I never thought I’d see him again.

I obeyed his demand six years ago. I went to the lectures, but didn’t so much as raise my eyes from my notes. Hearing his voice was hard enough.

When I left Oxford, I promised myself I’d let it go. I did, mostly.

I dated guys my age. Normal ones. We had vanilla sex, and I lost my virginity to some guy named Chase. The sex was bad. He told me he loved me, and then he cheated on me, and then I started to suspect that “love” as a pure and noble thing might just not exist.

The closest I ever came to looking up Professor Leeds again was after one unfortunate night out.

I drank too much, and I started talking to some guy named Tosh. I thought it was a stupid name, and he was one of those guys who just seemed to float through life. When I asked him what he did, he told me he “painted, wrote, and lived.”

If there had been any fewer than five drinks in me, I’d have laughed that line off and never given him the time of day.

Drunk as I was, I indulged him.

Soon we ended up back at his place. His living room and kitchen looked like some kind of meth house, but he told me it was just his roommates’ stuff and that they weren’t home.

I almost walked out right then, but when we got to his room, I noticed it was immaculately clean. Then I noticed all the kinky shit. It was hard to miss. There was some kind of wooden board with leather straps pressed up against the wall. There was a full-leather, black bodysuit hanging next to his button-up shirts. It looked almost like man’s skin had been flayed and just hung up casually with Tosh’s work clothes.

He asked me if I liked toys, and I shrugged. Embarrassed to admit that yes, sometimes, I did. Usually when I am alone and want to relieve tension. I’d never considered using them in front of a man.

He opened a drawer full of them. From mostly “standard” thick veiny ones to ones with dicks on both sides. I looked at it all with my mouth hanging open, and Tosh grinned at me.

“So,” he said, “do you want to...play?”

He reached under his bed and pulled out a rope.

It hit me then, though, that no, I didn’t want to play. I wanted to obey. And I didn’t want to obey some weird OCD guy living in a crackhouse who “paints, writes, and lives,” I wanted a real man, one like Professor Leeds, to tell me exactly what to do.

Professor Leeds wouldn’t need some weird sex dungeon with a bunch of complicated dungeon shit. Tosh’s entire sex dungeon couldn’t compare to the way Professor Leeds had held that simple tie.

I made some feeble excuses and got out of there, thankful that Tosh didn’t try to hold me there against my will.

It was all vanilla sex from then on. That fantasy of a man like Elijah Leeds wrapping his tie around me—ordering my body to move exactly how he wants it to move—fell back inside me. It stayed buried deeply enough that I never even thought about it. Why think of something that isn’t going to happen? It remained buried with other dark fantasies. Sometimes I’d run those other fantasies through my head, imagining they might happen someday, but I wrote off Dr. Leeds. That one was never to be, and it hurt too much to think about it.

But then everything changed when I tried to find a job during the first semester of my Ph.D. program. I trawled through the listings, and I realized in one glorious moment that fate must be real, because I saw “Leeds, Elijah” in the “Professor” column. It burned as brightly as if written in fire, and I knew that my fantasy would have to come true. Elijah Leeds didn’t come to Pittsburgh to teach. He came here to dominate me.

* * *

The interview is on the thirty-fifth floor of the Cathedral of Learning. The Cathedral was built in the early 1900s, but it looks like something that would have been built in medieval Europe. The gothic-style cathedral is over five hundred feet tall, its forty-two stories dwarfing all the buildings around it. A large chunk of Pitt’s classes are held within the cathedral, and it’s apparently where Elijah Leeds’ new office is located.

I cross the grass field leading up to the cathedral and step inside to the commons room. The commons room looks like a place you’d find Christian monks copying bibles with feathered quills and bottles of ink. I walk through toward the elevators—thankfully the building isn’t totally medieval—and hit the button for the thirty-fourth floor.

I’m early for the interview and don’t want to risk Professor Leeds seeing me until I’m walking into his office, just like I used to back at Oxford. I want to catch him off guard.

He won’t know it’s me, because I decided to take my mother’s last name five years ago. The divorce was messy, and my father was a total asshole about it. So I’m Nicole Weissman now, and Professor Leeds will have no reason to suspect his interview with Ms. Weissman is anything more than one with just another grad student looking for a job.

The elevator stops and lets me out onto the floor below Professor Leeds’ office. There are classrooms on this floor, and the area just outside the elevator is filled with undergrads who seem to be cramming for a test.

