13. Theron

13

THERON

HUSH - THE MARIAS

I wake the next morning wondering if it was all just a dream.

The bright autumn light floods the bedroom. Atticus dozes in his orthopedic dog bed, curled into a fluffy donut.

The rest of the neighborhood is no different. A hush has long since fallen over the tree-lined avenue of family homes and luxury sedans.

If I didn't know any better, I'd swear I'm the only man alive on the whole block.

I lay in bed, staring up at the high vaulted ceiling, and I listen to the thumping heartbeat in my chest.

The same question turns over and over again inside my head.

Was last night real? Did it really happen?

It almost feels like there's a schism taking form. Two versions of myself that are in direct conflict with each other. The sane, rational Theron Adler who is a criminal law professor at Castlebury University, who spends his evenings reading legal journals for fun, and who otherwise avoids the public at all costs .

And the feral, easily angered, slowly spiraling Adler who can't be reasoned with. He's the one who has been leaking into my real life. Some subconscious alter ego that's slipped into the driver's seat to do the most insane, risky things.

Did I really do it? Did I really beat Samson Wicker over the head with a rock?

The ceiling above me fades out for the wooded terrain that's on campus. I'd sprinted 'til my lungs ached and burned in search of her.

Nyssa was wandering off.

She had left the frat house and was headed deep into the dense pine trees.

At night.

Halloween night.

The desperation had consumed me. Toxic emotions had driven me.

Rage and jealousy coalesced into a blinding spell that washed over me as I scoured the campus. The ceiling becomes a movie screen for the memory to play on. My frantic form projects onto the blank canvas that's the ceiling, and I watch myself dash across the dark, grassy landscape. Leaves and gravel crunch beneath my feet as I come across what I've been searching for.

Nyssa splayed on the ground. Samson Wicker on top of her.

"SAMSON, STOP!" she cried out, squirming against him.

But he didn't stop. He laughed and held her down. One of his hands to both of her wrists, and he wedged a knee between her thighs. The perfect opportunity for him to use his free hand to cop a feel .

"One… hic… one fuck for the road," he slurred. "You know you owe me."

Adrenaline rushed me. Heat erupted over my skin.

The dark scene before me blurred.

Everything except for what was about to happen on the ground—Nyssa pinned under Samson Wicker as he went to unzip his pants.

I'm not a violent man. I'm a civilized man.

I use my words. Not my fists.

Yet the vastness of the world narrowed down to that singular moment.

And in that singular moment, I lost my grip on sanity. My fingers slid over the largest rock within reach and I brought it crashing down over his skull.

Instant satisfaction filled me. So I did it again. I struck him a second time and then a third.

Samson Wicker's skull cracked open and his body slumped half on top of Nyssa.

The tunneled vision faded for a sick, twisted reality.

Nyssa gaping up at me, eyes wide in shock. Samson collapsed in the grass, blood seeping from where I'd bashed his head in.

I clench shut my eyes to avoid the projection on the ceiling, yet the images still exist.

They're too fresh in my mind, playing out like in real time.

We fled.

We galloped in the night among the deep, sweeping shadows and distant party music.

It was as though we believed if we ran fast enough, we could escape the dark truth. We could pretend what just happened never did .

There was only one place on campus where we could go—my office.

Air eluded us as we gasped for breath and turned to face each other. In the dim light of my office, I felt grotesque, like some violent beast that had spiraled out of control.

Nyssa's eyes were still wide, blinking at me with thick lashes. Her full, wine-tinged lips formed the tiniest O shape.

She was as speechless as I was.

I expected her to scream. For her to hurl cruel words at me about what a monster I'd been.

These seemed to be thoughts flitting through her head too.

Things she considered before she settled on what to do—rushing toward me for a frantic kiss.

Her arms wound around my neck, and suddenly, I was inundated with every small detail about Nyssa Oliver.

Her intoxicating scent.

Some kind of musk that was as sweet and warm as vanilla but with a woodsy hint like fresh soil. Imagery of soft cashmere and strolls in the forest immediately came to mind.

The sound of her breathing.

Small, gentle intakes of air that made my own heart stammer.

And then there was the feel of her body pressed up against mine.

God, was it like fucking heaven .

Her nails sunk into my forearms as she rose en pointe and her supple breasts brushed against my harder, flatter chest.

I quickly curled an arm around her to hold her in place, keeping her firmly where she was.

Her soft lips tortured mine. Her mouth opened and her tongue slipped out. The little pink ribbon swiped at my bottom lip, tracing the outline.

She was teasing me, tasting me, imploring me to do the same to her.

Heat erupted from deep inside my chest. It blazed through me, traveling the length of my body until I felt like I was on fire. I was aroused, growing erect as I released a growl.

It vibrated from my throat, a hungry and impatient sound. My hand framed her face and I seized control. I kissed her harder.

