Tenure & Temptation

by theycallmethejackal

Summary:

Every inch of her says look but don’t touch.
God help him, Trevor wants to do both. Immediately. Repeatedly.
-
Trevor gets a job as a professor. He's not prepared for Hetty Woodstone.

Notes:

I have already written a large chunk of this and am nowhere near done. This is heavily inspired by a couple other H$ fics. Namely The Affair and this is going to ruin the tour.

Chapter 1

Trevor Lefkowitz has technically died once. 

Brutally. Violently. With just enough flair to simultaneously be labeled a living legend and a cautionary tale. 

He doesn’t remember much of the party. A penthouse. A rooftop pool. Bottle service girls that looked like Victoria’s Secret Angels, a party bowl of pills, and enough cocaine to plausibly build a ski resort. 

It had been a celebration. Pinkus was officially a Lehman Bro. He’d survived the run of fun (if he was supplied with pants and a money clip, well, no one has to know about that) as well as his first full week as part of the team. 

Not that they ever needed a reason to party. 

What Trevor does remember is waking up in the ambulance feeling like his heart was a battering ram in his chest. 

He remembers his mom sobbing into the shoulder of a nurse whose name he never learned. 

He remembers someone calling Pinkus a pussy for carrying the Narcan that ended up saving Trevor’s life. 

He was only legally dead for two minutes, but that’s long enough to realize something’s gotta give. 

Which is how he ended up here. Standing at the gates of Greystone University, surprised by the sprawling campus at the edge of Manhattan and secretly wondering if cardiac arrest was really the low point or if it’s about to be replaced by his faculty orientation. He’s not here because he loves academia. He’s here because Sass flagged a last-minute vacancy in the economics department and framed it as a lifeline.

And because he couldn’t go back to sixty-hour work weeks and feeling his heart stutter every time he hit a line too hard.

A restart. A clean slate. A safer pace of self-destruction, maybe

It doesn’t feel like Manhattan. Stepping from the sidewalk onto the grounds, the temperature drops from the suffocating heat of the concrete jungle to something far more palatable. Comfortable, even. 

He finds his way through campus fairly easy. The pristine pathways lead him exactly where he needs to go. 

Chancellor Hall is home to the English Department and the mandatory orientation that brought him to the West Village the day before his first class. It’s also, thankfully, where his best bro is already waiting to greet him. 

Well,” Sass says. “You actually showed up.”

They’ve been friends since sophomore year – roommates in a shitty off-campus apartment with no insulation and possibly a cursed shower drain. Sass was the introvert who managed to be snarky without speaking, and Trevor was the guy who hosted midterm parties and still pulled A’s in econ. Their friendship made no sense, but it worked. Still does.

Partly because Sasappis lives for drama, and Trevor’s life never has a shortage. 

“Wow,” Trevor says, climbing the steps of the imposing building. “Hospitality and judgment. Greystone really knows how to roll out the welcome wagon.”

Sass hands him a coffee and leads him inside. “You’re lucky I remembered how you take it.”

Trevor takes a grateful sip before biting back a grimace. “You forgot how I take it and got it the way you take it.”

“Still not complaining though.”

“Nope. Not a bit. Thank you, oh benevolent one,” he jokes as he attempts to look around while also keeping pace with his friend. “You know this place looks like it eats dudes like me for lunch, right?”

“I know. That’s why I told them to hire you.”

Trevor smirks. “So you do want me to get eaten alive.”

Sass shrugs. “Figured it’d be fun to watch.”

“Damn,” Trevor says as they walk past the open door to an enormous lecture hall, empty save for the custodian mopping the floor. 

“Don’t let the cobblestone fool you,” Sass says. “We still have departmental infighting and meetings that could’ve been emails.”

Trevor snorts. “Feels like prep school with a tenure track.”

Sass stops and jerks his thumb to the right. “I’m this way. You’re gonna head down there  –  ” he points straight ahead “  –  and up the stairs. Impossible to miss, so if you’re late, everyone’s gonna know you don’t take this seriously.”

“I’m never late.”

“You’re always late.”

Trevor starts heading down the hall. “Any landmines I should be aware of?”

“Just remember you’re not the most charming person in the room.”

Trevor raises a brow, his lips quirking. “You sure about that?”

Sass sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just…keep your head down. For, like, five minutes. Try not to hit on anyone with decision-making power.”

“Very specific warning,” Trevor says, narrowing his eyes. “Should I be bracing for someone?”

Sass is already walking away, calling over his shoulder, “You’ll know.”

Trevor scoffs a laugh and heads down the hall.

The upper floor of Chancellor Hall is silent in the way expensive places often are – well-insulated, acoustically engineered, and not particularly interested in accommodating the faint of heart.

The hallway is long and grand, lit by custom brass sconces that probably date back to the early 1900s but have been refitted with more modern wiring that give a soft, warm glow. The walls are paneled in dark wood and polished to a subtle sheen that suggests endowments with more zeros than most national budgets. 

Everything smells faintly of clean wool, fresh paper, and the kind of discreet cologne you can only buy in European cities that don’t advertise in English. The nameplates beside mahogany doors are engraved with names and numbers on brass plating that suggests this isn’t a university with much faculty turnover.

Something that is confirmed when Trevor enters his orientation.

He’d imagined some lecture hall with a podium and a tray of stale mini muffins. Instead he enters a high-ceilinged conference room that feels more like a salon from an old novel than anything academic: velvet drapes, crown molding, an oil painting of a former chancellor who looks like he bit children for fun. The air smells faintly of furniture polish and old money. The table shines as though being continuously polished by ghosts.

There are only three other new hires, and they’re already seated around the long table – quiet, stiff, flipping through crisp folders like they’re prepping for oral exams. No one makes small talk.

Trevor takes a seat near the end, leans back, and tries to look like he knows what he's doing.

He glances up at the sound of the door opening and immediately forgets his own name.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Walk into the room and you get mommy issuеs
The way I move makes you follow my rulеs

Mommy Issues - Cloudy June

Henrietta Woodstone enters like she’s been carved from authority itself.

She isn’t loud. She doesn’t need to be. Every inch of her presence announces itself without apology: the way her heels click against the wood floor, steady and sharp; the way her gaze skims across the table, assessing, not seeking approval. Her posture is perfect. Her control, exquisite.

Her hair is red. Not strawberry or auburn or any of the bullshit adjectives people slap on to soften it. No, this is pure fire. Curly and coiled into a prim twist at the back of her head with a few ringlets framing her face like she’s daring someone to call her uptight. 

