15. Theron

15

THERON

LOVE ME - EX HABIT

A hundred and sixty-eight hours. Seven days, seven nights since I last felt Nyssa Oliver's lips on mine. One full, torturous week.

Once Friday rolls around and my alarm goes off at five a.m. sharp, I'm a man being driven mad.

Even Atticus's sunny personality can't lighten my mood. The golden retriever bounces off the walls as I lead him down to the kitchen, where he dashes through the door, into the backyard.

I nudge my glasses further up the bridge of my nose, my expression sullen as I reach for my phone. In the past I prided myself on reaching for my phone as little as possible. Unless it was absolutely necessary, it remained untouched and ignored.

Veronica used to say it was strange. An older millennial such as myself so adverse to technology, when in many ways, it had been my generation who had pioneered things like smart devices and social media.

For Nyssa, I've made exceptions .

I can't stay away from my phone when it's my biggest link to her.

It's how I've tracked her. It's the method I've used to spy on her whereabouts and stalk her activity. As she seemingly ices me out, what else am I supposed to do?

I log onto her cloud expecting no real update since last night.

She'd come home early, ordered delivery, and spent hours pouring over her latest sculpture—a clay recreation of blooming flowers. It was simplistic in theory but incredibly detailed down to every unique petal she molded. I wondered if she's starting early for the next art festival…

Sighing when I discover I'm right about no real updates, I set down my phone. She can't possibly plan to ignore me the rest of the semester. She can't possibly think she'll be able to pretend what happened between us never did.

Later that morning, it's apparent that's exactly her plan.

For the third time this week, Nyssa sits mute in my class. She avoids my gaze at every turn. Her head bows as if she's more enthralled by the text in the book than my live instruction.

I grit my teeth as the clock strikes half past eleven and everyone in the class begins packing up.

"Miss Oliver," I say loudly, uncaring who hears. "I'd like a word. Please stay behind."

Most students pay little mind, simply happy the class is over. They carry on with their things, filing out of the room. Only Heather Driscoll lingers a second longer than she should, casting a curious glance between Nyssa and myself.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Nyssa's remained in her seat. For the first time this morning, she's chanced a look at me. Her deep-set eyes are a boundless mystery. They reveal next to nothing as I stride toward her, my loafers thudding against the wooden flooring.

I stop directly in front of her desk, peering down at her, a scowl fixed onto my face.

The tension feels suffocating. It expands between us like a third presence in the room, highlighting the unresolved conflict between us.

She's studying me like I'm studying her.

Trying to solve the puzzle of my mind while I attempt to do the same.

Her slender throat works in a slow swallow, and then she says, "I have other classes this morning. I have to go?—"

"You'll go nowhere," I hiss. "Not until we have an understanding, Miss Oliver. Which is that you're to participate in my class. You're to answer my questions. You're to make eye contact. You're to be engaged the entire time. I want your full, undivided attention at all times."

Her brows knit. "That's not fair?—"

"Who said anything about fair?" I crack half of a grin, my pulse beating faster. "If you insist on doing your best to ignore me—on pretending that night never happened—then my hand is forced. I'll have your attention any way I can. Including right now. After class."

"I'm leaving."

"Sit!" I snap. As she half rises out of her chair, my hand shoots out and grabs her throat.

We both freeze, breathing heavily, eyes hooked on each other.

I can feel her pulse thrumming against my fingers. Her warm flesh against my hand as I hold her by the throat and we admire each other so close, I could crush my lips to hers.

She's tempted by the idea.

Instinct tells me this .

Her little pink tongue—the same one that had played with mine only a week ago—pokes out to wet her lips.

Her eyes glimmer. Dark but bright all at once as she challenges me much in the same way she had on the first day of class. No one else may get it, but I do. I can see the awareness in her gaze, dripping from her, as she understands me like I do her.

We get there's something here.

Something forbidden and wrong but addictive and unpredictable; something we're both struggling to resist.

She swallows, throat muscles flexing against my hand. "Professor, I'm leaving. Let go of me."

I blink and suddenly come to my senses. The feral drum that had beat inside me so intensely only a second ago feels worlds away. It was an entirely different man altogether. My hand drops from her throat and I take a step back.

She hoists her bookbag onto her shoulder, then quickly arrows toward the door.

It snaps shut and sends a shockwave reverberating through me.

Confusion over what the hell I was about to do. How could I lose control so easily? So thoroughly?

