Prologue:
"Mine," he whispered, his voice a low growl, leaving no doubt in Kelsey's mind that she was his possession. Every inch of her belonged to him now, and he intended to keep it that way—hidden, secret, and utterly taboo. The thrill of their forbidden affair sent a shiver down Alex's spine. He knew the risks, the danger of being caught, but that only heightened his arousal. The secret was theirs alone, a dark and delicious secret that bound them together in a way that was as exciting as it was dangerous.
Kelsey was on her hands and knees atop a solid antique desk crafted from rich mahogany, her milky white skin contrasted with the dark texture of the wood-her body a stark offering, presented and ready for the taking. She stared into a mirror in front of her, her eyes locking onto Alex's intense gaze as he stood behind her, a predator ready to strike. The office was thick with anticipation, the air heavy with the scent of their arousal, a tangible force that hung between them.
Kelsey's heart pounded in her chest, her breaths coming in short, eager gasps as she awaited his touch. Alex stood there, auburn hair disheveled, eyes dark with lust and dominance. He leaned in, his tongue poised just above the crack of her ass, letting his saliva drip down slowly, coating her intimately. Kelsey shivered with anticipation, her body trembling with need as she watched his every move in the mirror.
With thumbs sinking inward, pressing deeply into the crack of her ass, spreading her open. Kelsey let out a soft moan, her eyes never leaving his as he pulled her open, exposing her most forbidden hole. She could feel the cool air hitting her sensitive flesh, the pucker of her asshole tightening and relaxing as he spread her wider, his eyes locked onto hers in the mirror, a wicked grin playing on his lips.
"Look at you," Alex growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "So exposed, so ready for me. Your little asshole is begging for my tongue, isn't it?"
Kelsey nodded, her voice a desperate whisper. "Yes. Please. I need it."
He hovered there, teasing her, building the tension until she was squirming, begging for release. Kelsey pushed her ass back, trying to make contact, but Alex pulled back, a chuckle escaping his lips. It was not lost on him that a year ago today, Alex had been in that very office, across the desk from the Dean of Sterling University, begging for his job. The memory of that humiliating day was etched in his mind as he stood there, now in a position of power, dominating the woman before him. The Dean had told him that his position was on the chopping block due to budget cuts, and Alex had to fight tooth and nail to keep it. But today, he was taking what he wanted, claiming what was his, and relishing in the thrill of the forbidden. The irony of it all was a delicious irony that he savored. The man who had once held his professional fate in his hands was now unwittingly connected to Alex's most taboo and pleasurable secret. Kelsey was the Dean's daughter, this was his desk, and his office.
Chapter 1: Alex Hartley
Alexander Hartley was a bastard blessed by the gods of literature and lunacy. A man carved out of hardwood and whiskey, built like Hemingway but wired like Burroughs on a five day bender. He stalked the halls of Sterling University with the swagger of a war-weary general, eyes sharp as switchblades, hair like autumn leaves set on fire and then stomped out by time itself. You didn’t meet Professor Hartley—you survived him.
He lectured like he was sermonizing on the edge of the apocalypse, quoting Joyce and Kant in the same breath he used to captivated - and sometimes eviscerate - the young minds before him. Whisperers filled the classrooms year after year of tawdry rumors regarding the size of his cock and the skill he displayed in using it. Students adored him. Lesser men feared him. Women masturbated to him. He was both oracle and executioner in the temple of higher education, and he wore the pressure like a favorite coat—worn, weathered, and stained with the blood of dead-end dissertations.
Born to a family of ivory tower Brahmins, Hartley never stood a chance at being normal. His father was a historian who could recite the Peloponnesian War from memory while deep into his fourth gin-and-tonic. His mother—a linguist with a fetish for dead languages and living men—taught him early that the pen is mightier than the sword, but the sword is a hell of a lot more fun in bed. They raised him in a home filled with dusty tomes and expectations too heavy for any one spine. And yet, he thrived.
Academically, anyway.
Emotionally? He was a Category 5 hurricane in human form. Relationships came and went like smoke rings—brief, beautiful, and gone with the wind. His last girlfriend had left a dent in his psyche, forehead and drywall, shouting something about control issues and emotional constipation before throwing a frying pan at him that missed and another... that didn't... before slamming the door for good. She wasn’t wrong.
So Alex did what all haunted men do: he buried himself in his work and let his demons sleep in the guest room. His lectures were still fire and brimstone—unfiltered, unedited, uncompromising. He took no prisoners. Sterling University loved him for it, as long as the donor checks kept coming and the board didn’t catch wind of the fact that their star professor had been quietly threading a sexual undercurrent through his research like a drunken sailor stitching up a wound with dental floss.
His newest obsession was academic dynamite: the erotics of classic literature. Not your mother’s spark notes. We’re talking D.H. Lawrence on Viagra, Hawthorne in leather and handcuffs, Brontë with a riding crop. The old canon through a cracked and steamy lens. It consumed him—texts, margins scrawled with filthy insights, comparisons that made tenure committees sweat and undergrads swoon. It was genius. It was madness. It was foreplay with footnotes.
Hartley’s apartment was a crime scene of caffeine, clutter, and chaos. Books stacked like Jenga towers about to collapse. Post-it notes screaming half-finished ideas. Quotes from Nietzsche and Nabokov scrawled on the walls like the ravings of a sex-crazed monk. It reeked of genius and stale coffee. This was his church, his battleground, his padded cell.
But make no mistake—beneath the tweed and tenure-track title was a beast, pacing in its cage. Alexander Hartley didn’t just crave connection. He wanted obliteration. He wanted a woman who could match him blow-for-blow, scream-for-scream; the kind of woman wouldn't ask for his eight inches but take it as if she owned them. Someone with the soul of Billie Holiday and the nerve of a demolition expert. He wanted to dismantle the boundaries of polite society and rebuild them in the shape of a moan.
He wasn’t just a man on the edge—he was the edge.
And god help whoever stepped over it.
