The Professor's Secret Kink

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The day my ice-cold professor shredded my thesis in front of the whole class, I texted my online boyfriend a single order: wear the nipple clamps to work tomorrow.

The next morning, the professor stood over my paper, his face flat and cold.

Turn in garbage like this again and you can go file your own withdrawal papers.

I shrank down in my seat. Without meaning to, I looked up.

And there, under the crisp white shirt, over the hard swell of his chest, something small strained against the fabric.

A strange little shape.

What I didn't know yet was how the whole thing would end.

This little cat-and-mouse game I was so sure I'd win. It would finish with him lining up two phone screens right in front of me, smiling, saying two soft words.

Caught you.

Chapter 1

I stared at Elliot Sinclair, eyes wide.

His chest filled out the shirt, straining it, every button done up to the very top. Ascetic. Cold. Precise.

When he lifted his arm, the fabric over his chest pulled tight for half a second.

The shape stood out clearer now. A star.

The nipple clamps I'd bought my online boyfriend were shaped like stars too.

What the hell?

Three months ago, Elliot Sinclair had joined Halewood University as a visiting professor, and the whole campus lost its mind.

Into college at fifteen. MIT physics PhD at twenty-three. Teaching at Princeton the same year.

Everyone said a Nobel Prize was only a matter of time.

That, and he had a face better-looking than most movie stars. The girls who came to sneak a look at him could've lined up from the lecture hall out to the track.

Too bad his personality ran in the exact opposite direction.

And I always felt like he had it out for me. Every single class was its own slow, drawn-out torture.

Here's the thing about me. All bark online, meek in person. I pick on the weak and fold to the strong.

So when Sinclair tore into me, I went home and took it out on my online boyfriend.

He called my thesis garbage, so I made my boyfriend admit he was a puppy.

He sneered that I wasn't smart enough, so I made my boyfriend kneel in a full suit.

And yesterday, after Sinclair mocked me one more time, I snapped and gave the order.

Me: [Wear the clamps I bought you to work tomorrow.]

And now, staring at that familiar little bulge under his white shirt, the room tilted around me.

No.

No way.

The ascetic, ice-cold, razor-tongued professor was the clingy, do-anything-I-say boyfriend who texted me good morning every single day?

The thought sent a cold shudder straight through me.

A shadow fell over my desk.

Somehow Sinclair had come down from the podium. He was standing right in front of me. White shirt, cuffs rolled back, one lean, pale wrist showing.

He curled a finger and rapped his knuckle against my desk.

"Juniper Cole. Your thesis is this bad, and you still have the nerve to sit there grinning?"

My face went hot. I scrambled to my feet.

Up close, I could see the shape under his shirt even more clearly.

So similar.

Same size.

Was it him?

It was him.

He let out a scoff.

"Is English really your first language?"

"Your paper belongs in a supermarket tabloid, not a real journal."

The whole room went dead silent.

Every pair of eyes swung toward me.

My cheeks burned. I pressed my lips together and forced the words out.

"Professor Sinclair. I'm sorry."

There was one thing I'd never told my online boyfriend.

The clamps I gave him didn't just clip on.

They vibrated. Remote-controlled, straight from an app on my phone.

Sinclair's expression didn't move.

"Sorry doesn't fix anything. Try putting that energy into your work instead."

At the same time, my thumb slid across my screen.

And pressed the button.

Sinclair's brow twitched, then pulled into a hard line.

Chapter 2

A thin buzz hummed through the air. The veins on the back of his hand stood up.

He dragged in a rough breath, and the tips of his ears went the faintest red.

"Ten-minute break."

He dropped the words and walked straight out of the room.

I sat frozen, thumb still on the button, like the floor had dropped out from under me.

It was really him.

My legs went soft and I sank into the chair, heart slamming hard enough to crack a rib.

Online, my boyfriend was sweet. Obedient. He gave me anything I wanted. Every day he sent gooey little texts about missing me, good morning, good night, letting me boss him around however I liked.

The Elliot Sinclair of real life was a dream come true for every masochist alive, and the venom out of his mouth was worse than a king cobra's.

How could they possibly be the same man?

Say it out loud and people would think grad school had finally broken my brain.

I held my phone like it was a live grenade.