Her dress is navy wool. Clean lines and a high neck. Nipped at the waist like it was measured in millimeters. Three-quarter sleeves, a subtle kick pleat, a row of covered buttons trailing down her spine that he’s immediately dying to unfasten. The fabric is rich but matte, drawing the eye without a glint. She wears no jewelry but a slim gold watch and a pair of pearl studs, each so small and severe they feel like punctuation.

It’s the kind of outfit that would read as conservative on anyone else, but on her, it’s a dissertation in control. Every inch of her says look but don’t touch.

God help him, Trevor wants to do both. Immediately. Repeatedly.

Not because she’s beautiful – though she is. It’s the discipline. The command that doesn’t have to raise its voice to be obeyed.

And Jesus Christ, that does it for him.

He shifts in his chair, careful, slow. He’s grateful for the table that masks the tension winding low in his body. He should be focusing on the orientation folder in front of him – policies, procedures, onboarding logistics – but all he can think is that she could ruin him and he’d say thank you.

She reaches the head of the table and surveys them like she’s deciding who will have the gall to disappoint her first.

“Welcome to Greystone,” she says, voice low and clipped, with just the faintest New England edge, the slightest roll of the r. “Congratulations on making it through the hiring process. Excellence is now the baseline.”

Trevor lets the words settle. Watches the way her hands rest lightly on the table – still, deliberate, no wasted motion.

She probably grades in red pen. No curve. No mercy.

Fuck, that’s hot.

Across the table, one of the new hires – Folio Guy, with the khakis and nervous smile – asks about teaching evaluations. The redhead turns, answering smoothly, effortlessly. Her tone never shifts, but Trevor catches it – just the barest flicker of judgment in her eyes.

She has no tolerance for fools, no interest in lowering her standards, no instinct to cushion a blow.

Trevor drags a hand down his face, praying for clarity. Or a cold shower.

His phone buzzes in his lap. He glances at the screen.

Sass: Let me guess. You’ve been there two minutes and you’re already fantasizing about Hetty.

Sass: Try not to call her mommy out loud.

Trevor chokes on nothing and straightens in his seat.

Hetty.

It fits in a way it absolutely shouldn’t.

Henrietta is too matronly for the woman sitting at the head of this table.

Professor Woodstone feels like a kink waiting to happen.

Hetty feels like the name you moan when your back’s against her office door and you’re about to make a career-ending decision.

He types back: No idea what you're talking about.

“…and under no circumstances should student correspondence be routed through personal channels. Is your attention spoken for, Mr. Lefkowitz?”

He jerks his head up, expecting to meet that icy blue gaze, but she’s still scanning the agenda with cool indifference, as though the question was a passing note, not a public dissection. Like she simply knew that he wasn’t fully present and decided to carve him out of the moment like a surgeon with a scalpel.

Trevor scrambles for composure, tries to summon words, and eventually settles for a polite, “No, ma’am.”

Only then does she meet his gaze. Sharp, immediate. As precise as the red applied to the lips he has the desire to see wrapped around his – 

“Then conduct yourself accordingly. I have little patience for men who linger without contributing.”

And just like that, she moves on. No pause. No emphasis. Just the cold continuation of someone who doesn't need to raise her voice to command a room.

She doesn’t wait for a reply. She turns back to the room and continues seamlessly, like the reprimand was just another line in the day’s agenda.

Trevor sits very still.

He’s absolutely not hard.

Except…yeah, he absolutely is.

The rest of the meeting unfolds in a blur of policy and expectations, but Trevor’s only absorbing half of it. He’s trying – really trying – to focus, but it’s nearly impossible when the woman giving orders enunciates every word like a punishment.

He clocks the essentials – grading standards, office hour expectations, a note about not using the faculty gym as a “social lounge” – but the rest? It drowns somewhere beneath the hum of Hetty Woodstone’s voice.

She speaks like every sentence has been vetted, polished, and refiled under irrefutable. There's no uptalk, no softening, no filler. Even her pauses land like punctuation. Trevor’s used to charisma getting him places. Used to being the most compelling voice in the room.

Now, he feels like furniture.

And the worst part? He kind of likes it.

At one point, she stands to hand out supplemental documents – thick paper, crisp edges, a faint scent of toner and perfume. 

She moves with that same unnerving grace. Every movement, every step is intentional. 

As she sets a folder before him, he catches her scent. Not floral or sweet. Something rarer. The kind of scent you only notice once it’s already claimed the air.

He almost tilts his head to chase it. Stops himself just in time.

Focus.

Across the table, Folio Guy keeps nodding like it’ll get him extra credit. The woman next to him has color-coded her folder already. Another sneezes and apologizes. No one says bless you. The mood in the room is reverent. Almost religious. Like a congregation trying not to breathe too loudly in the presence of something sacred – and merciless.

Trevor glances up again, just for a second, and catches her watching him.

Not lingering. Not indulgent. Just one clean, surgical cut. Like she’s already dissected him and moved on. Like she probably already has a file on him in her mind.

And he wants to know what’s in it.

Wants to know what it would take for her to say his name in a different register. Less reprimand. More reward. He wonders if she ever lets anyone close enough to find out.

He doubts it. Which only makes him want it more.

As the meeting winds down, folders shut in a soft chorus around the table. One by one, the new hires thank her – awkward, breathy – then file out like schoolchildren trying not to get held back.

Trevor lingers.

He doesn’t mean to. Not really. His body just doesn’t move fast enough. Or maybe it moves too deliberately. He tells himself he’s taking his time re-closing his folder. Adjusting his chair. Totally innocent stuff.

She notices, of course.

Her gaze lands on him again. Not with curiosity. Not with warmth. Just that same measured calculation.

“Is there a question, Mr. Lefkowitz?” she asks.

No sarcasm. No challenge. Just the calm, cool pressure of someone who expects nothing but usefulness from your existence.

Trevor stands. Slowly. “No, ma’am,” he says. “Just taking it all in.”

There’s a beat. A pause so brief he might’ve imagined it.

Then – a nod. Small. Barely there. A fraction of approval. Just a flicker. But it lands like impact – sharp, unearned, and deeply, embarrassingly gratifying.

He walks out of the room trying not to grin like a student who just got a gold star from his scariest teacher.

Outside, the hallway is quiet. His phone buzzes again.

Sass: Blink twice if you already called her Mommy.

Trevor just sends back the middle finger emoji.

Chapter 3

Summary:

Little darlin, the smile's returning to the faces
Little darlin, it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun

Here Comes the Sun - The Beatles

Notes:

I forgot how much comments and kudos contribute to my serotonin levels. Have a couple more chapters - as a treat.

Beacon Hall is not far from Chancellor, which means Trevor’s able to easily navigate his way to his class the next morning. The room’s already filling up when he walks in. He’s five minutes early, but it feels late. His heart’s thudding harder than he’d like, and the coffee in his hand is more for something to hold than anything else.

