Chapter 25 Sep 17, 2025 The weekend dissolved into Alex's hands on my skin, his mouth against my throat, our bodies rewriting the grammar of us across every surface of his parents' estate. We christened the library against leather-bound first editions, the kitchen counter while dawn painted everything gold, the shower until the water ran cold and we didn't care. "Tell me what you want," he kept asking, his voice rough with genuine curiosity rather than obligation. "Show me. Teach me." And I did. I guided his hands to where heat pooled, told him exactly how hard to grip, when to be gentle, when to make me gasp. He learned my body like a new language, conjugating desire in ways that made me forget we'd ever been strangers in the same bed. "Like this?" He'd ask, trying something new, watching my face for the answer. "Harder," I'd say, or "Slower," or "God, yes, exactly like that." By Sunday evening, we'd mapped our rekindled hunger across the estate-the pool house, the wine cellar, even the formal dining room where his mother hosted her suffocating society dinners. Every space held our renewed conspiracy, our shared determination to burn through the careful distance we'd constructed. "I forgot you could be like this," I told him Sunday night, my body liquid against his, every muscle pleasantly destroyed. "Wild. Unscripted. Real." "You never asked for it before," he said, pressing kisses down my spine like punctuation. "You never showed me you wanted the mess along with the man." Monday arrived with its alarm and obligations, dragging me from Alex's bed back to campus life. My body moved through the morning routine-shower, coffee, the careful selection of an outfit that suggested nothing had changed-while my mind remained scattered across the weekend's surfaces. Strategic Management started at ten sharp. I slid into my usual seat, three rows back, center-left, arranging my laptop and materials with practiced precision. Aiden entered with his typical commanding presence, suit impeccable, manner suggesting he owned not just the room but the entire concept of business education. "Today we're discussing corporate raids," he announced, his voice carrying that particular mix of authority and amusement that had always made my pulse skip. "The hostile acquisition of assets through aggressive, often predatory tactics." His eyes swept the room, pausing for a microsecond when they found me. Something electric passed between us-recognition, memory, the weight of everything we'd done and said in darker hours. I couldn't stop watching him. The way his hands moved when he emphasized a point, remembering how those fingers had felt against my skin. The way his mouth shaped words about leveraged buyouts while I remembered it shaping my name in his apartment. The focused hunger that had gotten me into this mess in the first place returned with compound interest. He was mid-sentence about regulatory frameworks when he pulled his phone from his pocket-unusual for him, almost unheard of. His eyes flicked to the screen for barely a second before he continued as if nothing had interrupted. My phone vibrated against my thigh. Aiden: Stop looking at me like that. I'm on the edge here, and it would be deeply inconvenient if someone noticed what your stare is doing to me. Heat flooded my face, sudden and undeniable. I felt the color rise from my chest to my cheeks, a physical betrayal I couldn't control. He looked up at exactly that moment, caught my flush with predatory precision, and the smallest smile ghosted across his mouth-there and gone before anyone else could register it. "Miss Pearson," he said, his voice giving nothing away. "Would you care to explain the defensive strategies available to target companies?" "Poison pills, white knights, crown jewel defenses," I managed, my voice surprisingly steady despite the electricity running through my veins. "Though sometimes the best defense is making yourself too dangerous to acquire safely." "Dangerous how?" He leaned against his desk, arms crossed, the picture of professional interest. "By ensuring that acquisition means swallowing something that will destroy the buyer from within," I said, holding his gaze. "Mutual destruction disguised as surrender." "Interesting perspective." His smile turned sharp. "Though one might argue that mutual destruction lacks winners." "One might argue that winning isn't always the point," I countered. "Sometimes the point is ensuring no one else wins either." The tension between us crackled, barely disguised as academic discourse. A few students shifted uncomfortably, sensing undercurrents they couldn't quite identify. The lecture continued for another thirty minutes, but I absorbed nothing except his presence, the way he commanded the space while carefully not looking at me again. When he finally dismissed the class, students filtered out in chattering groups, discussing study groups and upcoming papers. I stayed seated, pretending to organize my notes while the room emptied. Finally, only silence remained between us. "That was reckless," he said, not moving from behind his desk. "The way you were looking at me." "You texted me during lecture," I stood, closing the distance between us with deliberate steps. "That seems equally reckless." "Momentary weakness." He watched me approach with the stillness of prey that knows it's also a predator. "How was your weekend?" "Productive," I said, stopping just outside of appropriate distance. "Educational. I learned quite a lot about hostile takeovers." "From the reading I assigned?" "From practical application." I moved closer, close enough to smell his cologne mixing with chalk dust and danger. "Though the theory still interests me." "Ruby." My name on his lips was half warning, half invitation. "This is-" The truth rose like a wave-Alex's hands on my body, our weekend of reclaimed intimacy, the complications I was creating with every second I stood here-but I refused to ride it into confession. Instead, I closed the last distance between us, rose on my toes, and kissed him with decisive certainty. He responded immediately, his hands finding my waist, pulling me against him with the kind of hunger that suggested he'd been thinking about this all through his lecture. His mouth was demanding, possessive, erasing the weekend with Alex through sheer force of present-tense want. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door pushed open a hand's width. "Aiden, do you have a-" James's voice cut off abruptly. I broke away with choreographed speed, spinning toward the nearest desk and diving into my bag as if searching for something crucial. Papers scattered, pens rolled, the performance of a flustered student looking for missing notes. Absolutely ridiculous.