I wrench off my glasses and scrub a sobering hand over my face.

In need of a dose of reality, I call the only person who will give me a proverbial bitch slap.

Theo hears my ragged breathing and grows worried. "Theron, what the hell?"

"I need you to talk sense into me."

"About…?"

I let my breathing answer for me. More ragged intakes, even rougher exhales.

She knows me well enough to understand. "Theron, for fuck's sake, whoever she is, she's not worth it! And if it's Veronica again—I swear to god, I'm going to kick your ass! Let the chick go!"

"It's not about Veronica," I spit.

"Is this why you rushed off last Friday night? Jesus fucking Christ, Theron, what are you getting mixed up in? You heard, Dad—he's not bailing you out this time!"

"Will you calm down?" I say, scowling. "I called you to talk sense into me. Not nag me like Mom."

"It's deserved! I don't know what girl's got in your head again, but walk away."

"I have to go now."

I cut her off in the middle of her next sentence with my mind made up. Her lecturing words have done nothing but flip the script and make me realize I was right before. Classes for the day are over and it's time I stop depriving myself of what I want.

It's time I make Miss Oliver understand.

The day's breezy, brisk autumn weather vanishes by late afternoon. Thick clouds emerge, heavy with raindrops, casting a dull gray filter over Castlebury.

Campus thins out the way it always does when gloomy weather's imminent.

I stride toward my BMW with my leather satchel swathed diagonally over my shoulder. Glasses perched on my face, I'm as calm and composed as ever. I've reached a new sense of clarity, sliding behind the wheel and checking my phone.

Miss Oliver is downtown. She's in the middle of another solo outing, running errands and making stops of interest. A habit of hers I've realized she takes part in to decompress.

I cut through side streets until I'm parking in a lot designated for visitors in the downtown district. Because the long strip of boutiques, cafés, lounges, galleries, and other establishments are so nestled together, there's little room for street parking.

It's part of Castlebury's charm—a small, lush town brimming with tasteful cobblestone and gas lamps.

Nyssa's exiting an art supply shop when I come up on the street corner. I pull on the baseball cap I've brought with me and keep a distance, immersing myself among other people on the street to blend in. She wanders out of the store clutching a tiny bag.

When out alone, her expression's naturally curious, naturally thoughtful. It's as though she's admiring every sensory detail around her, from the leaded glass on a shop window to the brown leaves flurrying at her feet.

As it starts drizzling, she digs into her bookbag and pulls out a striped umbrella that looks decades old. Likely another find from the thrift store.

It happens to be her next stop, half a block down.

I'm her secret chaperone, approaching the shop once she's disappeared inside. I stand in the glazed front window and make out the shape of her as she browses the racks.

Never before have I been so captivated. So damn beholden to the obsession that's bloomed quickly over the matter of a few weeks.

This kind of longing goes beyond comprehension. Past reason and logic.

It runs deep.

All the way down to my fucking marrow .

Yet, if asked to explain, I'm not sure I could even put it into words. The only possible explanation I could begin to offer is that Nyssa Oliver is unlike any other person walking this earth—and I don't mean that in a cheesy, eye-roll-worthy reductive way, like some platitude written on the inside of a birthday card.

I mean, at her core, she's like a rare pearl that's so special, it's a wonder it even exists.

She's beautiful, made up of soft curves and springy curls.

But it's her mind that's the treasure. Even as she browses, it's hard at work, processing a thousand thoughts a minute.

She's a mystery I'm desperate to solve. I hope someday to understand.

And for her to understand me—for her to get why I'm doing what I am.

I can't walk away. I can't let go of whatever this is…

The clerk at the counter greets her and the two exchange pleasantries before she makes a small purchase. A trinket of a necklace that she stores in the same bag she'd picked up at the art supply shop.

The drizzle's hardened into rainfall by the time she's exited.

Where I once stood near the door, I've retreated. I'm a few more buildings down, peering carefully through the sheets of rain to figure out her next stop. She holds her umbrella in one hand and her shopping bag in the other and starts the opposite way down the street.

I'm left to wonder where we're going.

Is she meeting up with someone? Is she walking home? Why would she in the rain?

Two long, slick streets later, I stop short in stunned satisfaction at where she's led us. On a late rainy afternoon, the few visitors of the Castlebury Metropolitan Museum of Art are on their way out.

Yet Nyssa is the opposite. She's on her way in.

I am too, trailing after her with a chest full of heart palpitations. Anticipation reaches a fever pitch. I'm under her spell and I can't fucking help it.