A second later it buzzed, and I nearly threw it across the room.

A text from my boyfriend.

Him: [Oh my god babe, you have no idea how terrifying that was. The clamps just went off out of nowhere.]

I swallowed.

No. I knew exactly how terrifying. About ten thousand times worse than he did.

My hand was already typing before I could stop it.

Me: [That was me. Just checking my puppy's wearing them like a good boy.]

Him: [So babe was keeping tabs on me.]

He sent a sulky little puppy sticker, ears drooping.

But it was Sinclair's face that surfaced in my head. Gold wire-rimmed glasses. Cold eyes. That mouth always tugged down at the corners. The way he stood at the podium and swept his gaze over me like I was trash.

My heart pounded. My thumb flew across the screen.

Me: [That just now. How'd it feel?]

Him: [Just... a buzz. Kind of tingly in the chest.]

Me: [Did you like it?]

The other end went quiet for a few seconds. Then a shy little face.

Him: [...I like anything you give me, babe.]

Him: [But maybe warn me next time?]

Him: [I was mid-lecture. Almost moaned out loud.]

The phone buzzed again.

This time, a photo. Cropped off below the chin.

Cold pale skin. A hard, cut chest. Eight clean rows down his stomach. And clipped there, a tiny silver star, the skin around it flushed red, red enough to make everything else look whiter.

Him: [Look babe, it's all red now. T_T]

Ten minutes later, Sinclair walked back in, right on time.

He'd pulled a dark gray jacket on over the white shirt. Broad shoulders. Lean waist.

And only I knew.

That under this flawless, bespoke suit, on the chest of the ascetic, ice-cold, vicious Professor Sinclair, he was still wearing the clamps I'd given him.

I swallowed. A dangerous little question crept in.

If I told him right now, right here, who I really was, what face would he make?

Surely he'd stop making my life hell.

The next second, Sinclair shattered that fantasy.

He stood at the podium and looked down at me.

"Juniper Cole. Keep going on your thesis."

"I marked every single problem on your draft last time. This is what two weeks of revising got me?"

"The simulation I assigned you. Seven of the ten data points are wrong."

"And the logic behind your model reads like postmodern abstract art."

Chapter 3

"When you printed this thing out, did the printer not make a gagging noise?"

There wasn't a trace of humor in those amber eyes.

"You think getting into Halewood's physics department means you get to coast?"

"Turn in trash like this again and go withdraw yourself."

The bell rang for the end of class, and I was still frozen in my seat.

Like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over my hooded head. Cold sank all the way to the marrow, and only my cheeks stayed burning.

The old PTSD from my advisor's tongue-lashings came surging back up.

My nose stung. My eyes went hot.

I practically floated back to the dorm, threw myself on the bed, and buried my face in the pillow.

Online boyfriend on one side of my head, Elliot Sinclair on the other, the two of them tearing my skull down the middle.

We'd met three months ago, matched up in a game.

His play was atrocious. His teammates were roasting him alive in team chat.

He didn't even have his mic on, but I couldn't help firing back on his behalf.

I'm a pure keyboard warrior. In real life all I do is curl up and back away, but online I get braver the harder it gets.

I flamed the guy right off the server.

Next round, a friend request came in.

Him: [Can I play with you?]

After that, we went from game buddies, to talking every day, to dating online.

A ding. My phone lit up on the pillow.

A text from my boyfriend.

Him: [Babe, just got out of class. Another day of students driving me up the wall.]

Him: [I miss you so much. I want to see you.]

Him: [We're both here in Halewood. We already said we'd meet on our hundredth day.]

Him: [Just tell me where and I'll come find you tomorrow, okay? I've already got your gift.]

He sent a photo.

On the living room floor, one enormous bouquet, 9,999 roses tied up together. And a row of Chanel bags beside it.

My finger hovered over the screen for a long time.

Me: [Once you see me, see what I actually look like, you might not want me anymore.]

Him: [No way!]

Him: [I don't care what you look like. I'll love you no matter what.]

Him: [Babe, what's wrong? You sound so down. Did somebody hurt you?]

Him: [Tell me who it is and I'll go deal with him.]

I closed my eyes.

I thought about everything Sinclair had done to me.

