The intensity of his gaze warms me all the way down to my toes. He's right there leaning against the edge of the desk without moving a single muscle – except, well, that one. That one is hard because of me.

He's hard because of me.

I'm wet because of him.

It's so wrong.

I'm forced to uncross and cross my legs again because the throbbing between them is so intense. I've felt that way since he started reading my paper in class. Hearing him speak the words out loud, words that were meant only for him, made me angry.

But it also made me hot.

It was like he was reading them to me, as if he was speaking to me directly in the middle of class. My words coming from his mouth sounded ten times more saturated with innuendo than when I wrote them. They were sexy and sensual, dripping with lust.

I sat there in the classroom gripping the sides of my chair and trying desperately to keep myself from closing my eyes and imagining him whispering the same words in my ear.

Kind of like I'm trying to do right now.

I told myself I was coming here to confront him about reading my paper in front of the entire class. He didn't accidentally assign me lust and he didn't randomly choose to read my paper; he was needling me specifically because he knew I had no experience with the topic.

I came to his office with my heart pounding in my chest while adrenaline and arousal coursed through my entire body. I insisted to myself that I came here solely to satisfy my curiosity about the assignment and not to satisfy my curiosity about anything else.

Like what's tenting the dress pants he's wearing.

I open my mouth, about to ask him what he means when he says I'm not prepared to give him what he's looking for. I'm almost brave enough to do it, too – but not quite. The way he's looking at me right now, the darkness in his eyes, gives me pause. Somehow, I'm certain that if I ask the question, I can never go back.

Instead, I clear my throat and ask the easier question again. "Why did you read my assignment in class?"

His eyes narrow. "Why did you write it?"

"That's a silly thing to ask. You assigned it to me. That's why I wrote it. Why else would I write about lust?"

I fidget with my skirt and then uncross and cross my legs again, increasingly uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. I don't know what to do with any of this. I've never been in this situation before – wet and wanting, alone with an older man who is openly and unapologetically hard for me.

I smooth my skirt down over my thigh, even though for a moment I consider how he might react if I pulled it in the opposite direction – up rather than down. But I could never do something so brazen.

"You could have written about any number of things related to lust, Ms. Taylor," he replies. His eyes flicker from my thighs to my face. "Yet you chose to write about unrequited lust – a forbidden relationship."

Guilty as charged.

I wrote about how I feel about him. I shouldn't have. When I was writing it, I told myself that I was only doing it because he was trying to get a rise out of me. He told me to write something with passion and fire, and I rose to the occasion. He assigned me lust because he thought I was an innocent little girl who wouldn't dare write something adult.

Of course, that isn't why I wrote it at all – but I'd never admit the real reason to him.

Clearing my throat, I pull my assignment from my notebook. I need a diversion, something to distract him from pressing the issue anymore. I don't want to admit that when I wrote the piece, I wondered if it would turn him on.

The paper is a mess – he clearly balled it up and then smoothed it out, because it's still wrinkled. Stains dot the surface like he spilled something on it. Clearly, he disliked it so much that he tried to throw it away – which makes me more certain that he thought it was truly awful and only wanted to read it in class in order to embarrass me. "Did you wrinkle this up and throw it away?"

He raises his eyebrows and gives me a long look. "Did I…throw it away…" he mumbles, letting out a low chuckle under his breath as he shakes his head. "Don't be obtuse. You think it's wrinkled because I –"

I don't let him finish. "Because you spilled something on it and you crumpled it up and threw it away. Did you read it in class because you knew it would embarrass me?" I spit out the words quickly because I need to articulate my worst fear – that Professor Ryan actually thinks I'm an idiot and is really trying to humiliate me, but I'm so naïve that I'm misinterpreting everything as something else, something that makes me walk around with my thighs clenched together and my breath short.

"I… spilled something…" he murmurs, his voice trailing off. "You write a paper like that and you think I spilled something on it…"

"What else could I think other than that you –" I start, and then stop short when I realize that he's saying – or what I think he could be saying. My hand flies to my mouth as I inhale sharply, and my face practically radiates heat. "Ohhh. Oh my gosh."

