Chapter 3 The Dean's List

"Some girls chase grades. Some make them bend."

Professor Richard Callahan wasn't just feared. He was respected.

Strict grading. Iron discipline. No makeup tests. No sympathy.

He was also undeniably hot.

Late forties, salt and pepper beard, button-down shirts that clung to biceps he didn't show off but couldn't hide, and that low, gravel-smooth voice that made students sit up straighter or cross their legs tighter.

Alina Reyes never thought she'd be one of those girls.

The type who flirted for a grade.

The type who stayed after class, batted her lashes, and bit her lip while asking for "extra credit."

But desperate times made sinners of saints.

She was one mistake away from losing her scholarship, and Callahan's class was her undoing. Logic and Reason. Dry. Brutal. Heavy on Aristotle, light on forgiveness.

She'd aced every course before this one. But he saw through her charm, her short skirts, her eyelashes fluttering behind thick glasses.

Until that Friday.

Until she knocked on his office door and walked in with nothing under her coat.

"Close the door," he said, eyes still on a stack of blue books.

She obeyed. Locked it.

He didn't look up. "If you're here to beg for a B, don't waste my time."

"I'm not here to beg," Alina said, stepping closer.

His pen paused.

"I'm here to earn it," she added, letting her coat slip down her arms.

His eyes lifted slowly.

The pen dropped.

She was completely bare. Breasts high, nipples taut from the air conditioning, thighs smooth and glistening.

He leaned back in his chair, appraising her like an object he wasn't supposed to want.

"This is inappropriate," he said flatly.

"But not uninvited," she replied, stepping between his knees.

He didn't stop her when she unbuckled his belt.

"Tell me what I need to learn," she whispered, fingers wrapping around him. "I'll study every inch."

He inhaled sharply as she dropped to her knees, mouth brushing his tip.

"Alina..."

But her tongue silenced him.

She took him slow, eager, eyes locked with his as she hollowed her cheeks and let him slide deep. His hands twitched but didn't push her away. Not anymore. Not after the first groan escaped him.

His head fell back. "God forgive me."

She pulled away with a smirk. "There are no saints here, Professor."

He grabbed her, dragged her up to straddle him, pinning her against the wall of his office. Books fell. Papers scattered.

His mouth found her breast, his hands her hips. She gasped as he entered her in one hard thrust, her nails raking down his back through his shirt.

Each grind, each thrust, felt like rebellion.

She wasn't just riding him she was taking back control.

"Say it," she whispered.

"What?"

"That I'm on your list."

He gripped her tighter, growled into her throat. "You're on the top."

She came first. Clenching around him, legs shaking, head thrown back as his desk creaked under them.

When he followed, panting against her neck, he held her close like he hadn't just sinned but prayed with her body.

Monday.

She got her grade back.

A bold red A, circled at the top.