A few of the guys look up at me, and their eyes linger. I can see them trying to figure out if I’m a student or not. When they look reluctantly away, I realize I must at least be dressed professionally enough that I don’t look like an undergrad. Then I catch them sneaking looks at me, and I know that my outfit is doing exactly what I’d hoped.

Time seems to slow to a crawl as I wait. I look over my resume a few times, trying to think of any questions he might ask me. I realize I’m having to prepare both for the real interview and for my reunion with Professor Leeds. If I focus too much on the interview, I might blow a chance with him. If I direct my attention the other way, I might not even get the damn job. I don’t have any idea how he’s going to react to me. It would be incredibly naive of me to assume that even after six years he still cares about some exchange student with a crush. He might still care, and he might still have thought about me from time to time, but I can’t assume it.

I have to fight for this. The worst case, I realize, is that he’s totally over me, and that he refuses to hire me because of our past. He was so hung up on being professional back at Oxford, so why would I expect him to act any differently now?

When my watch hits seven minutes before the hour, I head for the elevator and go up one floor. I exit onto a floor filled with offices. The central area is full of tables populated by grad students working on various projects or having coffee. I give a smile to the people sitting at the table nearest me—realizing they could be my future coworkers—and ask them where Professor Leeds’ office is located.

“Down the hall,” one of the men says. “Turn the corner, and then it’s the first office on your left.”

I thank him and proceed down the hallway. When I turn the corner, I see the door. The nameplate looks brand new. Elijah Leeds, Ph.D. He’s Dr. Leeds now, of course.

As I look at the door, realizing he’s just on the other side of it, I have a sudden urge to just run away. Back at Oxford, when I wanted to be with him, all the risk was on his end. If we had been caught together, he’d have been the one to be penalized. I would have just been the poor innocent girl he corrupted. I didn’t realize back then how selfish I had been.

Now, though, if something was to happen between us and we’re found out...no one in the field will take me seriously again. How will any of my professional achievements be taken seriously if I’m banging my boss?

Then I remember him holding the tie in his hands, and am overwhelmed by my desperate need to feel him wrapping it around my skin. My body shudders, and I know that I have to give in. I have to surrender to this. To him.

I take a breath in and knock on the door.

“Come in.” His voice is muffled, but it’s his. This is about to get real.

I turn the knob, open the door, and step inside.

He’s sitting at his desk, facing away from the door. I can only see the back of his head, and he’s hunched over a book. His computer doesn’t even look like it’s turned on.

“Have a seat Ms. Weissman,” he mutters. “I’ll be just a minute. You’re early.”

His office is fairly neat, save for the piles of books. Many are open and annotated. There’s an empty chair in the corner. I could just sit down like he asked, but I want him to see me before I sit down.

“You can just call me Nikki,” I say.

I see his broad shoulders tighten, and he freezes for a long moment. Finally, he swivels his chair around, and he looks at me with wide eyes.

He looks just like he did before, but somehow he’s become even more handsome. There are slight wrinkles around his eyes, and a few strands of grey running through his hair near the temples. Still the same square, chiseled-cut jaw, and the same muscular body. He hasn’t grown a gut or let himself go. His dark eyes meet mine, and then they wander slowly down my body.

I feel wet already, just watching his eyes running across me like before. I want him to drink in every inch of me. Will he take me right now? Is that hoping for too much?

“Ms. Faria,” he says, finally.

“It’s Weissman now,” I say.

“So you’re married?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. I hear profound disappointment seeping into his voice.

“Oh,” I say, feeling like an idiot. “God, no. My parents divorced, and I took my mother’s name.”

He nods, then pulls my resume off his desk. He looks down at it. “Are you going to sit down?”

I slide the chair forward and sit. I cross my legs and try not to feel nervous, but my heart is pounding so hard that even he must hear it.

“You just got your Master’s in German Literature,” he says, grinning, “Last I remember you were undecided.”

I wait for him to look up at me, and as soon as he does, I say, “Not anymore. I know exactly what I want now.”

“And what’s that?” he asks.

“This,” I say.

He frowns.

“This job,” I add hastily. “Being your TA would really do wonders for my Ph.D. studies.”

“I’m not just looking for a TA, Nicole.”

My heart pounds harder. Blood rushes through my ears so loudly that it feels like I’m standing in the ocean as waves break all around me.

“What...what are you looking for?” I ask.

Someone to obey. Someone to dominate.

“A mentee,” he says.

