Lunar Crest University (Forbidden Fruit)

Chapter Two

LUCA

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 29TH, 2023

T he universe has it out for me.

There isn’t any other explanation for the girl who got my cock hard the other night, perched between my legs as she bandaged me up, to be sitting in my classroom right now. I never planned on seeing her again, yet here she was.

She stares intently down at her notebook with those emerald eyes, chewing at the end of her pencil that rests between her full lips. Her black, rippled skirt slides up her porcelain thighs. I even selfishly notice how her cheek dimples on the left side of her mouth when she smiles, how her nails are painted the same raven color as her hair. Finley Dunaway has to be some sort of personal curse—sent by whatever karma gods have it out for me these days.

She always sits in the third row, the fourth chair from the left, and always munches on that damn pencil.

A fucking curse.

After that first day, I thought I’d successfully dismissed the entire situation, but the image of her doe eyes staring up at me, all wide and confused as she kneeled between my knees, haunts my mind. Her thick eyebrows, dark lashes, and her button nose; all of it haunts me. Yet, here I am, telling her to forget about it while I sit here every other day at this fucking desk, constantly reminded of it every time I lift my head to look at her.

She’s my student.

I didn’t know she was my student when I was thinking inappropriate thoughts about her while sitting on her toilet.

Whisking my glasses from my nose, I rub my temples in annoyance as the all-too-familiar ache starts to soar in my head. Not only is she a constant reminder, but she’s a constant headache too.

I might have had the slightest chance of resisting these nagging thoughts if she hadn’t shown how fiery she could be as she stomped out of my classroom the other day. No way did I fathom she had an attitude underneath that soft exterior. My slacks had grown tighter the moment she snapped back at me, and they continued to feel that way for fifteen minutes after she left. Case—closed. Death warrant—signed. It was fucking humiliating.

I wanted to kiss that pout right off her lips.

And I can’t do that.

The assholes I owe money to won’t like her curiosity, so I have no choice but to keep her at arm’s length. It’s in her best interest. It’s in mine . Any thoughts I had that night couldn’t happen now, especially not when I’m her professor. This job is too important— everything is relying on this job.

Shoving my glasses back on, I sigh as I lift my head, and my breath catches in my throat as I meet a pair of green eyes. It’s as if she heard my thoughts or I called out her name. She stares at me ardently as her thick brows pull together before she fidgets in her seat, looking back down at her notebook and freeing me from her gaze.

I haven’t gotten laid in a while.

That’s why I’m making stupid decisions. It has to be.

The students have been instructed to read Beowulf this week, and for class today, I thought to have them to write in their notebooks which theme stood out the most. The theme of evil is the most apparent to me. The epic poem represents evil as an inhumane force, a mysterious being. It portrays evil as a threat in the dark while also humanizing it.

Perhaps, in some ways, it makes me feel like I can be humanized.

Which theme stands out to her?

No. No, no, no.

“Alright, class. Ten minutes left.” I clap my hands together as I stand from my chair. “Who wants to share which theme they chose?”

Crickets.

“Volunteers?” I suggest as I cock an eyebrow. “No volunteers?”

More crickets.

“Okay, fine. Ms. Dunaway.”

Her shaky hum echoes through the room as she lifts her head nervously to look at me. Her hair cascades down her shoulders in silky waves today, framing her oval-shaped face. Brushing a few strands behind her ear, she sits up straighter as she swallows.

“Which theme did you choose?” I ask her.

Her eyes dart around sheepishly as her tongue flicks out to wet her lips. “Mortality.”

“And do you find it more tragic or heroic?”

She seems surprised by my question, her eyes widening as she gawks at me like she wasn’t expecting me to know it could be perceived differently. Of course, I knew. This job is important to me, yes, but I’m also passionate about British Literature. I have been ever since I was a child. It all depends on the reader—it can be tragic in that the characters die without hope or salvation, or heroic in the sense that they die without hope of resurrection. I would argue it’s brave, but something tells me she’ll disagree.

“I think it’s heroic.”

I’m temporarily stunned.

“Why?” I clear my throat as I recover.

