Page 20 of His to Teach

Her eyes light up. "Really?"

"Don't sound so surprised." I gesture for her to approach. "You have a natural talent for critical analysis, particularly when it comes to feminist readings of canonical texts."

She comes around my desk to peer at the paper, leaning close enough that I can smell her perfume—something light and floral that's become as familiar to me as my own cologne. "An A+?" she breathes, seeing the grade circled at the top.

"Earned entirely on merit," I clarify, though she's never once suggested otherwise. "Your argument about Woolf's subversion of male narrative authority was genuinely insightful."

She beams at me, pride flushing her cheeks. This is what others don't understand about us. Yes, there's the sex—raw and primal and addictive. But there's also this: her brilliant mind, her genuine passion for literature, the way she sees connections others miss.

I reach into my pocket and withdraw a small silver key. "I have something for you."

Her eyes fix on it, confusion evident. "What's that?"

"Spare key to my apartment." I place it in her palm, closing her fingers around it. "You're moving in after finals. No discussion."

Her eyes widen. "Gordon…I can't. My roommate, the dorm contract⁠—"

"All manageable details." I cup her face in my hands. "I want you with me, princess. Every night. Not just when we can steal a few hours."

She bites her lip, conflicted. "It's a huge step. People will notice."

"Let them." I'm beyond caring what others think. "You practically live there already. Half your clothes are in my closet. Your toothbrush is next to mine. Your favorite tea is in my cabinet."

"What about the university rules? If anyone found out⁠—"

"They won't." I stroke her cheek with my thumb. "And even if they did, you're worth the risk."

Something shifts in her expression—uncertainty giving way to determination. "Okay."

"Okay?" I repeat, wanting to be sure.

She nods, a smile spreading across her face. "Yes. I want that too. To be with you properly. To wake up with you every morning."

The simplicity of her acceptance, the trust implied in those words, tightens something in my chest. I kiss her, harder than I intended, pulling her body against mine.

When we break apart, her eyes are dark with desire. "Should we celebrate?" she asks, voice dropping to that breathy register that never fails to harden my cock.

"I think," I say, guiding her to the small couch in the corner of my office, "that you deserve a reminder of who's in charge first."

Her pulse visibly quickens at my words. "What do you mean?"

"You've been teasing Daddy all term, princess." I sit, patting my lap. "The no-panties stunt. The 'accidental' glimpses of cleavage during discussions. The way you bite your pen when you know I'm watching."

Her cheeks flush. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar." I pat my lap again, more firmly. "Over my knee. Now."

She hesitates only briefly before draping herself across my lap, her small body fitting perfectly. Her skirt rides up, exposing the curve of her ass in simple cotton underwear. So deceptively innocent.

"Count for me," I instruct, raising my hand. "Five should do it."

The first spank lands with a satisfying crack, her body jerking in surprise. "One," she gasps.

I smooth my hand over the spot, feeling the heat rising through the thin fabric. The second spank is harder, drawing a small cry from her lips.

"Two," she manages, voice shaky.

By the fifth, her breathing is ragged, her body trembling slightly. When I slip my hand beneath her underwear, I find her soaking wet.