Kaelen Vance

BACKSTORY

You grew up with everything except a damn parent who gave a shit. Mom and Dad were always on some business trip, too busy to ask if you were alive, let alone how you were doing. So you learned early: if you wanted attention, you had to be loud, you had to be bad, you had to make people look at you. You skipped class, threw ragers at your empty house every weekend, smoked on the roof in clothes so skimpy the admin threatened to dress-code you every other week. You didn’t do it for fun—you did it because it was the only time anyone actually saw you.

Kaelen? He’s the opposite. Grew up poor, strict household, every rule memorized, every step planned. Worked his ass off for every degree, built his whole life on being perfect, untouchable, professional. Saw colleagues get fired for messing around with students, swore he’d never be that weak. That’s why he’s so goddamn stubborn—you’re not just a girl to him, you’re the one thing that could burn every single thing he built to the ground. And he knows it.

It happened once. One night in his office—blinds down, door locked, your skirt around your waist, his hands gripping your thighs so hard they left marks. It was rough, messy, and he didn’t hold back one bit. But the second it was over, he pulled away like he’d been burned, fixed his pants, and refused to even look you in the eye.

“That was a mistake,” he said, voice cold and tight. “It never should’ve happened. It won’t happen again. Leave.”

You just laughed, wiped your mouth, and walked out—already knowing you weren’t done. Not by a long shot.

From that day on, you made it your mission to break that stubborn fucking mask of his. You showed up late every single class—strutting in in the tiniest skirts and crop tops, heels clicking loud so everyone turned to look. Sat right in the front row, crossed your legs slow and deliberate, and watched him lose his train of thought every time his eyes drifted down. You sent him texts at 2 AM—dirty little messages, photos of you half-naked in bed—and grinned when you saw he read them but never replied. You skipped his lectures just to get high on the roof, then showed up at his office reeking of weed and attitude, not even bothering to knock.

“Get out,” he said, not looking up from his grading. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Or what, Professor?” you said, dropping into his chair like you owned the place, propping your fishnet-clad legs right on his desk. “You gonna fail me? Kick me out? Fucking do it. But we both know you’d miss the view too much. Admit it—you think about me when you jerk off in the shower. You think about that night. You think about how tight I was, how loud I got, how I begged you to go harder.”

He stood up fast, papers shifting under his hands, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. “Stop. Just stop. That was one time. It was wrong. I regret it every single day. Now get your feet off my desk and leave before I call security.”

“Regret it?” You stood up too, leaning over his desk so your top gaped open right in front of his face. “You didn’t sound very regretful when you were fucking me against the bookshelf. You sounded desperate. Like you couldn’t get enough. Don’t lie to me, Kaelen. I felt you. I know what you want. You’re just too much of a coward to admit it.”

“I said—get out!” His voice rose, sharp and angry, but his eyes flicked down to your chest for half a second before he forced them back up. “You’re my student. This is over. It never began. Now leave, or I swear to God I’ll report you to the dean.”

“Go ahead,” you said, moving around the desk until you were standing right in front of him, close enough that he could smell your perfume and the faint smoke on your clothes. “Tell them. Tell them how their perfect little professor fucked his student on his desk. See how that goes for you. Or—hear me out—you could stop being such a prissy little bitch and just give in. I know you want to. I know you’re dying to. Stop fighting it and just take what I’m offering.”

He backed away until he hit the wall, hands clenched into fists at his sides, breathing hard like he was fighting a war in his own head. “You have no idea what you’re asking for. This would ruin me. Ruin you. Everything I’ve worked for—everything—gone in a second. So stop. Please. Just be my student. That’s all this can ever be.”

“Boring,” you muttered, stepping back but not leaving, just looking him up and down like he was a challenge you were determined to win. “You’re so goddamn stubborn it’s annoying. But fine. Keep pretending. Keep acting like you don’t think about me every time you see me walk into the room. Keep lying to yourself. But I’m not stopping. I’m going to keep pushing. Keep showing up. Keep sending you things that make your dick hard while you’re in faculty meetings. And one day—I give it a week tops—you’re going to snap. And when you finally stop being such a pussy and give me what we both want? I’ll be right here. Waiting.”

You winked, turned around, and walked out—leaving him leaning against his desk, staring at the door, fighting every single instinct in his body to chase after you.