentarily takes my breath away.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Hill." His voice betrays no hint of the intimacy we've shared, and relief mingles with a strange sense of disappointment.

"I've been thinking that in order to show C-PTSD, it needs to appear from the very first scenes where Ophelia appears." I sit down across from him and place my notes-stuffed binder on the table. "Those are the trickiest because she speaks so little, and appears the most docile, but I think I have some leads."

He nods, his gaze scanning the pages I've handed him. His fingers trace the lines of my writing, and I can't help but watch them, remembering their touch. I force myself to focus, to push those thoughts aside.

This is about Shakespeare, about proving myself.

For several minutes, he reads in silence, his brow furrowed in concentration. I sit across from him, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, waiting for his verdict. Finally, he looks up, his expression serious.

"This is solid."

I try to hide my relief. "Thank you."

"Using the speeches from her father and brother as proof in the absence of her own explanations, the argument that she's been infantilized and insulted, not just in this scene, but all her life. It's compelling."

"They warn her against Hamlet but don't protect her."

"She's responsible for protecting her own virtue," he says, his eyes meeting mine, acknowledgement arcing between us. "Even though she isn't given the tools, she doesn't have the agency against his evil."

My cheeks heat, because I know he's talking about him and me. About what he did to me against the bookshelf. What he might do to me again. I wish my body didn't crave it. I wish I'd been strong enough not to come today.

Though right now he's all business.

He points out specific lines in the scene, suggesting areas for expansion and offering insightful critiques. His feedback is invaluable, challenging me to think more critically about the text and to strengthen my argument. I can't deny his expertise. Or the way he pushes me to be a better scholar.

We fall into a rhythm, discussing themes and character motivations, dissecting each scene with meticulous care. He listens to my ideas, countering with his own interpretations, and together, we explore the depths of Ophelia's mind. It's invigorating, and for a moment, I forget about the tension between us, about the Society and the danger it represents.

As the session comes to a close, Professor Stratford leans back in his chair, his eyes lingering on me. "You have potential, Anne," he says, his voice softer now. "Don't let anyone—including me—distract you from that."

I nod, meeting his gaze with determination. "I won't," I assure him, and for the first time, I actually believe it. "This is my chance to make something of myself, and I'm not going to let anything stand in my way."

Professor Stratford may be a distraction, but he's also a resource, and I plan to use every tool at my disposal to secure my future. Though I sound a bit like Ophelia, reassuring her brother and father that she won't fall victim to Hamlet's many tenders. I can't deny that I feel like her.

I do not know, my lord, what I should think .

"Don't be intimidated by the fact that Professor Thorne is mentoring someone else," he says. "She picks the strongest horse because she wants the prestige that's associated with her student winning. But she's blinded by her ambition. Andini's not the strongest horse. You have something original here. Something powerful."

His confidence in me is intoxicating. "Thank you."

The more time I spend with Professor Stratford, the more I find myself drawn to him. He challenges me, pushes me. Frustrates the hell out of me.

And though I'd never admit it, arouses me.

For sweet-scented moments, I could forget about the Society, his Society, that threatens the entire campus. Except they're real. And I can't let myself fall for him. I need to listen to Polonius when he says,

Set your entreatments at a higher rate

Than a command to parle.

"I have to go," I say, shoving my papers into a messy bundle.

"Go where?"

"Hanging out with some friends. Maybe Brandon will be there. "

It's a petty move, and I'm rewarded by a flicker of something dark in his eyes. His jaw tightens, and there's a possessive edge to his voice that wasn't there before. "You like him?"

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "He's a nice guy. Fun to be around."

Professor Stratford leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. "Brandon is young. He doesn't know what he wants yet."

There's a hint of vulnerability in his words, a subtle admission of his own desire that sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine. As if he's admitting that he wants me. I can't help but feel a secret thrill at his reaction, at the realization that I have the power to affect him just as deeply as he affects me.

The tension between us crackles like static in the air, a palpable force that seems to thicken with every word exchanged. I can see the effect my proximity to his son has on him, and it's intoxicating. It's a dangerous game I'm playing, but the power I hold in this moment is too exhilarating to relinquish. I know this will end badly, but I can't seem to resist.