Soft personality, logging off. Evil personality, logging on.

Anger rose in my chest, and something meaner rose right behind it.

I narrowed my eyes and typed back, slow.

Me: [We can meet.]

Me: [But I have some conditions. And you're going to follow every single one.]

The next evening, six o'clock.

I stood at the base of a five-star hotel and got his text.

Him: [Babe, I'm already up in the room. Top floor.]

Him: [The stuff you told me yesterday... you really want to do all of it?]

He sent a blushing face.

I pushed.

Me: [Is my puppy going to behave? Because if not, I'm walking.]

Him: [Puppy will behave! Babe, don't go!]

I picked up a key card at the front desk, tapped into the elevator, and gave orders on the way up.

Me: [Then do exactly what I told you yesterday.]

Me: [Shirt off. Lie down on the bed.]

Me: [There's a silk blindfold in the room. Put it on.]

Me: [There are cuffs in the nightstand. Lock both your wrists to the headboard.]

A moment later he sent a voice note, his voice low and rough.

"All done, babe. The blindfold's on. I can't see a thing."

I sent one back. One last order.

Chapter 4

"Good. Now throw your phone somewhere you can't reach it."

I stood outside the door and heard the thud of it hitting the carpet.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The curtains of the presidential suite were drawn tight, leaving only a dim, gold-tinted hush.

A tall, solid man lay half-reclined on the bed.

His wrists were locked to the bedpost in black leather cuffs, a blindfold over his eyes. Bare from the waist up, skin cold and pale, chest hard and full, every ab cut sharp.

And clipped to his chest, that little star.

At the sound of the door, he turned his head on instinct, his voice rough.

"Babe, is that you?"

Nothing like his usual self.

I stopped at the foot of the bed, held my breath, and walked over slowly.

He tipped his face toward me, a plea in his voice.

"Can I take the blindfold off now? I want to see you."

I didn't answer.

I lifted one leg and swung up, straddling his firm waist. My knees pressed into the mattress, my hands braced on his chest.

His throat bobbed, completely out of his control.

I leaned down.

Opened my mouth.

And bit.

Sinclair went rigid for a second. His chest turned to stone under my palms, his stomach clenching, the lines of his hips drawn tight. His breathing went heavy.

I let go with my teeth and pressed my lips there instead. Kissed my way up the curve of his throat, inch by slow inch.

He tipped his head back, a low sound slipping loose. His mouth chased toward mine, the plea in his voice gone thick.

"Babe. Kiss me. Please?"

I pulled back, clean and sharp. Raised my hand.

Crack.

Slapped him across the face.

The sound was small, but in the silent suite it landed loud and clear.

His head snapped to the side.

He couldn't believe it.

"Babe, what's wrong? Why'd you hit me?"

I bent down, lips at his earlobe, and dropped my voice low.

"Your chest looks smaller than it did in the photo."

I flattened my palm against it and pushed down, hard.

"Doesn't feel like much, either."

My fingers slid lower.

"This part too."

He grunted, his stomach caving in.

I pulled my hand back and kept my tone flat.

"You're honestly pretty average."

Then I climbed off him.

Copying the exact tone Sinclair used on me every day, I looked down at him from above.

"None of it works for me. I'm not impressed."

"Let's break up."

I turned on my heel, breezy, and walked toward the door.

God, that felt good.

Three months of getting screamed at, swallowing it, being humiliated in front of everyone. All of it paid back in one slap and one clean run of insults.

As for what came next. Whatever. He didn't even know who I was.

I was practically humming to myself, smug all the way to the door.

Then, behind me, a sharp click.

Something made my skin crawl, every hair on my body standing up. A gasp caught in my throat before it could get out.

A hand shot out from behind me.

Sinclair had torn himself right out of the cuffs.

Long, strong fingers clamped around my wrist. One hard pull, and he dragged me back.

My spine slammed into a wall of scalding chest. His heartbeat pounded against me from behind, fast and heavy.

He lowered his head. The black blindfold was still on. His chin settled into the hollow of my shoulder, his nose against my neck, his breath hot on my skin.

His voice came low, slow, in no hurry at all.

Chapter 5

"Babe. What did you just say?"

"Who are you breaking up with