He crosses to the front like it’s no big deal, drops his bag by the desk, takes a sip of coffee.

They're all staring. 

Trevor exhales through his nose and slides onto the edge of the desk like he does this every day. Like he’s not two seconds away from adjusting his collar or bolting.

Alright. Showtime.

“Hey,” he says, casual. “I’m Trevor Lefkowitz. Professor Lefkowitz, if you’re into titles. Trevor if you’re not. T-Money if you're into economic theory and light narcissism.”

A few heads lift. The vibe is cautious. Guarded.

“Welcome to Markets and Behavioral Incentives. Sounds boring, I know. Not my choice. But if you stick with it, I promise by the end of the semester you’ll at least pretend to understand why people do dumb shit with their money.”

That earns a few smirks. Not laughs – yet – but they’re listening.

“I came here from Lehman Brothers. Sounds fancy, but mostly means I spent a decade in finance trying not to have a stress-induced stroke. Turns out people will pay a lot of money for bad decisions, as long as you explain it with a graph.”

Now there’s a ripple of actual laughter. Small, but satisfying. Trevor relaxes a notch.

“This class is part theory, part psychology, part, you know, watching the world light itself on fire in slow motion and trying to reverse engineer the match.”

More laughter. Pens come out. Notebooks open.

He lets the moment settle, then shrugs. “We’ll cover incentives, market design, decision-making, moral hazard – all the sexy stuff. But mostly, I want you to leave here with a better bullshit detector. For economics, sure. But also for life. You’re not just gonna memorize terms, regurgitate them, and forget them by winter break.”

Someone in the second row says, “So no multiple choice tests?”

Trevor grins. “Nope. I’m gonna make your suffering more personal.”

Now they’re laughing for real. A few students lean forward. Someone underlines something in their notebook like they’re actually into this.

Trevor pulls the syllabus from his bag and hands the stack to a girl in the front row. “Take one, pass it. This tells you what you’re allegedly learning. Don’t get too attached – it’ll probably change.”

He returns to the front and finds the tightness in his chest is gone. The room feels warmer. Lighter.

He takes another sip of his coffee, nods once, and says, “Alright. Any questions before we begin the slow descent into economic disillusionment?”

He somehow ends up using dating apps as an analogy for price signaling. They laugh. They nod. They take notes. One kid looks at him like he’s seen the face of God. Another looks like she’s mentally undressing him one layer at a time.

He keeps it professional. Mostly. Hetty Woodstone would likely accuse him of being too familiar with his students.

And he’d done so well pushing her out of his mind until now.

After class, a few of them hang back. One wants to clarify something about game theory. Another just wants to be seen. He gives them time. He’s not trying to be the cool professor, but if they leave thinking he knows what he’s talking about, he won’t complain.

He steps out into the late-morning sun, exhales slowly.

He can do this. The classroom makes sense. The rest of his life – still a little shaky, still marked by shadows he doesn’t talk about – but here, in front of a whiteboard and a captive audience? He feels almost like himself again.

His phone buzzes.

Sass: How many students tried to flirt with you already?

Sass: Wait. Let me guess. one eye-fuck, one fake career consultation, and someone wondering if you do mentorship over drinks.

Trevor shakes his head, smiling despite himself. He doesn’t answer.

Another buzz.

Sass: btw I’m taking bets on when you’ll humiliate yourself in front of Hetty. Try to hold out until midterms.

Trevor freezes mid-step. Just for a second.

Hetty.

That name again. A jolt straight to the bloodstream. No title. No last name. Just Hetty, like she’s already somewhere inside him, colonizing brain space he doesn’t remember offering up.

He pockets his phone. Keeps walking.

The day’s not over yet – and he’s got a faculty mixer to survive.

If she’s there, he’ll be polite. Professional.

He just needs to stop confusing her cold-pressed authority for the beginning of a torrid Victorian affair.

Chapter 4

Summary:

When you don't know who you are
You fuck around and find out

True Blue - boygenius

The Constance Wadsworth Atrium glows like a very expensive jewelry box someone left unlocked. All glass and wrought iron and tasteful illumination, the kind of place that makes you feel underdressed even in a suit.

Inside, soft instrumental music drifts from unseen speakers, just loud enough to hush conversation without becoming part of it. Candlelight flickers from hurricane lanterns tucked into stone basins and along the walkway. 

The atrium's long reflecting pool has been rimmed in votives that throw long, flickering lines across the water. Faculty drift around it with practiced ease, like they’ve been doing this forever. And judging by the elbow patches and orthopedic loafers, some of them have.

Trevor lingers near the bar with a glass of bourbon and a skewer of something he already forgot the name of. His blazer itches a little at the shoulders, and he’s two seconds from loosening his collar when Sasappis slides into place beside him, already holding a drink and a plate of canapes that resemble tiny, elegant pizzas.

“I see you found the meat on a stick,” Sass says. “A rite of passage.”

Trevor glances down. “This cost more than my first apartment’s rent.”

“They’re trying to impress you. Or sedate you.”

Trevor sips his bourbon. It’s excellent. Smooth, complex, nothing bottom-shelf about it. “This place doesn’t do half-assed,” he mutters. “Everyone here looks like they’ve published books and ruined marriages.”

Sass nods solemnly. “Several have done both in the same sabbatical.”

They clink glasses. The crowd around them hums with cautious collegiality – people scanning name tags, talking about departments like gang territories. New faculty congregate at the edges, older ones stake out central tables like they’ve earned territorial rights.

“Hi, Sass,” says a voice behind them, bright and a little too enthusiastic. “Who’s your friend?”

Trevor turns. A man stands there with a drink in his hand, short sleeves, wire-framed glasses, and the overly earnest air of someone who would say ‘a stranger is just a friend you haven’t made yet’ unironically. 

“Hi. I’m Pete Martino,” he says. “Computer Science. Thought I’d come over and introduce myself before it got too awkward to do it naturally.”

“'Cause this isn't awkward,” Sass chuckles.

“I’m Trevor,” Trevor says, offering a hand. “Economics.”

“Very cool. Behavioral or boring?”

“Behavioral.”

“Even better,” Pete says, like Trevor just revealed he plays guitar in a surf-rock band. “Love it. I teach a seminar on tech ethics – surveillance capitalism, data privacy, existential dread. You know, fun stuff!”

Trevor chuckles despite himself. Pete’s not what he expected. A little overeager, maybe, but sincere. And not performing status, which already sets him apart from half the room.

Trevor smirks into his bourbon. “You’re really like this all the time, huh?”

“Mostly,” Pete says, not at all offended. “It’s how I survive academia. Optimism, well-placed commas, and one color-coded emotional support spreadsheet.”

“Is that a metaphor?” Trevor asks.

