Page 31 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

His satisfied growl vibrated against my neck, and then his hands were sliding under my sweater, palms warm against my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my bra. The touch sent electricity straight to my core, and I couldn't stop the desperate whimper that escaped.

"So responsive," he murmured, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Your body knows what it needs, doesn't it? Even when your mind tries to fight it."

He wasn't wrong. Every touch, every possessive caress, was making me melt further into him. My nipples were hard peaks against the lace of my bra, my core slick with want, my body betraying every rational thought I'd tried to maintain.

"Please," I whispered, not even sure what I was asking for.

"Please what?" His hands stilled, and I made a sound of protest that made him chuckle darkly. "Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what you need."

"I need..." The words stuck in my throat, shame and arousal warring within me.

"You need your Alpha to take care of you," he said, his voice silk over steel. "Don't you?"

I nodded frantically, beyond caring about the implications, lost in the heat building between us.

His hands moved to the waistband of my uniform skirt, and I helped him, desperate for more contact, more friction, more of whatever this was that made my entire world narrow to just him and the way he made me feel.

"Look at you," he murmured as his fingers found me through my panties, slick and wanting. "So wet for me already. Your body knows who it belongs to."

The first touch of his fingers against my bare skin made me cry out, my hips bucking into his hand shamelessly. He worked me with skilled precision, thumb circling my clit while his fingers explored, finding every spot that made me gasp and moan.

"That's it," he praised, his free hand tangling in my hair to keep me exactly where he wanted. "Let me hear how good this feels."

I was falling apart in his arms, every stroke of his fingers pushing me higher, closer to an edge I'd never approached with anyone else. The sounds coming from my throat were desperate, needy, completely unlike anything I'd ever made before.

"Dorian, I'm going to—"

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice rough with his own arousal. "Come on my fingers and show me who you belong to."

The orgasm hit me like a tidal wave, pleasure crashing through my body in waves that left me gasping and shaking against him. He held me through it, murmuring praise against my temple as I came apart completely.

"Beautiful," he murmured against my temple, holding me steady as the aftershocks faded. "Absolutely perfect."

But he wasn't done. I could feel his hardness against my hip, could see the hunger still burning in his eyes as he looked down at me.

"My turn," he said, and there was something almost feral in his smile.

His hands were already working his belt, the sound of leather and metal sharp in the small space. I watched, mesmerized, as he freed himself, his cock hard and demanding between us.

"On your knees," he commanded, his voice rough with need.

I sank down without hesitation, the cold floor harsh against my bare knees, looking up at him through my lashes. The position made me feel small, vulnerable, completely at his mercy—and the way his eyes darkened told me he knew exactly what it did to me.

"Open your mouth," he ordered, one hand tangling in my hair to guide me exactly where he wanted.

I parted my lips obediently, letting him slide inside with a low groan of satisfaction. He was thick, demanding, filling my mouth until I could taste nothing but him. His grip in my hair tightened as he began to move, setting a rhythm that left no doubt about who was in control.

"That's it," he praised, his voice strained with pleasure. "Take what I give you."

I hollowed my cheeks, working him with my tongue, lost in the taste and scent of him. Every sound he made—every growl of approval, every sharp intake of breath—sent heat spiraling through me again.

"Such a good girl," he murmured, his movements becoming more urgent. "So perfect for me. My perfect little Omega."

The possessive words, the way he claimed me even in this moment, pushed me toward another edge I hadn't expected. When he came with a harsh groan, filling my mouth with his release, I swallowed everything he gave me, marking myself with his taste.

He pulled me up afterward, his hands gentle now as he helped me steady myself against the mirror. "Mine," he said simply, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. "You understand that now, don't you?"

I nodded, beyond words, beyond rational thought. In the space of an hour, I'd gone from filing a complaint against him to being completely, utterly his.

"Good," he said, helping me gather my scattered clothes with surprising tenderness. "Get dressed. I'll walk you back to your dorm."

As we made ourselves presentable, the reality of what had happened began to sink in.

I'd crossed a line I could never uncross, surrendered in ways I'd never imagined possible.

And the most terrifying part wasn't how wrong it felt—it was how right it had felt in the moment, how complete I'd felt in his arms.

Now, in the aftermath, shame and self-loathing crashed over me in waves. What kind of person responded that way to their abuser? What did it say about me that I'd melted for the hands that had been around my throat just weeks ago?

"Tomorrow," he said as we prepared to leave, straightening his shirt with casual satisfaction, "we start fresh. New understanding between us."

I nodded mechanically, but inside I was screaming. New understanding—as if what had just happened was a negotiation rather than a complete capitulation. As if I'd had any real choice when the institution had made it clear my only options were submission or academic suicide.

"This doesn't change anything," I said suddenly, the words surprising us both. "What you did in that parking lot, the harassment, the assault. None of that goes away because I... because we..."

"Because you came apart in my hands?" His smile was sharp, knowing. "Because you begged me to make you feel good?"

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. "Because you orchestrated a situation where I had no other choice."

"There's always a choice, Vespera." He stepped closer, his scent still making my traitorous body respond despite my anger. "You chose this. You chose me."

"I chose survival," I corrected, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "That's not the same thing."

"We'll see," he said finally, holding the door open for me with mocking gallantry. "Time has a way of clarifying these things."

As we walked through the empty hallways, I wrapped my coat tighter around myself, trying to hold together the pieces of who I'd been before tonight. But I could still taste him, still feel the phantom touch of his hands on my skin.

I'd given him my body, but I hadn't given him my mind. And somehow, I had to find a way to live with that distinction—to survive whatever this new dynamic would become while holding onto the part of myself that knew the difference between choice and capitulation.

Even if that distinction was becoming harder and harder to maintain.