I've always been a sucker for a good tragedy.

I stand up from my chair, the room suddenly too hot, too confined .

Professor Stratford stands too, his possessive gaze holds me captive. There's a storm brewing in his deep brown eyes, a tempest that threatens to sweep us both away. "I can't stand the thought of him touching you."

His words send a jolt of electricity straight to my core, igniting a fire that I've been trying desperately to extinguish. I'm playing with fire, and we both know it's only a matter of time before one of us gets burned.

His hand reaches out, fingers gently brushing against my cheek before tangling in my hair. The sensation sends shivers down my spine, and I can feel the warmth between my legs growing more insistent with each passing second.

"Get on your knees," he says.

The demand should outrage me. I should slap him across the face, storm out of the library, and never look back. But I don't. Instead, I find myself obeying, sinking to the floor as the weight of his desire presses down on me.

Hidden by the towering bookshelves, I'm surrounded by the works of Shakespeare—bards and poets, kings and fools—all silent witnesses to our illicit tryst. And as I kneel before him, I can't help but think of the countless scenes of passion and betrayal that have played out within these very walls.

With trembling hands, I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle as he watches me with a hunger that borders on desperation. His breath hitches as I free him from his trousers, my fingers wrapping around his hard length.

He's silken steel beneath my touch, hot and pulsing with life. I can feel the rapid beat of his heart through the veins that trace the underside of his cock, a tangible reminder of the power I wield in this moment.

"Lick me. Make me pay for wanting you. Make me beg, dear heart."

The words are like a spell, casting a net of desire that ensnares us both. I part my lips, taking him into my mouth, and the taste of him—salty and slightly bitter—fills my senses. It's a taste that's uniquely his, a flavor that I find myself craving even as my mind rebels against the inevitability of our union.

I move slowly at first, exploring the texture and contours of his manhood with my tongue. His sharp intake of breath is all the encouragement I need to increase my pace, to take him deeper, to revel in the power I hold as he trembles beneath my touch.

His fingers tighten in my hair, guiding me, urging me on as he chases the release that I know I can give him. And when he finally succumbs, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm, the sound of his pleasure—a low, guttural moan that echoes through the silent library—is the sweetest song.

As he slumps against the bookshelf, spent and sated, triumph runs through my veins, alongside the simmering arousal. I have part of him that no one else does, claiming my power in a world that always tries to control me.

Every victory comes at a cost.

For every moment of pleasure we share, we are drawn deeper into the dangerous dance of our mutual destruction. And though I may be on my knees now, it is not submission that holds me here—it is the undeniable truth that in this game of hearts and minds, I am just as complicit as he is.

Without a word, he guides me gently to a nearby pile of large, wide tomes, their leather-bound covers well-worn and aged. He gently settles me on top of them, kneeling before me, his hands tracing the curves of my body before settling on my hips. The stack of ancient tomes beneath me feels like a throne, his posture almost like a supplicant.

The smooth leather feels cool beneath my ass. Stratford bends down, his lips brushing against my inner thigh. The anticipation builds inside me, a fire that threatens to consume me whole.

His tongue meets my cunt, and I can't hold back any longer. My hands grip the edges of the ancient pages, the leather-bound books flexing beneath the force of my passion.

"Please." My voice echoes through the silent space, a testament to the eternal desire that courses through me.

"You taste too good. I don't want this to end."

It goes on and on. His tongue is relentless, licking and teasing, pushing me over the edge again and again. The pleasure is almost too much to bear, and yet I crave more, my body responding with an urgency that I've never felt before. I'm helpless to resist, lost in a sea of sensation that I never want to escape.

Stratford brings me to the brink of ecstasy, his touch both tender and demanding. My moans of pleasure fill the dusty, sacrosanct air.

I'm not just losing myself in this moment.

I'm finding myself, too.

These forbidden encounters with Stratford may be reckless, dangerous even, but it has also given me something that I've never had before: a sense of belonging, a connection that transcends the boundaries of lust and love.