“No, it’s an actual spreadsheet. I’ll send you a copy.”

Trevor laughs – short, surprised. The drink’s kicking in now, just enough to smooth the edges of the room.

Pete glances around. “You meet Alberta yet?”

“Who?”

“She’s – oh. Speak of the mezzo.”

As if on cue, a woman in a fitted burgundy wrap dress steps into their circle, holding her wine glass like it was choreographed into her movement. “Oh, don’t worry. I heard my cue.”

Pete lights up. “Alberta, this is Trevor and Sass. Alberta teaches Vocal Performance. Also, she’s terrifying.”

Alberta smiles, slow and devastating. “Only when someone sings Puccini flat.”

She turns to Trevor. “New hire?”

“First week,” he says. “Trevor Lefkowitz. Econ.”

“Good luck. First year’s the hardest. You don’t know which doors need keys, which people need ego management, and which coffee is safe to drink.”

“I assume the answer to all three is: ask Sass.”

Sass raises his glass without looking up. “That’s not wrong.”

Alberta eyes him. “And how are you settling in?”

“Still upright,” Trevor says. “So far no one’s tried to fight me or seduce me. Not sure if I should be pleased or offended.”

Alberta’s smile curves like a signature. “Give it a few weeks.”

Pete leans in, too pleased. “This is a good group. I can feel it.”

Sass side-eyes him. “You say that every time someone holds eye contact for more than three seconds.”

“Exactly. It’s called community, Sass!” Pete exclaims cheerfully.

Trevor’s chuckle is cut short by a shift in atmosphere, slight but palpable. A softening of voices. A ripple effect of straightening posture.

He doesn’t need to look. He knows.

Of course he does.

Hetty Woodstone enters with no announcement. No fanfare. Her heels strike the floor with the unhurried rhythm of someone who never chases attention because it always arrives on schedule.

And Trevor’s is no exception.

She’s dressed like she expects obedience. Not extravagantly – there’s nothing flashy about her – but the effect is total. She’s wearing another structured dress, black this time, that fits like a rule. The sleeves hit mid-forearm. The neckline doesn’t plunge, but it’s cut just sharply enough to make him forget how breathing works. 

Her hair is as it was at orientation – an artful chaos, coiled and half-contained, haloing her face in a way that makes everything she says sound final. Trevor knows better now than to think it’s unintentional. 

Nothing about her is.

She crosses the room without hesitation, and people make way – not because she demands it, but because no one wants to risk being in her path. She moves with measured, purposeful steps. Like she’s here to conduct business and isn’t convinced the rest of them are worth her time. Trevor shifts, hoping the group around him doesn’t notice.

It’s not just attraction. It’s not even respect. It’s something worse. A kind of recognition. A tug in his chest like muscle memory, like wanting to kneel without knowing why.

He watches her cut through the crowd with brisk efficiency, acknowledging a few people with nods so faint they might not have happened. When she turns slightly, her gaze sweeps the bar – uninterested, unreadable – and then keeps moving.

Trevor exhales like he’d been holding his breath.

Sass glances at him. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Trevor says too fast.

Pete follows his gaze. “Ah. The Iron Duchess,” he says with a grin – admiring, not ironic. “She’s kind of a legend.” Coming from Sasappis, it would be poking fun. But coming from Pete, it’s a completely innocent comment.

Trevor makes a low, noncommittal sound.

“She’s Dean of Faculty,” Pete continues. “But you probably already know that. And she runs the English Department. She teaches this incredible grad seminar called Structures of Submission: Gender and Power in Victorian Literature.”

Trevor nods slowly, like the information is purely academic.

He doesn’t react to the title. Not outwardly.

Not to submission, or power, or the fact that nineteenth-century fiction now sounds like a threat he would beg to hear twice.

Pete, thank god, is completely oblivious. “It always fills up immediately. People camp out for online registration like they’re waiting for Taylor Swift tickets. She scares the pants off most people, but I kind of love her.”

And now Trevor is imagining Hetty Woodstone ripping off his pants. 

Great.

Trevor hangs out with his somewhat unlikely group by the reflecting pool. Bourbon in hand, collar loosened half an inch. He doesn’t watch her. Not really.

He just…knows where she is. It's become a kind of background awareness, the way you know where the exits are in a room. Survival instinct.

She moves through the room like someone reviewing a ledger – quietly, meticulously, with the assurance of a woman who knows her presence is the final word. When she pauses near the Political Science cluster, he becomes intensely interested in his drink. When she greets someone from Development with a nod, Trevor notices the exact level of bourbon left in his glass. It’s not deliberate. It’s self-preservation.

Sass is saying something – probably mocking Pete’s canapés or offering unsolicited gossip – but the words arrive distantly, like they’re passing through water. Trevor nods along, out of sync. He catches Alberta glancing at him once, her head tilted like she’s clocking something. He forces his focus back to the conversation.

Hetty laughs. Just once, low and precise. The sound of executive approval slices right through him. Not because it’s seductive (it is), but because it’s so rare. Nothing about her suggests warmth is freely given. So when it appears, even in trace amounts, it feels like currency.

She’s close now. Not near their circle, not approaching, just close enough that he can feel the change in air temperature as she heads for the bar.

Trevor swallows. Slowly. Calmly. There’s nothing to react to.

She hasn’t even looked at him.

And still – his pulse has restructured itself entirely.

Chapter 5

Summary:

How would you like it if my lips touched yours
And they stayed close baby 'til the stars fade out?

Hours - FKA twigs

He tells himself it’s just a drink. That he’s not seeking her out. Just…moving. Nothing to do with her.

But he knows where she is before he turns. Of course he does. She's at the far end of the bar, speaking with someone in Administration. Not smiling, not frowning, just listening in that deliberate way she has – head slightly tilted, posture impeccable, as though her approval were a finite resource allocated with care.

Trevor waits. Not close. Just… adjacent. He orders another bourbon he doesn’t need and stands like someone who definitely isn’t trying to get her attention.

Eventually the administrator peels off. She doesn’t look at Trevor. Not at first. Just nods politely at the bartender as he refreshes her drink.

It’s the chance he’s been telling himself not to take.

“Professor Woodstone.”

She doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look particularly pleased, either. Just glances at him, even and composed, already assessing whether the interruption is worth her time. “Professor Lefkowitz.”

He nods, casual, like this is no big deal. Like he didn’t just mentally rehearse his greeting four different ways.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” he says. “But I guess mixers fall under ‘necessary suffering.’”

“Suffering implies resistance,” Hetty responds, voice holding that commanding edge that has him mentally reviewing basketball stats to stop from embarrassing himself.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I stand corrected.”

The bartender appears. She doesn’t need to order – he already knows her drink. Trevor gestures for another bourbon.

