Chapter 8: Office Tensions

Dalton’s POV

—

The echo of the weekend still clung to me like the faintest scent of perfume, impossible to place, impossible to forget. I leaned back in my chair, eyes closed for a brief moment, and willed the memory to fade. It didn’t. It never did. Not since Saturday night.

The masquerade had been meant as an escape. A faceless crowd, a drink or two, a room where no one knew my name. I’d told myself the only needed to release the tension that had been building for weeks, between grading, faculty meetings, and one particular student who seemed determined to test my restraint.

But the woman at the party… she had undone me completely. The way she had laughed softly against my neck, the way she’d arched into every touch, there had been something almost dangerous about her. Unfamiliar yet strangely grounding. Like fire disguised as silk.

My dick began to stir, and my pants began to tent.

I scrubbed a hand over my jaw, the morning light spilling across the papers stacked on my desk. It had been days, but I still found myself thinking about her. Her voice, muffled by the mask. The way her hands had trembled, not from fear, but anticipation. I’d told myself not to care who she was. It had been a night, nothing more. That was the agreement.

And yet, here I was, imagining her when I should have been reviewing essays on Milton.

With a low exhale, I pushed back from the desk and grabbed my coffee mug, now lukewarm. I needed to get my head straight before class. Wednesdays were always the hardest. By midweek, the students were restless, half of them buried in their phones, the other half waiting for me to snap.

And of course, there was Sloane Mercer.

My jaw tightened instinctively at the thought. Bright, unyielding, constantly questioning every theory I presented as if she were born to challenge me. She was brilliant, I’d give her that, but infuriatingly self-assured. And lately, I’d noticed her slipping under my skin in ways I didn’t like.

That was part of the reason I’d gone to the masquerade. To forget the pull. To remind myself that I was still in control.

I gathered my notes, slipped on my jacket, and made my way toward the lecture hall. By the time I arrived, the chatter was already bouncing off the walls, students filing in, laughter, the scratch of chairs against tile. I set my coffee on the desk, adjusted my sleeves, and waited for the noise to settle.

And then she walked in.

Sloane Mercer, head held high, a strand of hair falling from her messy bun as she slid into her usual seat near the middle row. She didn’t notice me watching her, she never did, but there was something different about her today. Her posture was a touch looser, her expression unreadable.

I frowned. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe I was imagining it.

Still, when her gaze flicked up and caught mine for a fraction of a second, something sharp and electric flared in the air. She looked away first, pretending to rummage through her bag, but I felt it, the same heat that had been haunting me since Saturday.

Ridiculous, I told myself. Coincidence. My mind was drawing parallels where there were none.

I cleared my throat, snapping open my folder. “Let’s pick up where we left off last week,” I said, voice even. “Mercer, you made an argument about the author’s use of moral ambiguity. Care to elaborate for the class?”

Her head jerked up, and for a moment, irritation flickered in her eyes. She clearly hadn’t expected to be called on so soon. “I said it challenges the reader’s sense of right and wrong,” she said, straightening in her chair. “But you countered that it blurs the line to the point where meaning is lost. I disagree.”

Of course she did. I folded my arms, watching her as she spoke.

“It doesn’t lose meaning,” she continued, confidence returning to her tone. “It forces us to confront the discomfort of moral gray areas. The author wants us to question, not conclude.”

A few students glanced between them, sensing the usual back-and-forth brewing.

I nodded slowly. “And yet, if everything is subjective, Miss Mercer, does the story have any anchor at all? Or is it simply chaos parading as art?”

Sloane’s lips curved in the faintest smirk. “Maybe that’s the point, Professor. Maybe art is chaos.”

A low murmur of amusement rippled through the room. My jaw flexed, but my eyes stayed locked on hers. Damn her for enjoying this.

“Careful,” I said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear. “Some chaos burns.”

Her breath hitched slightly, I saw it, even if she tried to hide it. But she didn’t back down. “Then maybe it’s worth getting burned.”

Something twisted low in my gut. For half a heartbeat, the world shrank to the space between them, the challenge, the spark, the memory of a mask and soft laughter in the dark.

I blinked and forced myself back to reality.

“Moving on,” I said sharply, turning to the board. “Page two-hundred twelve. Let’s discuss structure.”