The museum's normally lit by the bright light of the day.

In the midst of dreary weather, it's darker, moodier than usual. The long halls stretch on endlessly, the walls lined with some of the most beautiful art pieces in the world.

Nyssa wanders among them, always headed deeper into the bowels of the museum. Every so often, she pauses long enough to admire a piece that catches her eye. The infamous Fall of Man painting depicting Adam and Eve or the Angel with a Crown statue many love.

After she's moved on, I'm replacing her at the artwork. My eyes rove over the masterful craftsmanship of each piece, sensing it's what she appreciated most. Then I'm carrying on in her wake, keeping to the shadows.

The museum empties to the point it seems we're the last two. The cavernous space seemingly echoes with her footfalls. The breaths she draws.

It'll be closing soon.

I'll leave when she leaves.

Curiosity swims in my stomach as I drift after her and wonder which piece of artwork she's seeking out.

A few seconds later, I have my answer. But only after another discovery—Nyssa knows she's not alone.

As she enters the next hall, she casts the briefest glance over her shoulder .

Her shining dark eyes greet mine.

Then she continues, picking up her pace, venturing farther into the underbelly of the museum.

My pulse explodes. I break out into a fast stride to catch up with her. Desperation reawakens like it had a week ago, where I'd sought her out and scoured the entire campus.

Nyssa stops before a marble statue that demands reverence.

Undine Rising from the Waters is showcased in its own room, surrounded by emerald-papered walls and a generous skylight.

I come up behind her, my gaze lifting to admire the work of art. Far from the first time I've visited the museum to view the piece, there's something more special about it now.

Witnessing it alongside Nyssa.

Undine's chiseled from white marble, yet the woman's curves are impeccable and soft. The fabric drapes her body, rippling and wet as she rises from the water. She reaches toward the heavens, the skylight haloing her.

Nyssa tilts her head, studying every minute detail.

"Isn't she beautiful?" she asks. "It's my favorite."

"Yes," I answer. "It's breathtaking. One of a kind."

"It took Chauncey Ives two years to sculpt."

"So I've read."

"The marble's so delicately chiseled that light can shine through the portions that are supposed to be fabric," she explains, an excited beat about her. She glances at me, then grabs my hand to take me around the back and show me.

Warm sparks shoot up my arm. Through the rest of me.

Her touch so soft, yet so confident.

I'm enthralled as she leads me and points out the intricacy in the construction .

But I'm more distracted by her. The passion that blooms across her face as she goes into great detail about the famed work of art. Many details I've already learned but appreciate hearing from her sweet lips. She runs herself breathless talking, telling me about Undine and Chauncey and the difficulty in constructing such a piece.

She flushes, the subtlest glow touching her bronze complexion.

"What?" she asks finally.

"How long did you know I was following you, Miss Oliver?"

The corner of her lip quirks. "Aren't you going to tell me why you were following me first?"

I edge closer, looming over her. My tone deepens with a hint of authority. "Tell me how long you knew."

"The museum's empty. I saw your reflection in the glass."

"Yet you kept going."

We've inched even closer, her face tilting slightly up toward mine.

Mine angling down toward hers.

"You were leading me," I whisper, so close I can almost taste her lips. "You wanted to show me your favorite piece."

"You wanted to see… didn't you?"

My hands come up to cup her face as a crooked grin slants across my lips. "I find you absolutely fucking irresistible. Did you know that?"

"I had a feeling."

"And how do you feel? What do you want?"

"I feel like this is a mistake," she says candidly, her breath on my lips.

I've drawn her face closer to mine like I'm about to kiss her. I'm one impulsive second away from doing so .

Yet she hasn't pulled away. If anything, she's melted into me, letting me hold her like I am.

"A mistake," I repeat. "Why, Miss Oliver?"

"Because… because we're not supposed to be together."

"Says who?"

"Everyone."

"Should we care?"

"Yes," she breathes. "I do."

"Why?"

"Because you're a distraction," she confesses. "You're dangerous."

My pulse thrums harder, grin widening. I graze my lips against hers in a tantalizing tease. "But isn't that what draws you to me? Be honest, Miss Oliver. You like the danger. The forbidden. A curious mind like yours. You crave it as much as I do."

I don't bother waiting for an answer. Why should I when I already know the truth deep down?

My mouth claims hers, coming together in a kiss bursting with passion. Every ounce of desire that I have for her.