“Scotch?” he says, glancing at her glass.

“Laphroaig.”

“Of course it is,” he mutters. “You drink like a villain.”

“And you narrate like a man who thinks he’s charming.”

“I am charming.”

She purses her lips, tilting her head ever-so-slightly. “To whom?”

“I’m running a tight campaign.” He lifts his glass slightly, eyes steady on her. “Limited outreach. Focused demographic.”

She looks at him with something adjacent to amusement while somehow remaining cool, composed, and entirely unimpressed. “Your effort is noted.”

He shifts to face her a little more directly. “I’m not in your class, Professor Woodstone.”

She arches a brow and then says something that has his blood rushing directly south: “But you’d like to be.”

Yeah, he’s gonna be going home to a very cold shower. He exhales, slow and unsteady. “I’d keep up.”

She doesn’t blink. Her voice slices cleanly through him.

“You wouldn’t survive the syllabus.” 

Before he can recover – not that he’s confident he could – someone slides neatly into the space beside her. A man, maybe early forties. Trim sideburns, soft sweater, tailored trousers. “Hetty,” he greets. He leans in and kisses her on the cheek like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal.

She allows it: a flicker of a grin, the most warmth he’s seen from her yet.

“Isaac,” she says, brushing his arm.

It hits him low – like a punch to the ribs.

Of course she’s seeing someone. Of course it would be someone poised and intellectual and already inside her orbit. Trevor suddenly feels ten years younger and infinitely more idiotic.

Isaac turns to him with an easy smile and extended hand. “Don’t think we’ve met. Isaac Higgs. Political Science.”

“Trevor Lefkowitz,” he manages, shaking his hand. “Economics.”

He takes a sip of his drink, bourbon suddenly thin on his tongue.

“You’re new this year, right?” Isaac says, still warm, still breezy. “Think I saw your name on the appointment memo. Welcome.”

“Thanks,” Trevor replies. “Still figuring out where the hell everything is.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Isaac says. “It took me a full semester to realize the humanities building has two entrances. I was twenty minutes late to my own seminar for weeks.”

Hetty glances over her glass. “You still show up late.”

“Now it’s deliberate,” Isaac counters, giving her a wink that lands with the practiced ease of long familiarity. “Cultivating mystique.”

She doesn’t smile again, but something about the angle of her head suggests she’s indulging him.

Trevor watches the exchange with a glassed-over expression, all poise and panic. He thinks about speaking, but can’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound like a plea.

She sips her drink. “Where is Nigel?” she asks, like it’s a question she’s supposed to ask, not one she particularly cares about.

Isaac’s smile is warm, familiar. “Still rearranging the entire syllabus around a comma.”

Hetty lifts an eyebrow. “Charming.”

“He says hello.”

“Mm.” She considers that. “Did you tell him I’d be here?”

“I said if there was alcohol and obligation, you’d be both present and punctual.”

That earns the faintest smile. “You know me tolerably well.”

”That, I do,” Isaac confirms.

She adjusts her sleeve, glances across the room. “Excuse me. I need to speak with Professor Montero before she vanishes in a haze of patchouli and idealism.”

Isaac shifts aside to let her pass. “Give Flower my love.”

She brushes his arm as she goes – not affectionate, exactly, but familiar. Easy.

Her purposeful grace takes her in the direction of a woman who looks like she wandered in from a Grateful Dead concert. She beams at Hetty’s approach, arms already opening in a loose, sunshiny embrace. Hetty doesn’t look pleased with the greeting but accepts all the same.

Trevor watches them for a second too long.

Isaac follows his gaze, then speaks with the tone of someone easing into an observation. “She’s as idealistic as she looks,” he says mildly. “Don’t let the haze of marijuana and patchouli fool you – brilliant constitutional mind.”

Trevor nods and tips his glass toward the hug. “That looks…mutual.”

The older man shrugs. “An unlikely friendship,” he agrees. His eyes flick over Trevor – sharp, thoughtful, like he’s sizing him up. “And what brings a man like you to Greystone?”

The phrasing snags. A man like you. Trevor swallows, unsure if he should laugh or clarify. He doesn’t do either. “Bad luck. Good timing.”

Isaac smiles faintly, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “That’s most of us.”

There’s something else there – some unspoken observation Trevor feels but can’t name. He looks away first.

Isaac finishes his drink. “Well. If you survive the semester, I suspect you’ll be a welcome addition.”

“Appreciate the vote of confidence,” Trevor mutters, already bracing for what that syllabus might include.

Isaac just smiles and turns to refresh his drink, leaving Trevor alone with his bourbon and a growing suspicion he’s misread the entire room.

He doesn’t linger.

Offers Isaac a vague nod, the bartender a muttered thanks, and walks out like he’s not on the verge of total collapse. Like he didn’t just spend the last ten minutes getting talked down by Hetty Woodstone and then casually gutted by her…whatever Isaac is.

Hours later, the ache follows him home, coiled low in his spine, biting at his jaw, hot in his thighs.

The elevator, though efficient, is too slow. He almost wishes he’d taken the stairs, all eight flights. At least the climb would’ve burned some of this out of him, given him something to do with the ache knotting his groin.

The shower’s cold. Pointless. His cock doesn’t even flinch. He could stand under ice and still feel it – need, hunger, something harder and more insistent than either. It’s not going away.

He dries off with the towel half-wrapped around him and crosses the room still dripping. Doesn’t bother with lights. Just sits on the edge of his bed, letting the desire sharpen until it’s almost unbearable. He imagines her standing over him, telling him exactly what to do, voice low and imperious. The kind of certainty that makes obedience feel inevitable.

He lets the towel fall, because she’d tell him to. Spreads his knees, because she’d want him open. Fists himself hard enough to chase the edge and keep himself there, because she wouldn’t let him finish until she decided. 

Come.

The orgasm hits hard enough to buckle him. He lies there after, breath ragged, forehead damp, jaw clenched.

You wouldn’t survive the syllabus.

He’s starting to believe her.

Chapter 6

Summary:

Somethin' 'bout you makes me feel like a dangerous woman
Somethin' 'bout you makes me wanna do things that I shouldn't

Dangerous Woman - Ariana Grande

Notes:

i'd recommend the following songs for after the break - it's what i listened to while writing:

Justify My Love - Madonna
Closer - Nine Inch Nails
Cola - Lana Del Rey
Dangerous Woman - Ariana Grande

i'm spoiling you guys with multiple chapters per day, but i'm getting much needed serotonin from all the love.

It quickly becomes clear that jerking off like he’s sixteen again isn’t helping. With the arousal or the guilt. Maybe running will burn it out of him.