No. He can't be saying that. It's too filthy.

But when I look into his eyes, I realize it's true.

"Go on, Purity," he growls.

I can't speak because my breath seems to be caught in my throat. It already feels like a million degrees in the office, yet it seems to get hotter the second he calls me Purity instead of Ms. Taylor, that last vestige of formality between us gone.

"Say what just occurred to you," he tells me.

"I don't know – um – I don't know what I was thinking…" He's crazy to tell me to say what just went through my head. I can't possibly say that out loud. I don't know what I was thinking even coming to his office like this – and especially writing that paper.

"Yes, you do," he insists. His expression is stern and the heat in his eyes, positively smoldering. "That's why you're blushing. You anticipated what I'd do with that paper. It's what you wanted me to do with that paper. That's why you wrote it."

No. I didn't think things through that far ahead.

I can't breathe. My hands tremble at the thought.

I'm not ready for this. I could never be ready for this.

I stand up quickly, still clutching the paper in my hand.

I need to get out of here. I should get out of here.

But when I rise, it puts me face to face with him – and far nearer to him than I realized I'd be. I'm so close that I can smell the faint aroma of aftershave on his skin the same way I did at the pizza restaurant. It makes me just as dizzy now as it did then.

I don't know why I get dizzy and flustered when I'm near him – or why the thought of him doing that because of something I wrote makes me so heady with desire that I feel faint.

"Sit down," he tells me, his voice hard. "You're not just walking out of here."

"I'm – I – Um…It's not true that I wrote it because I knew you would…you know…" I still can't quite bring myself to speak the words.

"Say it." His eyes are dark and his voice is commanding. He doesn't move a muscle nor does he reach out to touch me, but my entire body is on alert – waiting, begging for him to do just that.

I desperately want him to touch me, but I stand stock-still, unmoving, because I can't possibly admit that. "You're wrong," I whisper. "I didn't know you would do anything."

"Bullshit," he says sharply. "If you don't want me to treat you like a naïve little girl, then stop acting like one."

"I'm not acting like a little girl!"

"Then say the words, Purity. What do you think I did with the dirty little paper you wrote for me? I want to hear you articulate the words. Act like a grown woman and –"

"You touched yourself," I interrupt, exasperated. "You read what I wrote and it made you come!"

I clap my hand over my mouth immediately because I can't believe I just said that. My heart racing, I back up into the chair, sinking into the seat because I don't know what else to do. My mind is swimming.

Sitting in the chair places me at eye level with the very obvious bulge in his pants. Holy crap.

I stare at it and then look at him.

Mr. Gabe smiles smugly. "So, you're not such a naïve little girl after all. Did you think that reading about your fantasy wouldn't make me hard?"

"It was fiction," I whisper, but we both know that's a lie. "It wasn't my fantasy."

"Not your fantasy?" He crosses his arms, the edges of his mouth turning up. "So, then, I'm supposed to believe that you haven't slid your fingers between your legs and touched your wet little pussy thinking of me?"

Did he really just say that? It's as if he can read my mind, like he knew exactly what I did when I lay awake in bed the other night fantasizing about him.

I can't seem to speak, but I know my answer is written all over my face.

"Don't be coy," he says. "Did you really think I wouldn't stroke my cock while reading your paper? Or that I wouldn't dare come all over it? Maybe you imagined that I would be a gentleman and pretend it wasn't written to me. Is that it? Because if you think I'm a gentleman, you're sorely mistaken, little girl."

"I'm not a little girl," I reply, my teeth clenched.

His expression softens, but only for a moment. "No, you're not. You're a grown adult woman who's playing with fire."

I basically just admitted to touching myself while thinking about you. I'm more than aware I'm playing with fire.

I take a deep breath. "Maybe I like fire."

"Fire burns," he says, his voice hard. "It consumes and destroys, especially when it comes to someone like you."

"You just said I wasn't a little girl, but you refuse to treat me like an adult." I'm confused, frustrated, and can't think straight, not when he's hard right in front of me. He doesn't seem ashamed of it at all and makes no attempt to conceal it.