The tension lingered long after the class moved forward. I kept my back to the students longer than usual, unwilling to risk another glance at her. I didn’t know why the mystery girl’s voice echoed in my head like that, why now?

But I pushed the thought down. There were lines I couldn’t cross, memories I shouldn’t chase. Especially not when I can feel my body reacting once more.

And besides, it wasn’t like I’d ever see that woman from the masquerade again.

—

Thursday afternoon bled into evening before I realized I hadn’t looked away from the stack of essays in nearly an hour. The campus outside my window was washed in late-autumn light, gold slipping into grey, and yet I felt coiled, my shoulders tight, the muscles along my jaw aching from the effort of stillness.

I dropped my pen and leaned back in my chair. The same sentence of Sloane Mercer’s critique flickered through my mind like a taunt, sharp, unapologetic, almost smug. I could still hear her tone: “Perhaps if the definition weren’t so narrow, we’d find more meaning.” The class laughed, not at me, but close enough.

I exhaled, slow and measured. “She’s a student,” I muttered, as if saying it out loud would cage the irritation clawing under my skin. “Just a student.”

The words did nothing. The papers on my desk blurred, and my thoughts slid, uninvited, to the weekend. The dark room, the scent of perfume and whiskey, a woman’s breath against my throat. I caught myself and swore under my breath. That was supposed to stay locked away, anonymous, a moment of release I didn’t have to examine. But now the memory threaded through me, unspooling every knot of composure I had left.

I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping against the floor. I crossed the room and turned to lock the door, more out of habit than purpose. The quiet that followed was too heavy. I sank back into the chair, elbows on the desk, pressing my fingertips to my temples.

I couldn’t keep doing this, lecturing by day, haunted by fragments of a stranger by night. I needed to reset before tomorrow, before another round of Sloane’s provocations. But the harder I tried to focus on the test questions in front of me, the more the image of that masked woman intruded: the way she’d looked at me like she could see past the mask entirely.

A muscle in my jaw twitched. I hated not being in control. Reluctantly, I reached down to my zipper and pushed the metal downward to release myself. This wasn’t normal for me, and it made me feel like a horny teenager, but I didn’t care. Not right now. Not when I needed to relax.

My hand reached down and grabbed my shaft at the base. I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. My fingers began to move, stroking up, thumb brushing against the tip, then swiftly crashing down before repeating. My hand moved slowly, rhythmically, my thick cock throbbing in my grip as I stroked myself.

My breath shallowed. Oh, how this would feel with her mouth around me. I thought. I imagined a tight, wet mouth wrapping around my shaft, lips parting to take me in, or a hungry pussy clenching down on my throbbing dick, squeezing me with relentless heat. The thought alone sent a jolt through me, making my grip tighten, my knuckles whitening.

My gaze drifted to the locked door. For one irrational heartbeat, I imagined her walking in, no name, no pretense, just the weight of that same challenge in her eyes.

Redness would sweep across her face, swing her hips over to me, and kneel on command.

my breathing quickened, my release rising quicker than I expected.

My other hand roamed down, cupping my heavy balls, rolling them gently in my palm. I bit my lip, my eyes closing as I surrendered to the sensations. The thought of someone watching me, someone craving my thick cock, fueled my desire. I could almost feel their gaze on me, hungry and desperate, and the idea of being desired, of being in control, sent a surge of power through me. my body was coiled like a spring, every muscle tense, ready to snap. I was close, so fucking close, my balls tightening, my cock pulsing with the promise of release.

Her bright, round eyes staring up at me, and her full lips opening to let me in. I’d grab a handful of her curly hair, pressing deep into her throat. Watching her gag and drool on my—

Then, three knocks. Sharp. Immediate.

I froze.

Another pause, and then: “Professor Dalton? It’s Sloane. Do you have a minute?”

Of fucking course.

I inhaled sharply and forced the thought away, shoving myself back into my pants, and dragging my attention back to the exam drafts. The page stayed blank.

I closed my eyes, breathed through the heat that climbed up the back of my neck, and reached for my calm like a shield. When I unlocked the door, my expression was impassive again, but the pulse at my throat betrayed the storm she’d just interrupted