He focuses on the feel of his shoes hitting the pavement, the burn in his lungs as he hits his pace, the bass line of each song in his playlist.

He’s halfway through his second mile, “Training Season” playing in his ears, when he sees a familiar figure ahead: button-down shirt, pressed slacks, walking a small, self-important dachshund.

Isaac Higgs.

Trevor takes out an AirPod and slows, breath catching more from surprise than exertion. Isaac in the wild is rare enough. Isaac in the wild with a leash in hand is something else entirely.

And he’s not alone.

The man beside him is shorter, dark-haired, with the unmistakable posture of someone who would correct grammar in a love letter. Linen blazer. Polished shoes unsullied by the gravel path. A soft, old-world elegance that looks like it belongs in a drawing room, not the Hudson breeze.

The dog barks once – decisively – and Isaac turns.

“Trevor,” he calls, as if catching him mid-lecture. “You run?”

Trevor slows to a stop, chest heaving. “Shocking, I know.”

The other man smiles with gentle amusement. “Ah, yes, Isaac did mention you were new faculty,” he says, accent crisp and unmistakably British. “Nigel Chessum.”

Trevor blinks. Takes in the shared leash, the matched pace, the ring glinting on Nigel’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Friend of Isaac’s?”

Isaac’s mouth quirks. “Husband, actually.”

The word lands. For a moment, Trevor’s pulse – already high from the run – spikes for an entirely different reason.

He hides the flicker of shock behind a swipe at his forehead, pushing sweat from his brow. “Ah. Got it. Sorry – I didn’t realize.”

Nigel waves it off. “Isaac has an air of inscrutability. It’s half the appeal.”

Isaac gives a long-suffering sigh. “It’s entirely the appeal, according to him.”

The dog barks again, tugging at the leash, impatient with pleasantries.

Trevor grins. “Your watchdog seems to disagree.”

“He has opinions,” Nigel says fondly. “Mostly about squirrels and sandwich crusts.”

They exchange a few more words – weather, campus nonsense, the merits of early tenure – before Trevor makes his excuses and jogs on.

By the time he rounds the bend, his mind has stripped the conversation to one crystalline fact:

Isaac is married.

To Nigel.

Which means Hetty…

He doesn’t finish the thought. Just drives himself harder, legs pumping, chest open to the wind.

The ache in his body feels different now – cleaner, sharper, electric.

The grin is impossible to stop.

---

The semester finds its rhythm, and so does Trevor.

He learns which copier is supposedly haunted, which admin assistant to bribe with pastries. Names become faces. Faces become routines. A few even become friends.

Sasappis remains his closest tether – sharp, dry, a welcome anchor. Pete proves relentlessly friendly, Alberta impossible to miss in any room, all laughter and presence and bold opinions delivered like gospel (and often sung as such).

Flower, despite a conversational style that often takes sharp turns, keeps pulling him into her orbit. She introduces him to her boyfriend one afternoon over iced matcha and vegan muffins. Thor – yes, really – is taller than Trevor by half a foot, carved from Scandinavian granite, with the wary stillness of a wolf and a golden retriever softness that makes you almost forget he could snap a tree in half.

Trevor finds himself liking them all more than he expects.

Today he’s sitting on the edge of the desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled, legs comfortably dangling. The tone of the lecture is more conversation than instruction – he’s been letting them debate the implications of price ceilings, nudging the quieter ones into the fray, leaning back whenever the discussion gains traction.

“…so what happens to supply,” he asks, “when the government tells you what your product can’t be worth?”

Hands lift. One student groans about landlords. Another goes off about insulin.

Trevor grins. “Good. Rage is the correct response.”

Laughter ripples across the room. The door clicks open.

She enters with all the noise of a whisper – immaculate blouse in a burnt orange, heels like punctuation, gaze already scanning the room. She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t speak. Just selects a seat in the back like it belongs to her, and crosses her legs in a slow, practiced movement.

He falters mid-thought. Just a hitch – barely noticeable. The students don’t see the shift, but he feels it. Like the center of gravity’s moved and he’s struggling to stay on the surface.

He forces himself back into the moment and gestures toward the second student. “Go on – insulin. The cap means?”

“They can’t charge more than, like, thirty-five bucks a vial. So it’s affordable now, kind of.”

“Right,” Trevor says. “So what happens next?”

The first student leans forward. “Companies stop making it. Or make less.”

“Supply drops,” Trevor confirms. “And if demand stays high?”

“Shortage,” another student answers from the back, forcing Hetty back into his periphery, her expression unreadable, her hand scribbling on a clipboard as she observes.

Trevor points at the student, Ralph, who beams. “Exactly. That’s the tradeoff. Price ceilings help consumers if supply holds. But if not – ” He hops off the desk and goes to the whiteboard. “ – we get scarcity. Long lines. Rationing. Or worse – black markets. Knockoff insulin on craigslist. Anyone want to guess how that goes?”

The rest of the class goes smoothly. Trevor manages to not get too distracted by the redhead or the legs she’s kept primly crossed in a way that makes him want her to pull a Basic Instinct.

By the time class wraps up, he’s managed to find his bearings. His pulse is steady again. Almost.

The last student files out, backpack swinging, and the door clicks shut.

Neither of them moves.

Hetty remains in the back row, legs crossed, posture immaculate. Clipboard resting lightly on the desk like it holds something damning. Trevor stays where he is, perched on the edge of his desk, hoping his posture appears more relaxed than he feels.

“I assume,” she says without looking up, “this is your preferred style of instruction?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what she means. “It seems to work,” he shrugs, dragging a hand through his hair.

“For now.” She glances at him, briefly, before putting the clipboard into her bag. “Your tone is casual. Unstructured.”

“They’re quoting Bastiat and complaining about insulin. I’ll take that over blank stares and forced note-taking.”

She stands. The movement is clean, practiced. No rustle of fabric, no shift of weight. Just purpose. Each step she takes down the tiered lecture hall echoes, sharp and sure, the room narrowing with every calculated click of her heels.

“Students need structure. They crave it, even when they claim otherwise.”

“I don’t know,” he says, eyes fixed on her. “They seemed pretty engaged.”

“Engagement is not the same as discipline.”

Trevor doesn’t stand – isn’t sure he could. He’s seated on the desk, but his legs and lungs feel like he just scaled Mount Everest. 

“Discipline’s easy,” he answers, forcing a smirk. “Just hand out a syllabus and glare.”

“That would be order,” she replies, tone as clipped as her steps. “Discipline comes from consistency. From expectation.”

“Conversation keeps them awake.”

“So would a fire alarm.”

“You think I just want to entertain them,” he huffs.

She stops just shy of the desk, close enough to read the tension in his jaw. Her chin lifts slightly, and she looks down at him in a way that makes him wish he’d had the foresight to cross his legs. He settles for folding his hands in his lap.