“Because Beowulf is determined to accomplish what he seeks to do despite being on the precipice of death. He doesn’t care about resurrection. He cares about being brave, about getting the job done, no matter the cost. That feels pretty heroic to me.”

I stare blankly at her for a few moments before rounding my desk. Scooping up the stacks of papers in front of my laptop, I take a few sheets and hand them to the students at the end of each row to pass down the line. The sea of white cascades down the rows before I speak.

“Over the weekend, I want you all to write a response paper on Beowulf ,” I instruct. “How did you feel about the characters? The text? Explain why you did or didn’t like it. Two pages on my desk by Monday morning.”

Chairs scrape against the floor as everyone eagerly gathers their things. I sit back in my creaky chair and watch the students leave the room. Much to my chagrin, my eyes search for her despite my attempt to fight it. My nostrils flare as I observe her curly-headed friend wrap his arm around her shoulders and ruffle her hair.

A pang shoots through my stomach to see her smile up at Levi. It’s a genuine smile—teeth flashing wildly, dimple on display as she shoves him away playfully. One I would never know because she found me fucked up in a dark alley at night. I didn’t have a chance from the start.

I don’t care.

That’s what I keep telling myself like a damn broken record. But as they walk down the steps, past the other rows of desks, my interest peaks when she waves the boy on, hanging back awkwardly as the rest of the students flee to their next class. I observe how she picks at the hem of her skirt, digging the top of her shoe into the floor before huffing as she reluctantly approaches my desk.

“Why do you keep singling me out?”

The fiery tone in her voice is back, and so is my erection.

“I was calling on you for an answer, Ms. Dunaway,” I retort coolly, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the desk, hoping to hide the tent in my slacks.

“People are going to start thinking you have something against me,” she says tempestuously, crossing her arms against her chest.

“And what would I possibly have against you?”

Finley peeks around to make sure we’re completely alone as she takes a step closer. “I know what happens when you’re not sitting behind that desk.”

I should demand she leave, but my temper flares before my rational mind can decide. This is nothing new—I often have trouble controlling my temperament. Flying out of the chair, I watch her flinch as the desk scoots when my thighs bump into it as I stand, rounding it quickly as my fingers grip her chin. Walking her backward until she’s pressed up against the nearest wall, I lean down to be at eye level with her.

“You don’t know anything,” I growl lowly. “Do you understand? Not a damn thing.”

I expect her to cower from me, but she doesn’t.

Heat sparks where my fingers touch her face, sending electricity through my hand and down my arm until it practically shocks my nervous system. My blood boils as I stare down at her, my heart pumping erratically in my chest as I breathe in the same vanilla scent from her apartment. The surge that ripples through me is so powerful, I’m sure she can feel it too. And if she can’t, my unsteady exhale must be a dead giveaway that something definitely just happened.

“I know that you’re an asshole,” she whispers, all traces of fervency erased from her words under my touch. Her voice is velvet smooth.

I could snap her like a twig if I wanted, with just one sharp twist of my wrist. Wrap my fingers around her throat. Kiss her.

Fuck.

I release her suddenly, backing away from her until the back of my thighs hit the desk. Rubbing a palm down my face, I suck in a deep breath.

“You’re dismissed.”

“Like hell I am,” she snaps, and just like that, the heat in her eyes is back.

“Get out of my classroom, Finley.”

Please.

Turning away from her briskly, I grit my teeth as I dig my erection into the wood. I should’ve never touched her—now, every time I think about her jaw in my grasp, the blood will immediately rush to my dick. As if I need anything else to distract me.

“Maybe I should do us both a favor and switch classes,” she grumbles, but I hear the shake in her voice. “Since my presence is that awful.”

I can hear the rejection creeping into her voice and the way she shifts audibly on her feet behind me.

“Maybe,” I mutter.

She scrambles to leave the classroom as quickly as she can.

With a frustrated groan, I collapse into my chair, my face in my hands after yanking my glasses off and tossing them on the desk. As they slide to the edge of the wood, close to teetering into the floor, I pinch the bridge of my nose. The slowly healing gash on my ribs aches as my chest heaves, making me wince.

I crossed a line, one that could easily cost me this job and everything I’ve been working so hard for. Fuck .

Estupido .