Doesn't he know what he's doing to me? I'm so turned on that I can't focus on what we're saying. I wonder how he would react if I reached out and slid my palm up the front of his pants. I wonder what he'd do if I got on my knees right here in his office, unzipping his pants, and took out his big, hard…

At that moment, he steps forward away from the desk. His cock is suddenly inches from my mouth, like he can tell what I'm thinking about doing and wants to facilitate things.

I hold my breath, my heart pounding furiously in my chest, waiting for something – anything – to happen. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for exactly. Part of me hopes that he'll reach for his belt, that he'll unbuckle it and unzip his pants right now and tell me to open my mouth.

Part of me is terrified that he'll do exactly that.

He doesn't. "Stand up," he orders.

"But I –"

"Stand up, Purity." His voice leaves no room for argument.

My legs tremble, threatening to buckle underneath me, but I stand anyway. Holding my breath, I wait with my face upturned toward him. He's so close to me that he could easily kiss me. I wait for him to press his lips to mine.

I want him to cover my mouth with his. I want him to grab me and pull me against him. I want to feel his hardness pressed against me.

I want him to take me. I want him to teach me everything.

But he doesn't lay a finger on me.

"You need to leave right now, little girl," he says. His breath is ragged and his voice is thick. When he looks at me, his expression is dark and angry, almost menacing.

"What if I don't want to leave?" I whisper, embarrassed by how whiny I sound. Surely he's daring me to stay.

Part of me wants to stay more than anything. Part of me isn't sure I'm ready for what might happen if I do.

"You're pure," he replies, his voice low in his throat, almost a growl. Reaching up to the side of my face, his finger traces the outline of my jaw. Reflexively, my eyes close as I turn into his touch.

I think I hear myself let out a little moan as he makes his way along my jawline, pausing just underneath my chin to tilt my jaw up. I don't want him to stop. I want him to keep going, to trail his fingers down my neck and between my breasts. I want to feel his fingertips skim over my nipples. I want him to trace them down my abdomen and lower until he's between my legs.

I want him to push his fingers inside me, to touch me where no one's ever touched me before.

"Maybe I'm not as pure as you think I am," I argue.

Or maybe I've been pure all this time because no one has ever turned me on the way you do. Maybe I've been waiting this whole time for someone like you.

I don't say any of that, though. I'm not brave enough to speak the words.

I'm not brave enough to tell him what I so desperately want.

"You're an untouched, innocent, naïve little girl who thinks she wants something that she has no idea how to handle." His voice is hard but he thumbs my lower lip gently as he speaks, his gesture a stark contrast to the harshness of his words. He looks at me like he's trying to decide what to do with me.

"I might be untouched, but I'm not naïve, and I'm not a little girl," I reply forcefully. As his thumb presses against my lower lip, I open to take it into my mouth. I let out a long moan at the sensation of his finger on my tongue and my eyelids close almost involuntarily. I imagine that it's him inside my mouth instead of his finger.

When my eyes finally open, he's practically glowering at me as if he's angry with me for doing what I did. He yanks his finger from my mouth and stumbles back until his rear end is against the desk again, then puts both of his hands on either side of his thighs, gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles are white. The bulge in his pants is so big now that it looks like it might burst right out of his zipper.

"Sit down, Purity," he orders.

"But you just told me to stand," I protest.

"Sit. Down. Now."

So I do exactly as I'm told. I lower myself into the seat, squeezing my thighs together in a pathetic attempt to quell my arousal. "Yes, Sir."

I don't know where the Sir comes from, but when I say it, he lets out a groan under his breath that's so sensual, I want to hear him make that sound over and over. I want to know how to do everything that could possibly elicit that sound again from this man.

"You think you're not naïve?" he asks.

"I'm not," I whisper. "I know what I want."

"You know what you want?" He gives me a dark look. "Don't lie to me this time, Purity. No bullshit and no games. Are you a virgin?"

I nod mutely. My hands go to my lap on top of my thighs, and I sit there primly as he sizes me up.