“I think you like attention,” she drawls.

He manages to meet her gaze even as it burns into him. “And you don’t?” he asks.

“I prefer control.”

The word lands low, deep in his abdomen. His pulse spikes; his cock twitches.

He inhales deeply but doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “Control’s a myth. You can’t force someone to care.”

“No,” she says. “But you can command their attention. If you know how.”

“I engage them,” he says, hoping his voice is steadier than his pulse. “You saw the room. They were thinking. Talking.”

“They were directionless,” she says. “You gave them no framework. No conclusion. Just noise.”

He shrugs, the motion feeling tight under her scrutiny. “Noise beats silence.”

“Not when the silence holds substance.”

“They were working through the logic. Getting their hands dirty. That’s how it sticks.”

“That’s how it spirals,” she counters. “Without structure, they flail. Or worse – improvise.”

“Is that so terrible?” He watches the curve of her mouth as she considers him. “Letting them find their own argument?”

“It’s undisciplined.”

He lifts a brow. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just unfamiliar.”

She takes another step forward, close enough now that the desk feels like less of a perch and more of a trap. Close enough that the line of professionalism becomes blurry. “You enjoy chaos, do you?”

“I like movement.”

“And yet,” she murmurs, “you seem very comfortable sitting still.”

Trevor inhales. Carefully. “I don’t need to move to hold a room.”

“You hold it.” Her lips curve into a smirk. “I own it.”

He swallows thickly, and she watches it happen like she’d predicted it, like she’s collecting reactions the way entomologists pin insects.

“You always this modest?” 

A smirk. “When accuracy is mistaken for arrogance, I consider the audience.”

“You think this is all theater,” he says.

“No,” she replies. “Theater implements framework.”

He huffs a laugh. It’s the wrong move – too loose, too defensive – and she closes the distance further, enough that his legs nearly bracket hers. His breath catches, a fraction too audible.

“I’ve seen men like you,” she says, softer now, almost disarming. “Endearing. Clever. Eager to be liked.”

He lifts his chin. “And?”

“They burn out,” she answers. “Or they break.”

Her gaze pierces his. Her voice dips low in a way that could be mistaken for concern.

He stares up at her, every inch of him drawn taut, tense. “You planning to light the match?”

Hetty tilts her head, just slightly, as if examining him under better light.

“If I were,” she murmurs, “you’d thank me for it.”

Without breaking his gaze, she pulls a paper out of her bag and places it on the desk. Her fingers graze the edge of the wood near his thigh. His breath catches in his chest.

For a moment – a flicker – he thinks she might lean in.

Not for the form.

For him.

The thought lands like heat in his gut, curling low. A breath from her lips and he’d tilt, surrendering without even meaning to.

But she doesn’t kiss him. Doesn’t touch him. Just speaks.

“Midterm framework,” she says, voice smooth as cut glass. “Outline due Monday. On my desk by five.”

He nods – slow, delayed – like his body’s still catching up to her voice.

She doesn’t wait. Just smooths her sleeve with elegant precision, fingers dragging down the fabric like she’s brushing off dust.

Then she turns.

Each step back up the aisle is slow, deliberate. Like she knows he’s watching, like she knows what it does to him. The sharp echo of her heels feels less like departure than provocation – each click a pulse pressed deep beneath his skin.

He doesn’t move. Wouldn’t dare. The form rests beside him on the desk like a glove she’s removed and left behind.

A test. Of obedience. Of nerve.

Of how long he’ll sit there, burning.

Notes:

this is one of my favorite chapters ❤️

Chapter 7

Summary:

Oh-oh, here she comes
Watch out, boy, she'll chew you up
Oh-oh, here she comes
She's a man-eater

Maneater - Hall & Oates

Trevor’s apartment is a study in contradictions: brushed steel and raw wood, a six-figure view of the East River, and the lingering smell of coffee strong enough to strip varnish. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the late-afternoon haze, diffused just enough to make the place feel like a photo shoot waiting to happen. 

It’s all a testament to the life he used to have.

He’s at the kitchen island – because the desk in the second bedroom is cursed, obviously – half-focused on his laptop, the beginnings of a midterm framework open in one window and a half-dozen tabs of marginally relevant articles cluttering the rest.

He’s mid-sentence when there’s a knock.

He doesn’t move. Few people have the nerve to drop by unannounced.

Another knock, then: “If you make me knock a third time, I’m crawling in through the trash chute.”

Trevor sighs and stands. “It’s a compactor, Sass. You’ll die.”

“And yet somehow I’m still knocking.”

He opens the door to find Sass in sunglasses and a linen shirt, holding a to-go iced matcha like a trophy. He sweeps in without waiting for an invitation. “I brought bagels,” he says, like it justifies the invasion.

Trevor shuts the door with the resigned air of a man who’s fought this battle before and lost spectacularly every time.

“You brought carbs,” he says. “That’s not hospitality. That’s sabotage.”

“It’s culture,” Sass replies, breezing into the kitchen. “Your people invented the gesture. Mine perfected it.”

Trevor raises a brow. “That’s not how that works.”

“Everything’s how I say it works. Isn’t that the beauty of tenure?”

“You don’t have tenure.”

Sass waves a hand. “Details.”

The kitchen’s too clean, and Sass disrupts it on principle – setting the bag on the counter, pulling out two wax-paper-wrapped bundles with the ease of a man who knows where the silverware lives. He’s been here often enough to stop pretending he doesn’t feel at home.

Trevor leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Shouldn’t you be doting on Joan?”

“She’s writing.” Sass unwraps a bagel. “I offered to help and she banished me for the greater good of American cinema.”

Trevor snorts. “So naturally, you came here to interrupt my productivity.”

“Please. You were ten minutes away from clicking on a sneaker resale link. This” – he slides the other bagel toward Trevor – “is a mitzvah.”

Trevor eyes it suspiciously. “Is that…whitefish?”

“And capers. You’re welcome.”

Trevor takes the plate but doesn’t sit. “I’m working.”

“On what? A lecture? A manifesto? Your apology letter to the discipline of economics?”

“Midterm framework,” Trevor mutters. “Trying to keep it from turning into a TED Talk.”

Sass nods like that’s commendable. “So no time for a scandalous entanglement, then?”

Trevor glances at him. “What?”

“You’ve been weirdly cagey all week,” Sass says, settling into a barstool like it’s his own. “You’ve got that restless, ‘I almost made a mistake but it was hot’ energy.”

Trevor rolls his eyes.“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

Sass takes a deliberate bite. “What’s her name?”

Trevor stares.

“No judgment,” Sass says, mouth full. “But if you are sleeping with someone, I’m going to need a name, an age range, and a vague sense of the power imbalance.”

