Aria cried out, fingers digging into his back as he moved inside her with a rhythm that was maddening and deep—every thrust knocking the breath out of her lungs, every groan from his throat curling low in her belly.
He wasn't gentle. He wasn't slow.
But he was everything she needed.
His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her wider, pressing her harder into the wall as he buried himself deeper.
"Say my name," he growled, lips brushing her ear.
"I don't know it," she gasped.
His smirk was feral. "Good."
The raw tension between them boiled over, their bodies crashing like waves in a storm. Her nails left marks on his shoulders. His teeth grazed her skin.
Every time their eyes met, it felt like a dare—like they both knew this should never be happening, and yet neither of them could stop.
His thrusts grew rougher, sloppier, losing control as her moans filled the room, high and broken.
"I'm not going to last," he gritted out, head dropping to her neck.
"Then don't," she whispered.
When they came, it was together—loud, breathless, bodies trembling in sync.
He held her there, pressed against the wall, both of them panting, soaked in sweat and sin.
---
They didn't speak as they dressed.
Aria pulled on his shirt—the only thing she could find in the haze—and slipped out before dawn with heels in hand and lips still swollen.
She didn't ask his name.
She didn't want to know.
Some lines are easier to forget when you leave them unnamed.
---
8:00 a.m. — The Next Day
Elite. Polished. Brutal.
That's what Blackmoor University was known for. Only the brilliant, the connected, or the cursed ended up here.
Aria adjusted her jacket over the wrinkled black shirt she still hadn't returned.
Classroom 302.
Her first lecture.
She walked in and chose the farthest seat in the corner, tugging her hair into a bun, notebook ready, nerves pretending to be under control.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Her pen froze mid-air.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the room.
And then she saw him.
The man from last night.
Black suit. Cold expression. Same silver eyes.
Professor Raiden Knight.
He set his laptop down on the desk, fingers still bearing faint scratches from her nails.
"Welcome to Organized Crime Psychology," he said, scanning the room—then freezing on her.
Just for a second.
His jaw clenched.
Her breath hitched.
Neither of them said a word.
But something dark and knowing flickered in his eyes.
"Let's begin."