"Of course you are," he mutters. "Have you ever even touched a cock?"

"No. But that doesn't mean I don't know anything about anything."

"Has anyone ever touched you?" His hands grip the sides of the desk tighter. "Has anyone ever made you come?"

"No," I whisper.

"But you've touched yourself."

"A few times," I whisper, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my skirt. "Only when I couldn't hold out any longer and had to."

"Only when you couldn't help it, because you were taught it was wrong by your father," he elaborates. "Yet you're sitting in my office telling me that you're not naïve and innocent and that you know exactly what you want."

"That's true. I want to –" I take a deep breath. "I want to know what it's like – the things I've thought about."

He lets out a low laugh. "The things you've thought about are nothing compared to what I'd do to you. You have no idea what I'd do with you, Purity. You don't want to open that door."

A shiver runs up my spine, a thrill going through me at the dark promises he makes. He thinks he's going to scare me off, but I'm right here, breathless. I'm on the precipice and I'm ready to jump.

At least, I think I'm ready.

Jump.

"I want to know what it feels like – " I take a deep breath and tell myself to just say it. "I want to know what it feels like to be – to be – fucked."

Fucked. The word is so awkward, so completely foreign to my ears that I have to force it out, spit it out because otherwise I'll back away from saying it – and I wanted to say it. I meant to say it, more than anything I've meant before. It's dizzying and terrifying, and my cheeks are burning with embarrassment because I know the word sounds ridiculous and awkward.

I know that I'm ridiculous and awkward and naïve and bumbling and innocent. But I don't want to be any of that. I'm tired of being those things.

His mouth twitches at the edges, and my heart sinks. He's laughing at me. The tears that fill my eyes at the thought that he's making fun of me take me completely by surprise. I stand quickly to cover my embarrassment. "I didn't come here to get laughed at."

Mr. Gabe catches my wrist, his fingers wrapping around it and keeping me from walking away. "I wasn't laughing at you."

"I saw the look you gave me," I tell him angrily. "I – This was a mistake."

"Do you see how fucking hard I am right now?" he growls. "That's because of you, little girl. You think I'm laughing at you?? My goddamned cock is about to explode listening to you talk about being fucked."

"Oh," I breathe.

"Listening to you talk about how no one's touched you… You think I think that's some kind of a joke? None of this is fucking funny at all. You're Alan's daughter. You're young enough to be my daughter. You're a student here."

"I know," I whisper. "It's wrong."

"Which is why I'm telling you to turn that perfect little ass around right now and walk out my office door. You don't know what you're doing right now, little girl. I'm not the man you want to fuck you."

"I told you I'm not a little girl," I reply defiantly. "And you have no idea what kind of man I want to – to fuck me. You have no idea how I want to be – fucked."

"I'm not a good man, little girl," he says, his voice gravelly. He grips a handful of my hair, yanking my head back as he pulls it. The roughness of the gesture takes me by surprise. What takes me even more by surprise is the way it makes me moan. "I'm not kind or gentle and I’m sure as hell not going to be easy on you, whether it’s your first time or not.”

He gives my hair another tug for emphasis – not too hard, but enough to send a shock of pain through me followed by a wave of pleasure. I let out a whimper, so turned on that if he were to just slide his other hand down my body and put his fingers between my legs, I know I'd come immediately.

I ache for his touch. I crave his touch. My entire body seems to hum with the anticipation of his touch.

"Maybe I don't want gentle and kind," I tell him.

He grips my hair tighter, the expression on his face pained. "You need to want that, Purity."

"Don't tell me what I need."

He pulls me against him by my hair, pain rushing through me again. But it's quickly eclipsed by the knowledge that he is hard as granite against my thigh. He yanks my hair back and bends toward me. His lips are inches away from mine, and my lips fall open as I wait for him to kiss me.

I want him to take my mouth.

He brings his lips closer and closer to mine – but just as they're about to touch, he pulls away. Dropping my wrist, he returns to where he was before – his rear against the desk and his hands gripping the edges. "You need to leave right now, little girl."