He thought it was over.
That maybe the hesitation meant she had changed her mind. That maybe her conscience, or his, had finally caught up. Maybe she'd rolled over and fallen asleep, lulled into peace again. He wanted to believe that. Needed to.
He lay there frozen under the blanket, eyes shut tight, limbs stiff, willing himself to calm down. To breathe. To steady the storm surging through his bloodstream. He needed to think. He needed to find the willpower he was known for, that invisible line he swore never to cross.
But then her hand returned.
Not to his crotch this time.
To his hand.
Her fingers grazed his knuckles first, feather-light, tracing the back of his hand like a secret she wasn't sure she had permission to tell. A barely-there pressure, not demanding—testing. Seeking.
His breath hitched. His heart beat out of rhythm, thudding painfully against his ribs.
She ran her fingers along the tendons of his hand, then over his wrist, so softly it barely registered as a touch. It was the kind of contact that wasn't meant to wake, but to stir. To awaken something deeper.
He wanted to flinch. Move. Say something.
But he didn't.
Because it wasn't enough to push away.
Because it wasn't threatening.
Because it felt... good. Too good.
She's scared, he told himself. She's trying to soothe herself. That's all.
But even in the quiet, he knew that wasn't entirely true.
His mind scrambled for logic, for a way to justify staying perfectly still while she touched him in ways no teacher should ever allow. His thoughts circled like caged animals, bumping into the walls he'd built—boundaries, ethics, consequences—but the bars were starting to bend.
Then her hand dipped.
Under the blanket.
Under the waistband.
Into his pants.
His entire body locked, every muscle wired, breath catching in his throat as her fingers brushed the base of him. Then wrapped around him.
His jaw clenched so tight it ached. He bit the inside of his cheek until the sting grounded him in something other than the unbearable heat that exploded through his abdomen.
But even that wasn't enough.
Not to stop the moan that nearly escaped his throat. Not to stop the way his cock twitched in her hand, already leaking, betraying him fully.
She moved slowly. Softly. No urgency, just exploration. Like she'd waited long enough and now wanted to savor every second.
Callum's thoughts fractured. Morals, guilt, rules—everything blurred at the edges of her grip.
He was supposed to stop this.
He was the adult.
The teacher.
But his hips had a mind of their own, pushing ever so slightly into her hand. A silent surrender. A whispered yes he didn't say aloud but gave her anyway.
He swallowed a curse, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
He didn't know how long it lasted. A minute? Two? Maybe more. Time warped in the haze of lust and shame.
Every part of him was screaming—some from desire, some from guilt. But the louder voice, the one he hated most, was the one that wanted more.
His cock throbbed in her grip, straining, aching, and when her thumb brushed his head and spread the wetness there, he nearly came undone.
He didn't move.
Couldn't move.
Because thinking had stopped mattering. Words had lost meaning. All that existed now was her touch, her breath somewhere beside him, and the quiet sound of skin moving against skin.
And by the time she stroked him again, deliberate and slow, Callum realized something devastating:
He'd become a slave to his lust.
And Lara Evans was the one holding the leash—and pulling tighter with every breathless second.
Then she leaned in.
Her lips brushed his ear so lightly he thought he imagined it—until her voice followed.
"Are you coming?"
It was barely a whisper. But it shattered everything.
The question detonated in his skull, and in that exact second, his body gave in. White heat surged through him, sharp and overwhelming.
His back arched slightly, breath catching in his throat as he came—hard—spilling into her hand with a groan he couldn't contain.
The act of pretending fell away completely, replaced only by the sweet, blinding relief of release.
Callum lay there, breath ragged and chest heaving, the high of it still rippling through him like an aftershock. He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the warm light spilling from the nightstand lamp. And then he turned.
She was watching him.
No—posing.
Under the glow, her body was laid bare to him. The blanket had slipped down her waist, revealing her entirely save for a pair of delicate panties. His gaze dragged over her smooth skin, across the curve of her hips, up the dip of her stomach to her full, perfect breasts—her nipples hard and flushed, rosy against the pale of her skin. Her collarbones framed her neck like art, and her lips...
Her lips were wrapped around her finger.
Tasting him.
Callum's breath caught. A low, involuntary groan tore from his throat. Just like that, he was hard again, the arousal flooding back with brutal speed, already tenting his joggers in shameful clarity.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he rasped, his voice rough, breaking. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away from her mouth before that red little tongue could drive him to madness.
But it was too late.
She smirked.
Slow. Knowing.
And when her eyes dipped lower, to the thick shape pressing against his pants, her smirk only deepened.
Callum burned.
From the inside out—with guilt, with lust, with everything he wasn't supposed to feel. He was furious with her. With himself. With the line they'd crossed. But he couldn't ignore the look in her eyes.
Or the unbearable truth in his body's response.