She immediately goes still in my arms, thrown by my brazenness.

That I'm kissing her like I am, hard and demanding. That, technically, even in an empty museum, someone could walk by and find us.

But I'm done playing cat and mouse. I'm done pretending as if the attraction between us isn't real. I'm a moth and she's the flame I can't resist.

Her sweet taste is one I simply won't give up.

Nyssa loses her breath. She gasps as I kiss her soft mouth. Yet she parts her lips for more. She lets me inside. Her wet tongue and mine mingle in a dance .

I clench her within my grip and feel the arousal surging through me. It's so potent, I could burst out of my skin. My pulse pounds in my ear and blood rushes to my cock. Arousal makes my normally sharp mind grow hazy.

All I can think about is Nyssa Oliver and the feel of soft, slick pussy.

I can practically feel it clenched around me.

"Professor," she sputters, finally finding an ounce of restraint. She turns her head away from mine.

But I merely kiss her cheek and jaw. I travel down to a spot on the side of her throat that makes her shudder in my arms.

"We can't," she goes on breathlessly.

"We will."

"Professor—"

I silence her with another kiss to the lips. I savor the taste of her, chocolate and peppermint from her earlier treat at a local bakery, and swallow down any more protests.

Gradually, we step back. We kiss as we walk toward the wall. My hands explore the curves that have been ruling my mind for days while hers wind up clinging to the front of my shirt. I bring her up against the wall with every intention of devouring the rest of her.

The lights go out before I can.

It's enough to finally break us apart. Glancing around at the sudden darkness, a second goes by before we realize what's happened.

The museum staff has left for the evening. They must've forgotten we were still here. Raindrops tap against the glass skylight above and reveal the downpour's only grown worse. The sky's darkened, signifying how late in the evening it's become .

Nyssa shoves at my chest and escapes from her position against the wall.

"This is crazy," she says, rushing out of the room. "We have to stop."

I'm quick after her. My scowl's returned. "That's not possible."

"Of course it is! And now we've been left inside here," she snaps. "I have to go home."

"Slow down."

"You know what, Professor?" On the move, she throws a furious look at me from over her shoulder. "Fuck off!"

"Get back here!"

"I'm leaving!"

The moment descends into another game of cat and mouse. A foot chase as she trots down the tunneled corridor and I dart after her. She doesn't make it far before I'm overtaking her, grabbing her arms, clenching her within my grip.

"You fight the inevitable," I growl. "Don't tell me you don't feel it. Don't pretend it's not real. If I shoved my fucking hand in your panties, don't think it won't be slick with your juices."

She shakes her head, eyes wide, though I can see the honest glimmer in them.

She can't bring herself to utter a word because she's well aware it's the truth.

I let go of her, a bitter twist of lust thickening inside me. Regarding her with the same kind of severity I had the first day she ran into me in the hall, I gesture at her sweater and denim jeans. "Take off your clothes, Miss Oliver."

Her features crease in protest. "You're joking. I refuse to?— "

"Take them off," I say slower, each word emphasized. "Take them off… or as your teacher, I will punish you."

The threat hangs in the air for a moment that seems like an eternity.

She's been stunned into silence, gaping at me like I've lost my mind. Her breathing's hard, nostrils flaring, lips plump and parted.

The moment could go either way—she could knee me in the groin and run for it. She could scream bloody murder and pray someone's still in the area.

Or she could obey.

Nyssa Oliver chooses the latter, yet she does so in a way only she could.

Confident and defiant.

Searing me with a harsh glare, she rips her sweater over her head and lets it tumble to the ground. Her fingers go to the button on her jeans. We maintain eye contact as she strips the pair off, sliding them down her hips, then thighs.

My greed is what finally breaks our stare. I spend an aroused second drinking in the sight of her in her bra and panties. Though I've seen her nude, it was in secret.

It was as I watched her without her knowledge.

It was nothing like this, witnessing the lush curves in person.

Just for me.

My blood's hot. My pulse pounds in my ears. I'm composed, yet a ticking time bomb on the inside as I swallow hard.

"Take off your bra," I order.

Her eyes narrow. Her arms reach behind her back to do as she's told. The bra flops away as her breasts spring free, pert and soft, begging for my mouth.

I decide to grant their wish .

Nyssa gasps as I stride forward, knot my fist in her curls to yank her head back, and suck a peak into my mouth. Her puffy nipple thickens the harder I suckle. The more I nibble on the bead, grazing it with my teeth, making her claw at me.

