He clamps my throat and drills me with his gaze—dark as the night itself. His other hand slides onto my hip and pulls the edge of my skirt up; the fabric yields easily. I meet his eyes defiantly, as if challenging him: will he go through with it or back off? He tightens his grip, cutting off the air. I part my lips, greedily catching what’s almost gone.
— So you won’t even move? — he throws out, and the upper lip trembles nervously.
— And what are you capable of? Scaring me with your university? — I squeeze out the words with difficulty.
— I’ll tear you to shreds—he hisses through clenched teeth. — Look—don’t break your teeth if you decide to bite.
I understand that I’m the one starting this. I understand I could pay for it. But I can’t stop: I have such a stupid reaction to a threat—press back even harder, push the person past the line. Someone breaks and retreats. Someone—except not Maksim Dymarskiy. Dym.
My worst nightmare and my hottest erotic dream.
My cursed student.