I kissed her to devour her.

Our tongues twisted. Our bodies tugged and twined around each other.

We stood propped up against my desk, kissing furiously in the warm glow of my office light.

Nyssa pulsed with seduction. Her every move ensnared me. The rake of her nails against my skin. Her pouty mouth falling open for a moan. The way it became a game of cat and mouse, where she pulled away slightly, then made me chase her for another kiss.

Another lash of her tongue as I gripped her tightly and crushed my lips to hers.

It was only our first kiss and already I couldn't get enough.

She was everything off limits and forbidden.

Everything I wasn't supposed to have.

And it only made her taste sweeter.

We unraveled against my desk. Her head tipped back and my mouth found her throat. I peppered wet, hot kisses along the slender arc, inhaling her scent, hard as steel in my pants. She clutched at my arms and shoulders like she could barely contain herself.

My mouth slid down her throat until I was sucking on the space where her neck and shoulder met.

Soft, broken moans fell from her lips and became my favorite sound. Her whole body shuddered from pleasure. Her smaller hand grabbed mine—the one that wasn't loosely collared at the base of her throat—and she brought it between her thighs.

An immediate groan sputtered out of me at the silken feel of such forbidden flesh. The heat that greeted me the closer I inched toward her most intimate area.

Her pussy.

I salivated at the mere thought, sucking greedily at her throat, kissing any patch of skin I could. My hand continued, slipping closer until I was cupping her pussy through the cotton fabric of her panties, and she was shuddering all over again.

"More, Professor," she panted, nails scratching up my forearms.

I returned to her mouth to silence her.

A harsh kiss that was almost like a punishment. A twisted reprimand coming from her teacher.

So naughty. So wrong. Yet it felt so fucking good in the moment.

We shared in a groan as we traded hot kisses, and my hand slipped inside her panties. She widened her thighs to welcome me.

I was hard enough to come beforehand. When the pads of my fingers slid over the soft, slick folds of her pussy, it took everything I had to hold off.

Every ounce of control inside my body bore down on me and urged restraint .

I poured the unfettered temptation into our kisses, biting her lip and stroking her tongue with mine. All while my hand was busy inside her panties. I was rubbing her clit in slow, torturous circles and making her squirm.

"Professor," she murmured as if it were the only word she remembered.

"Shhhh," I silenced. Then I kissed her again. "You speak when you're told, Miss Oliver. Right now, all you're to do is come. Come on my damn fingers."

We were lost to the moment, lost to the desires which ruled us.

It didn't matter how wrong it was. It didn't matter that, come the light of day, we'd be riddled with regrets.

All that mattered was that right then, in that moment, it felt good.

"So good," I groaned against her lips. "You're so wet. Soaked through. Who gave you permission?"

I had slipped two fingers inside her. I was sliding them in and out of her. She was writhing and panting for air, her brown skin warm to the touch. Her once pinned back curls were no longer held down. Instead they were framing her face.

I played with her pussy, learning every tweak and graze that brought her to the edge.

Drawing back, I watched the pleasure flicker across her gorgeous face.

It was just as pleasurable for me—the soft, soaked texture of her pussy made me think about what she would feel like encasing my dick.

Another layer of torture that made me want to come.

Our kisses turned chaotic while we raced toward an ending. She thrust her hips back and forth and my fingers pumped in and out. We developed a rhythm that was faster, more aggressive by the second. The harder I rubbed her clit, the deeper my fingers curled, the more impatiently she rocked her hips toward me.

The desk legs scraped against the floor. The mug holding my pens slid to the edge, then tipped over altogether and smashed into a dozen broken pieces of ceramic. We held onto each other as we kissed and I finger-fucked her to orgasm.

The pleasure we had been working toward exploded for the both of us.

She came on my fingers, nice and slick, her pussy quivering. I gathered the pearly essence between the pads of my fingers, then slipped them past her lips so she could taste herself. I made her suckle, holding my dark, heated gaze before I dipped them into my own mouth and savored the forbidden sweetness.

It was at that exact moment the spell dissolved.

The lust-driven trance was broken, and we came to our senses. I'd come in my pants during the heat of the moment, and she was in equal disarray. We spent the next tense few minutes straightening our clothes and avoiding eye contact.

I offered to drive her home…

The memory ends just as quickly as our passion-fueled encounter had.

I'm left still in bed, listening to the loud silence of my neighborhood.

For the rest of the day I'm on pins and needles. I'm unable to stop thinking about last night. My usual Saturday routine doesn't suffice. The errands feel pointless. The books I've planned to read fail to hold my attention.

I take Atticus for a walk around the block and find my pulse beating fast. Urges fill me to the brim. It's the compulsion to pull out my phone and check Nyssa's cloud. Obsessively watch over her social media for a clue of what she's up to today. Drive by her apartment to see her… even if she doesn't see me.

