Chapter 45 Lottie
I take one last look at the room before turning off the lights and closing the door behind me.
The hallway is busier now, voices echoing off the walls.
I'm more aware than I've been in a while, which is why I notice immediately when Sandy falls into step beside me. I glance over and give her a small smile, continuing to walk. I'm not really in the mood for conversation.
Sandy, apparently, did not get that memo.
She launches into a detailed play-by-play of something she and Sylvie did over the weekend, her tone light and animated. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the way she watches me while she talks. Like she's gauging my reaction. Like she wants to see if I'll flinch. To see if I look jealous.
But I'm not jealous. I'm relieved. Truly.
I'm happy for her. I hope she pours all of her affection into Sylvie. I hope it grows into something solid, consuming, and wonderful because I don't have space, not in my head, and not in my heart.
Professor Hale already occupies every spare thought I have.
We walk into Chemistry and take our usual seats. I pull out my notebook and pen, setting them neatly on the desk. The professor at the front begins speaking, launching into the day's material. I look right at him. I see his mouth moving. But nothing registers.
It feels like watching a movie on mute. The visual is there, but the sound doesn't connect. Words float past without meaning.
About halfway through, I stop pretending to take notes and just stare off into space.
The entire class passes like that — silent and detached.
When the bell rings, it feels abrupt.
I gather my things mechanically, sliding my notebook into my bag and pulling my coat back on. The exhaustion that settles into me feels disproportionate to the day I've had.
I turn to Sandy.
"I'm going to go lie down," I say quietly. "I don't feel so good today."
The irony isn't lost on me. Look at me, using Professor Hale's line.
Sandy studies me for a second before nodding gently. "I hope you feel better."
I manage a small smile and head out.
We part ways at the steps outside the building, and I pick up my pace across the quad. I don't drive around campus — everything is within walking distance, and driving would feel ridiculous, like circling the same box over and over.
The cold bites as I walk briskly back to the dorms. By the time I reach my hall, my hands feel stiff even inside my gloves. I take the stairs two at a time, the physical exertion grounding me just a little.
At my door, I unlock it and step inside, closing it quietly behind me. The silence is immediate.
I begin shedding layers slowly — hat, scarf, gloves, coat — letting them fall wherever they land. I don't bother hanging anything up.
I'm suddenly, overwhelmingly tired. Not physically. Something deeper.
It feels ridiculous to think it, but the thought comes anyway: Professor Hale is my sun. And I didn't get my daily dose.
The absence feels like I've been standing in shadows all day.
I cross the room and fall face-first onto my bed, rolling onto my back as I stare at the ceiling for a long moment.
Then I close my eyes.
A deep breath leaves my lungs as I sink into the mattress, letting the quiet wrap around me. Maybe if I sleep, I won't feel this pull so sharply. Maybe tomorrow will feel lighter.
But somehow, I doubt it.
The night air is frigid, stinging my cheeks and nipping at my fingers — but inside? The heat rages like a bonfire. My rut didn't creep in. It screamed. One second, I was curled in my dorm room under the blanket, and the next thing I knew, I was sprinting through snow-dusted streets, bare fingers clutching my coat shut, legs shaking because of the intense arousal that was flowing through me, pre-cum already soaking through my underwear.
I didn't think. I didn't know where I was going; I only knew I had to get there. I only realize where I'm going when I arrive.
Professor Hale's house rises like a lighthouse, guiding me through a storm, windows glowing amber with warmth and promise. The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine, a tingling that has nothing to do with our connection. I feel like I can smell his pheromones already, that sweet, intoxicating scent of grapefruit dipped in honey, drifting through the crisp night air. My mouth waters, and my body aches with need.
I don't knock politely. I bang. Three sharp raps — desperate, demanding.
The door swings open a few minutes later. Those minutes feel like eternity as I stand in front of Professor Hale's door, shifting on my feet impatiently, arousal and heat flowing freely through me. My pheromones surrounding me like a cloud of perfume.
Then he stands in front of me — the top of his head barely reaching my chin, hair slightly mussed as if he'd just been running his hands through it. His eyes, like liquid honey, dilate as they run over me, taking in the state I'm in: coat flapping open, hair wild, lips parted, chest heaving. His nostrils flare as he breathes in the thick scent of my pheromones. Then his scent explodes — thick, sweet, hot — flooding the doorway, wrapping around me like a warm hug.
"Lottie," he breathes, voice a low, rough whine that vibrates straight down my spine. "You're in rut."
I don't speak. I only nod. My throat is too tight, my dick is too hard, my body too alive. I see it in his eyes — the hunger, the shock, the recognition. His pupils swallow his irises. His breath hitches. The scent of his slick grows thicker in the air. His dick is already straining against his slacks — I can see the outline, looking like a nice handful.
He's in heat.
I don't wait.
I lunge, kicking the door shut behind me.
My mouth crashes into his — hot, wet, and hungry. He tastes like citrus, honey, and pure, unfiltered need. I growl into his mouth — deep, guttural — and he moans, a raw, broken sound, hands flying to my waist, pulling me flush against him. His dick presses hard against my thigh. Mine pulses inside my pants, leaking, aching, wanting to be inside him already.
My coat hits the floor. Our shirts follow — buttons fly, fabric rips. I tear my bra off as fast as I can. Then skin meets skin — hot, trembling, electric. Professor Hale's skin is soft under my palms, even though he is clearly strong. His abs flex as I grind against him. His heat radiates off him like a furnace. I can feel the pull between us — not just a tingle, but an electric storm. It's a living, throbbing current that binds us, pulls us, and demands we fuse.