Chapter 8 Sep 12, 2025 Alex's breathing deepened into sleep beside me, his arm heavy across my waist, possessive even in unconsciousness. I stared at the ceiling, counting water stains like constellations, my body still humming with frustrated energy. He'd tried. God, he'd tried so hard-every touch careful and reverent, every kiss an apology, every thrust a promise to do better. And I'd felt nothing. No fire, no desperation, no consuming need that made thought impossible. Just the mechanical response of a body that knew these rhythms by rote. Now, in the darkness, all I could think about was Aiden's hands-how they'd felt at Apex, commanding and sure. His voice in my ear, low and dangerous. The way he looked at me like I was something to be devoured, not preserved under glass. On Sunday Emma, Alex, and I had sprawled across the couch for a marathon of Emma's favorite show. Arguing about plot twists, stealing the last of the popcorn, and letting the afternoon soften into one of those homely Sundays. It felt easy in a way I hadn't trusted in a long time. When the credits finally rolled and Emma yawned goodnight, Alex stayed over again without ceremony, slipping into the familiar grooves of our life as if they'd never cracked. I slipped from bed at dawn, leaving a note about an early study group. Alex would believe it-he always believed the easy lies that kept our world intact. I slipped from bed at dawn, leaving a note about an early study group. Monday crawled through its paces. Lectures, coffee with Emma, a lunch where I smiled and nodded at stories I didn't hear. By five o'clock, the decision had crystallized into something sharp and inevitable. The business school was nearly empty by seven. I walked the familiar corridor to Aiden's office, my heels echoing like a countdown. Light spilled from under his door-of course he was there, working late like the obsessive perfectionist he was. I knocked once and entered without waiting for permission. He looked up from a sea of papers, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened and askew. "Ruby. It's late for office hours." "Good thing I'm not here for academic guidance." I turned the lock, the click loud as a gunshot. "What are you doing?" "Ending the pretense." I moved closer, watching his eyes track my movement like prey watching a predator-or maybe we were both predators, circling. "We've been dancing around this for weeks." "There's nothing to dance around. You're my student." "I'm a lot of things." I stopped at the edge of his desk, close enough to see the pulse at his throat. "But satisfied isn't one of them." He stood slowly, using height like architecture, creating space and claiming it. "You should leave." "Do you think about me?" The question hung between us like smoke. "When you're alone, when you can't sleep... Do you think about what it would be like?" A muscle worked in his jaw. "Ruby." "That's not an answer." "You want an answer?" He came around the desk, each movement deliberate. "Yes. I think about you. I think about things that would end my career. I think about you more than is professionally appropriate or personally wise. Is that what you wanted to hear?" "It's a start." I didn't step back as he approached. "What exactly do you think about?" "You're playing with fire." "I'm tired of being cold." The space between us had become something else-charged, dangerous. "I'm tired of being safe, tired of being good, tired of feeling nothing when I should feel everything." My hand found his chest, felt his heartbeat accelerate under Egyptian cotton. "Ruby." My name came out rough, unguarded. "Do you want to fuck me, Professor Green?" I looked up at him, making the question clear. "Because I'm asking you to. Show me what it feels like to be consumed." I watched his control fracture-saw civilization fall away from his features, leaving something raw and hungry. He moved with deliberate intent, backing me against the desk. His hands gripped the desk on either side of me, creating a cage of possibility. "Once we do this, there's no going back. I'll ruin you, litter trouble." "I don't want to go back." He studied my face for a long moment, and I saw him make the choice-watched him choose destruction over safety. "God help us both then," he muttered. The kiss was nothing like what I'd known-no careful worship or apologetic tenderness. This was consumption, pure and deliberate. His mouth claimed mine while his hands found my waist, lifting me onto the desk in one fluid motion. "Is this what you wanted?" His mouth moved to my throat, finding the pulse that raced there. "Yes." The word emerged as breath as his hands traveled up my thighs, pushing fabric higher. "God, yes." He pulled back to look at me, his eyes dark with intent. "You want this?" Instead of answering, I reached for his belt. His hand caught my wrist, gentle but firm. "Words, Ruby. I need to hear you say it." "I fucking want you." I met his gaze steadily. "I want everything you've been holding reached for his belt." He groaned against my neck. "You're going to destroy me." "Mutual destruction," I reminded him. "That's our theme."