"No," I whisper sternly to myself. "You'll see her Monday."

On Sunday, I exhaust myself working out. Burning pent up energy. Keeping my body moving so that my mind can't wander to her. I run eight miles on the trails winding around the pine forest and then another two when I take Atticus for his daily walk.

By the time my head hits the pillow Sunday night, I'm depleted. I'm quick to fall asleep, aware that in exactly ten hours, Nyssa Oliver will walk through the doors of my classroom.

At ten a.m. sharp, I'm seated behind my desk, waiting. Other students mill inside clutching their books and bags and caffeinated beverages. I couldn't care less, hardly paying them any mind.

The moment Nyssa strolls into the cavernous room, my skin's heating up. My gaze is locked on her, tracking her every step toward her desk. She spares me no glance, taking her seat beside Heather Driscoll like this is any other class.

Not the class of the professor she was kissing forty-eight hours ago.

The two girls avoid each other too—Heather stares anywhere but at Nyssa, and she does the same.

I can barely hold my composure enough to start the lesson. Jason Hendricks has to clear his throat and ask if class will be beginning before I come to my senses.

"Yes," I say, almost dazed. "Today we will be picking up where we left off. We will be discussing more about the model penal code. "

For the duration of the class, I'm waiting on Nyssa to raise her hand. Every time I ask a question, I pause long enough for her to do so, even as other students raise theirs. She never takes me up on the offer. For the first time since the semester began, she doesn't participate at all in class.

The room begins to empty once time is up and everyone gathers their things. Heather Driscoll flips her hair over her shoulder and struts out of the room as if she's important enough to draw attention.

But I'm much more fixated on Miss Oliver.

I appear at her desk as the last student wanders out of the classroom. My arms are folded behind my back and my expression is tight but controlled. "I expected you to participate today during the discussion."

She barely glances up at me. Sliding her books into her leather bag, she busies herself with fastening it shut. "Oh, I wasn't feeling like it today."

"Something wrong?" I ask.

"No," she answers vaguely, "just wasn't in the mood."

I pause, letting the seconds tick by. I cast a cautious glance over my shoulder to ensure we're truly alone. "Would you like to go for coffee? Somewhere not in town."

Her eyes flick back up to me, brows knitting. "Coffee? Why would we go for coffee?"

The hackles on the back of my neck rise. "Why would we?" I repeat slowly. "Because… because Friday."

"I was at the frat party," she recites tonelessly. She rises from the small L-shaped desk, sliding her bookbag over her shoulder. "I don't know what you're talking about, Professor."

A short laugh slips out of me. "Really, Miss Oliver? We were in my off?— "

"I have to go," she says. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Professor."

I stand back, flabbergasted as she rushes past me, straight for the door.

What the hell was that? Is she really pretending like Friday never happened?

Bitterness pools inside me as its own brand of venom.

My top lip curls in a snarl. "Miss Oliver, you know better than that. If I have to remind you, I will gladly do so."

It's nine p.m. on Tuesday night, and I'm waiting for Nyssa inside her apartment. I've chosen the living room drapes for now, in hopes she won't need to pry them open so late into the night. But I'm more concerned with the fact that she's not home yet.

Her classes ended this afternoon. Any known social engagements hours ago.

She was having dinner with a friend from the art group she's a part of and then she was supposed to make her way home.

I grit my teeth and check my phone. She's gradually migrating across town, though she spent far longer downtown than I anticipated. Was she meeting someone else? Someone I wasn't aware of?

My mind fills with the thousand different possibilities. A girl like Nyssa Oliver has limitless options. She's beautiful, smart, popular, and well-entrenched among the elite circles in Castlebury. Though it seems like she and Driscoll are having a rough patch, she's close enough to others to manage just fine.

I'm still obsessing over this mystery meeting when the lock clicks in her door and the doorknob twists. A second later, the front door falls open and Nyssa wanders inside, already tugging off her scarf and coat. She barely remembers to lock the door again before she's padding down the hall sighing and stretching her arms in the air.

I peek out slightly from behind the window drapes, otherwise so still and silent I might as well be a statue.

My ears pick up every sound in the modest-sized college apartment. The trickling sound of water drifts over from the bathroom and the thud of opening and shutting cabinets follows. She's pulling out the items for her nighttime routine.

It's not until I'm certain she's in the shower that I step out from behind the thick window drapes. My steps are ghost-like, very light and soundless. I slowly drift toward the scent that permeates the air—her sweet, woodsy musk that makes me hard upon inhaling.

Nyssa indulges in her hot shower.

I'm lurking in the distance, out of sight but still able to steal a peek.

