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“You like that?” I rasp. “You like seeing me expose myself to you? What are you going to do about it? Don’t just sit there, do something!”

As if I finally shake him loose, he looms over me. His face is still muddled by the dark, but I see him. That stern slash to his lips as he glares down sends another tendril of need racing through me, bringing me ever closer to the brink.

It’s not enough. It’s not fucking enough.

“Please.” This time, a soft whimper trembles through my tone, sounding weak, needy, and pathetic to my ears.

Wanton.

Desperate.

Yearning.

I’ve never sounded like this before. And certainly not with anything Caldwell ever tried with me. The pompous stuff shirt could barely even get a civil sentence from my lips, let alone anything close to being erotic.

It’s not like that with Dean Anderson. The man should be off limits to me. He’s not who my parents would want for me. He’s not even someone I can probably legally be with.

And that’s why I crave him. It has to be. Some girls rebel by dying their hair or chopping it all off. I want to rebel by seducing the most powerful man in Loftry University and making him fall as hard for me as I’m falling for him.

It’s sick, really. It’s twisted and perverse. Yet, with every thought that pounds through my head, it only brings me closer to the cusp of release. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m seeing the psychiatrist in a few days. This certainly can’t be healthy.

But even as that thought blossoms through my mind, Dean Anderson leans over even further until our lips are just a breath apart. His strong, firm fingers wrap around my throat as he pins me against the pillow. The pressure should frighten me. It should terrify me.

All it does is make my own fingers fly faster over my clit as I strain for release. God, but I’m insane. I must be. I wait for him to say something, anything. But all he does is watch me as I try my best to come.

My insides clench so hard I almost cramp as I work myself over. Reaching my other hand down, I tease my nipples, plucking at them, pinching them until a flare of pain washes over me. That’s all it takes. Just a little bite of discomfort and my body explodes into a flurry of movement.

I undulate my hips up and down, humping on air as my core clenches around nothing. God, what would it feel like to have him fill me up with fingers, his tongue, his cock, something. Anything.

Another spasm steals my breath as soft whimpers flutter through my lips. Then, and only then, does his lips part. He’s going to say something. What? Is it to chastise me? To tell me I’m a good girl? What?

At first, I can’t hear the words. It’s as if his lips are moving, but no sound comes out. As my brow furrows, he tries again, only this time, it’s a single piercing sound.

With each opening of his mouth, a loud buzzing siren comes out. What the hell? This can’t be right.

It continues in an incessant rhythm—mouth opens and horrendous honk comes out. As I watch this odd display, his body drifts away from me like smoke rising off the hot asphalt in the bowels of the deep south. Suddenly, he’s gone.

As I blink, bright light spears my eyes, drawing a ragged groan from my lips. It was a dream. It was all a fucking dream.

Yet, here I am in bed with my hand shoved down my pajama pants and a blanket wrapped around my neck. Pathetic. Utterly pathetic. Turning over, I swipe off the alarm and debate trying to go back to sleep, but the phone keeps buzzing in my hand.

It’s not just the alarm that woke me up. I wipe the sleep from my eyes as I yawn and stretch. I don’t want to be awake right now. I want to go back to la la land with a hot dean whose glare can make me wetter than anything else I’ve experienced.

Unfortunately, that won’t be the case. Though I’m not sure who’s blowing up my phone, they can wait until I’m caffeinated enough to deal with it. Besides, at ten am on a Thursday, I’m sure they have much better things to do. It’s not like I’m late for any classes, and since I’m the only one at the Loftry Lantern, no one should be expecting me.

Honestly, what I wanted was a nice, leisurely morning to write up my article about last night’s ‘detriment’ and get some homework done. Masturbating to the dean and waking up groggy was certainly not on the list.

As I get my coffee pod into the machine, I scroll through my phone and nearly drop it back onto the counter. How could I forget the paper going out? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Not that I regret any of it. I’m just not in the right mindset to think about it right now. Not when I can still feel Dean Anderson’s phantom hand around my throat. Setting my coffee stuff down, I curl back up on my bed and look through all the notifications.

Many are ones I normally expect around this time, however, my social media notifications are off the charts. My fingers tremble as I open the app and stare down at the response to my article.

Hate you for this.

I hope you die too. How can you make light of something like this?

It’s as if an overdose is now something to be sensationalized. Thanks a lot.