It's all too much for her. Her breasts heave as she draws deep breaths and endures all the different sensations.

My hands that grope, fondle, pinch. My mouth and tongue that suck and lick.

Teeth that bite to her screams. Just hard enough to hurt a little before I'm back to kissing and swirling my tongue.

The breast play alone has her close. Right on the edge.

I shove my free hand down the front of her panties and tell her what I want. I'm driven by a dark lust that's washed over me. That won't be sated until I've taken what I want and experienced her like I've fantasized about.

She'll be withering, leaking cum by the time I'm through with her.

"On the bench, Miss Oliver."

She's still panting for breath as she turns away and does as I say. She crawls onto the nearby wiry bench, on her hands and knees, affording me a clear view of her gorgeous round ass. I admire how her panties cling to her pussy, so thin I can make out the folds of her labia, and then I step toward her.

Slowly, indulging in the moment, I slide the pair off her. The slinky fabric rolls past her hips, thighs, legs. I grip her ankle as I tug it over the arch of her foot.

Then I'm the one without air.

My lungs run empty as soon as my eyes flick up to her pussy.

Even in the shadowy corridor of the museum, it glistens .

She's soaking wet and plump. Her natural scent fragrant in the air.

I'm so aroused, I'm dizzy. I blink out of it and decide it's time to lose all pretenses. Unbuttoning my shirt and shoving down my pants, my hand grips my erect cock.

"Do you know what happens next, Miss Oliver?" I ask, my throat tight.

"Professor…"

"I fuck you," I say, stepping forward. I run my cock along the wet seam of her pussy lips and then slot myself inside.

Immediately, I lose myself to intense pleasure.

It rushes me as I slide straight into pulsing warmth. On all sides, my cock's sheathed in wet heat. The rest of me buzzes from sensory overload.

Every muscle's tense. Every nerve's tingling. My skin's flushed and my brain's mush.

I groan sinking into the soft hole, then grope Nyssa's hips and thighs.

She's squeezed shut her eyes and hung her head, like she's deep in her own pleasure. She's adjusting to the thickness and girth of me.

Her slender shoulders quiver, the center of her spine arched so gracefully.

Erotically.

I draw back slowly, building anticipation, then I return to the warmth. I sink back into the pulsing heat and revel in the instant clench.

Her pussy kneading me. Her pussy fluttering around me.

It's forbidden. It's something I'm never supposed to do. I'm never supposed to touch a student, let alone have sex with one .

But as I begin stroking into Nyssa Oliver, I know there's no going back. Nor would I ever choose to.

This obsessive, twisted, forbidden union between us is worth the world. It's worth every fucking thing on this planet.

Nyssa moans as I pump into her. She arches her back and takes my cock. Her pussy gushes with wetness, so slippery that I'm covered in her juices every time I withdraw. The sight of my length slick with evidence of her arousal makes me harder.

If possible.

I grip her flesh and deepen my strokes. I hit the back of her pussy, bottoming out, to more of her screams. The bench sways under us as I do.

As we surrender to how good we make each other feel.

The moment blurs into skin slapping and shared moans. Nyssa spreads her thighs wide as my cock tunnels deep and we ride to the finish line on the same wave of pleasure. It slams into us in a burst of tingling heat.

Seizing up, I'm spilling inside her. I come until we've made a mess of each other. I'm coated with her juices and she's leaking mine.

But it's not the end of the night—we clean ourselves up as best as we can in the dark of the museum and wander toward what exit we can find.

We're silent yet aware of where we're headed. Nyssa slides into the passenger seat of my BMW and I drive us to her apartment. The building's quiet as we ride the elevator up to the fourth floor and she digs inside her bag for her keys.

The second the door's unlocked, we're stepping inside and then slamming it shut.

We're colliding all over again .

Clothes are stripped away. Kisses are exchanged in the dark.

We fumble through the cramped space, unable to keep our hands off each other.

I press her up against the cold glass of her living room window and slam into her from behind. My hand snakes up her throat, my mouth grazing the edge of her jaw, and I fuck her like I've fantasized about fucking her so many recent nights.

The second round of what becomes an on-and-off game through the night.

Nyssa gyrates with me, writhing and whimpering, taking every inch of cock I give her. And when I bury myself inside her to come and kiss her hard on the lips, I know she finally understands.

She knows she's mine. She knows that no matter how wrong this is, there's no escaping what's between us…