She stands under the heated spray of water like it's the best feeling in the world. It's certainly one of the best sights. The water cascades over her naked body, thick droplets splashing along the curve of her pert breasts and down the valley of her flat stomach.

I lick my lips and feel the arousal pulsing in my veins.

The moment couldn't be more forbidden, yet I could never bring myself to turn away.

Now that I've had a taste of Nyssa Oliver, I can't possibly give her up.

I must have her.

She takes her time lathering up her loofah and basking in the clouds of steam. Once she's in long enough for her fingertips to prune, she reaches for a bath towel.

I retreat back into the hall, biding my time, using my senses. The second she comes too close, I draw back and slip into the nearest hiding spot.

She emerges from the bathroom still wrapped in her towel, her skin glistening from the buttery body lotion she's applied.

I'm watching in secret fascination as the towel falls and she replaces it with a large T-shirt. Her ginger cat meows and scampers over to join her on the bed.

"Peaches." She smiles, scooping the cat up into her lap. "How was your day, my sweet girl?"

I hold my breath, hoping the feline won't somehow lead her to me.

In order to avoid any issues like before, every time I visit I've brought her a can of sardines. My peace offering that she seemed to accept.

Nyssa spends a few minutes checking her phone, then it's lights out. She reaches over and twists off the antique glass lamp that sits on her bedside table.

Darkness blooms. Shadows provide cover.

The tension gathered in my shoulders lessens. I step out from where I'd hidden in the hall closet and creep to the edges of her bedroom door. She's left it partially ajar. My hand wraps around the handle and I ease it open so slowly, a minute passes before I'm done.

Stepping toward the foot of her bed, I make out the silhouette of her in the dark.

Nyssa's a stomach sleeper—she lays flat on her stomach, cheek pressed into her pillow, arms curled underneath. Peaches sleeps dutifully by her head. The duo breathes gently in the night's silence .

Sounds I find strangely soothing.

Nyssa thought she could pretend Halloween night never happened.

But she's unaware how deep my preoccupation with her goes. I didn't turn up by accident to rescue her from Samson Wicker.

I was tracking her every move that night.

Just like I'm listening to her every breath tonight.

Carefully, I inch closer until I'm at the side of her bed. My hand extends to gently stroke her cheek. The touch is featherlight. Barely a graze.

I'm not sure what I can do to make Nyssa Oliver understand there's a genuine connection between us.

I'm not even sure how we can possibly have anything meaningful given she's my student and I'm her professor.

But none of that truly matters. All that matters is that Miss Oliver is mine and mine alone…

Nyssa hardly spares time to dawdle in the morning. Her alarm goes off and she's leaping out of bed in a flurry of movement. She buzzes from her closet to the bathroom in the middle of dressing for the day.

Shimmying into a pair of distressed denim, she tugs on a fuzzy sweater and then rushes into the kitchen. Peaches meows her dissatisfaction as her owner has little time to spend petting and feeding her.

"I promise I'll be home earlier tonight, baby girl," Nyssa says. "I've got class. Water and food bowls refilled. Behave yourself!"

A smirk creeps onto my face from where I'm stationed behind the same window drapes I first hid behind last night.

It's charming that Nyssa has entire conversations with her cat. I often do the same with Atticus.

The door thuds shut, and she's gone.

Minutes pass before I reveal myself, ensuring she's truly not returning.

Peaches spots me at once. The orange cat trots over to me as if we're now friends.

Pride swells inside my chest. I crouch low and stroke her along her spine.

"Good girl, Peaches," I say. "You didn't tell your mother about me. Next time, I'll bring you two cans of sardines."

She purrs her approval.

Nyssa's not the only one running late this morning.

As I finally leave her apartment, there's forty-two minutes until my first class of the day begins. I rush to my BMW several blocks down, trying my damnedest to ignore my phone when it rings. Dean Rothenberg flashes onto the screen.

I clench my jaw and begrudgingly answer. "Yes?"

"Theron," he says, "I'm glad I was able to reach you."

"Is there some reason you'd think you wouldn't be able to?"

"Well… it's just you're usually at the school by now."

"I'm missing your point, August."

"You've heard about what happened on Halloween, haven't you?" he asks, his tone grimmer than usual. "You know, the student that was attacked?"

"Right. I did hear something about that…"

"Samson Wicker. He was bludgeoned over the head. He barely survived, but he's awake now. "

Tension fills me like lead, my body stiff. "Does he remember what happened?"

"Unfortunately, not yet. So far, no witnesses either."

Excellent.

"It's terrible what happened," I say. "But I'm not sure why you've called me, August."

"I've been spreading word to most of the faculty. We're trying to get ahead of the story before the media publishes it and it hits the public."

"What exactly are you talking about?"

Dean Rothenberg sighs. "The perpetrator. We think it was another attempt by him, except he failed to finish the job. The Valentine Killer—he's officially back."