“Oh,” I croak. “I...I didn’t think I’d have a mentor this soon, but…”

“I’m looking for the most qualified candidate,” he says. “Someone whose interests align most closely with mine. I’ll not let our past involvement influence my decision.”

Does he mean…?

“I’ll evaluate you exactly as I do all the other candidates,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” I say. “I understand.”

“Now,” he says. “Tell me how you came to be in Pittsburgh.”

“I wanted to live in a real city,” I say. “And the German department here is really good. It was my first choice.”

“So you got your first choice,” he says. “Do you always get what you want?”

I shake my head. “No. Not always. I’m used to being denied what I really want, but I don’t give up.”

He smirks. He’s looking down at my resume, not making eye contact with me.

“How do you feel about balancing teaching with research?”

“I think teaching is really important,” I say. “And I enjoy it. A lot of grad students think it’s just some annoying obligation that gets in the way of their research. For me, it really helps my research to be around undergrads. Teaching others solidifies everything in my mind.”

“Smaller classes here,” he says. “You can’t just talk in a big lecture hall. You’ll need to engage with individual students.”

“All the better,” I say. “I like...engaging...one-on-one.”

“I know you do,” he says. “At least you liked to as a student. I’d want to see that same passion from you as a teacher.”

God. Is he—is he doing what I think he’s doing? He’s not denying what happened—or almost happened—between us. Even though he’s not denying it, he’s acting like it almost doesn’t matter? Like it’s completely irrelevant. And yet, at the same time, it feels like he’s dropping hints. Like he’s trying to entice me back to where we were before. I want the job too badly to say anything outright, to be blunt. Once he’s taken me on as his TA and becomes my mentor, then I can start to take bigger risks, but first I have to get this damn job.

“You know I’m passionate,” I say. “I won’t let you down there.”

“Good,” he says. “Though there is such a thing as being too passionate.”

I feel my blood freeze. Is he saying what I think? I try not to blush or show outward signs of panic. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs and grins. “You’d know it when you see it.”

I meet his eyes. “Do you see it then?”

He shakes his head. “Not now, no.”

“I have just the right amount of passion then,” I say. “As much as you want.”

He nods and looks down at my resume. “I think we’ll do it then.”

“Do it?” I ask, realizing only after it leaves my mouth that there is a definite double-meaning there. I hold my tongue instead of digging myself in any deeper.

“The job, of course,” he says. “What did you think I meant?”

He looks at me like I’m an idiot, but there’s a glint of playfulness in his eyes. It’s like he loves shifting me off balance like this. He loves watching me feel uncomfortable. At least I think he does. What do I really know about Elijah Leeds? I thought he wanted me back then, and I thought he’d take me, but he didn’t. Maybe now he just needs a TA, and maybe I really am the most qualified candidate.

“Nothing,” I say. “I mean, I thought you meant the job, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. So...I’m hired?”

“Of course,” he says. “Can you start Monday?”

I nod enthusiastically, and I stop myself from jumping out of the chair and hugging him or doing something else equally as idiotic.

He gives me a curt nod, and a devilish grin overtakes his face. “Well then,” he says, pointing toward the door. “Good day, Ms. Faria.”

* * *

Usually I savor the weekend. Even though I never really manage to get all of my work done to have a fully clear weekend, I usually manage to at least take it easy. In summer, I’ll find time to hit the pool, and in winter, I’ll bundle up on the couch and read a book that has nothing to do with German literature—something trashy and steamy.

This weekend, on the other hand, is torture.

It reminds me of being in middle school, back when “dating” used to mean a boy walking up to you and asking, “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” You’d say ‘yes,’ and then feel butterflies every time you saw each other in the hallway. At least for a week or so, until you realized you had nothing in common and were too afraid to even touch each other. It feels like that again, that same exhilarating fluttering feeling in my stomach, and all that I want to do is feel that. It means I want to see Dr. Leeds again, and soon. I don’t want to wait two days.

I decide to focus as hard as I can on preparing to become a TA. I’ve only ever taught a few classes as part of my master’s program. Not full semesters, just single classes. My supervisors said I did a good job, but I still feel horribly inexperienced.

I’ll be teaching a freshman course: Intro to German Literature. I’m pretty sure that Dr. Leeds will supervise me closely. I hope he will. Still, I decide to draft up some sample syllabi. I spend most of the weekend burying myself in books, deciding what would be a good introduction for my students. I do anything I can to keep my mind off just how badly I want Dr. Leeds