“There’s no one.”

Sass squints at him over the rim of his iced matcha. “Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?”

“There’s no one,” Trevor repeats, heading back to his computer.

“You’re bad at lying.” Sass grins, sitting across from him casually. “Which is shocking for a former finance guy.”

Trevor glares, biting into the bagel like it personally offended him.

Sass just sips his drink. “Older, right? I know your type. You don’t discriminate, but your radar pings louder if she could’ve plausibly voted for Reagan.”

“That’s not – ”

“Someone strict,” Sass muses aloud. “No tolerance for bullshit. Loves rules. Probably an authority figure. Definitely older.”

Trevor winces – just slightly, but enough that his friend smells blood in the water.

Sass’ entire face lights up. “Ohhhh!”

Trevor points at him. “Don’t.”

“Hetty?” Sass asks, vibrating with excitement. Trevor’s never met anyone who lives for drama more than Sasappis. “You’re sleeping with Hetty Woodstone?! Oh, my god, this is even better than when Katie got Finn finally hooked up on It's Getting Hot in Here!”

“No,” Trevor insists quickly. “No, I am definitely not sleeping with her. Or anyone.”

“Oh, my god. The walk, the voice, the spine like titanium – that Hetty?”

“Did you raid Flower’s stash? You’re hallucinating.”

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“And flustered,” Sass says, eyes narrowing. “Which is textbook for you when you’re into someone wildly inappropriate.”

Trevor rubs his face with his palms. “It’s not – there’s nothing happening.”

“But you want it to happen.”

“I’ve had literally three conversations with her,” he groans.

“You keep count? You’re obsessed,” Sass laughs. “I knew this would happen. This is so on brand for you. Like a moth that writes its own flight plan on the way to the flame.”

“There’s nothing going on,” Trevor whines, slumping back in his chair, head tipped toward the ceiling like he’s praying for mercy.

“But you wish there were,” Sass points out smugly. 

Trevor swallows. “I hate you.”

“No, you hate that I’m right.” Sass grabs his drink again, deeply pleased. “For the record? I get it. She’s objectively hot. And watching her eat you alive is gonna be hilarious.”

Trevor slides down further in his chair, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.

Sass just starts humming “Maneater” into his matcha.

Chapter 8

Summary:

In the land of gods and monsters
I was an angel looking to get fucked hard

Goda & Monsters - Lana Del Rey

Notes:

because it felt mean to not give you a hetty chapter today

He tells himself he’s not doing this for the drama. That it’s just time management. That he worked up to the wire and is delivering his midterm framework in person because he cares about the quality of his teaching, not because he wants to see her again. 

Definitely not because some fucked up part of him wants her to order him under her desk while she reads it. 

Trevor rounds the corner into the administrative corridor like he’s headed into battle. Folder in hand, palm damp against the cardboard. He’s dressed down – button-up sleeves rolled to the forearm, tie loosened, jacket abandoned somewhere back in his office – but he doesn’t slow his pace.

Her door is open.

He knocks once on the open frame anyway.

He immediately knows he’s made a mistake.

She’s at her desk, posture immaculate, pen in hand like she’s already mid-sentence in his eulogy. Perched on her nose is a pair of oxblood  reading glasses that have him fantasizing about her delivering a masterclass in obedience, with oral exams he’d happily fail just to take again.

She doesn’t look up. Just finishes a note in whatever she’s reading, then finally, without warmth or welcome, lifts her eyes over the top of her readers.

Trevor clears his throat. “Midterm framework. On time.”

He steps in and places the folder on her desk. The edge aligns with the blotter. He’s not proud of that, but he’s not not proud of it either.

Hetty’s gaze lingers, impassive – but not blank. She sees him. That much is obvious. Not just the folder, not just the near tardiness – but him, standing there, pretending this is just about paperwork.

“You cut that rather close,” she says at last, each word a clean, cold jolt down his spine.

He shrugs, feigning ease. “Well. Some of us perform better under pressure.”

A pause. Just long enough to make him regret saying it.

She looks at him over the top of her glasses. “Or perhaps adrenaline is clouding your judgment.”

He smiles. “Admit it, you were wondering where I’d gone.”

Hetty’s expression doesn’t flicker. “If I were, I would have simply conducted another observation.”

“Always straight for the jugular, huh?” he murmurs. 

“I thought you appreciated directness.”

“I do,” he says, “in theory. In practice, it kind of makes me want to push my luck.”

That gets her. Barely. A fractional shift in her eyes. A flicker of something he’d call interest if she were anyone else.

“You’re awfully confident for someone submitting on deadline.”

“I thought you might prefer it in person,” he says, voice low, “so you could observe.”

“Flirtation won’t mask sloppiness, Professor Lefkowitz.”

“Who said I’m flirting?”

“I did.”

He doesn’t move, but something in him tightens. They’re not close – she hasn’t stood, hasn’t even shifted in her chair – but the pull between them feels physical.

“You haven’t spoken to me since you observed my class,” he says.

“It’s been five days,” she reminds him. “Hardly an oversight.”

He grins. “You counted.”

“Basic arithmetic, Professor,” she counters.

“I thought you might prefer it hand-delivered,” he says lightly. “Live demonstration of punctuality. Down to the minute.”

Hetty doesn’t answer. She just watches him – measured, silent, her pen still poised above the blotter like she might write him off altogether.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he adds, when the silence stretches.

“For what?”

“For sparing you the agony of uncertainty.”

A faint lift of one brow. “You assume I gave it a second thought.”

That hits lower than it should. He covers it with a half-smile. “And you didn’t?”

“I don’t waste attention on predictable outcomes,” she replies, marking the essay in front of her.

“Meaning?”

She flicks her gaze up to meet his. “Meaning things have a tendency of bending to my will exactly when I decide they should.”

He shouldn’t like that.

But it lands like a challenge, and every part of him wants to lose.

She finally sets the pen down and sits back in her seat. Still hasn’t opened the folder. Still hasn’t invited him to sit.

“You waited until the very last moment,” she says, as though the timing was hers to dictate.

Trevor shrugs, casual. “Deadlines make things interesting.”

“Brinkmanship does not equate to intrigue, Professor.”

Something in her tone flicks the air between them taut.

He shifts his weight, lets a pause stretch. “You always like this with faculty, or am I special?”

“If I recall,” she says, “you enjoy being singled out.”

That stops him. A flicker of heat coils low in his spine.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.

“Or was that performance just for the benefit of my last visit?” she adds, voice like glass – cool, flawless, edged.

Trevor breathes once through his nose. “You’ve been thinking about that?”

“Hardly,” she says. “But I do tend to remember behavior that borders on the inappropriate.”

He tilts his head. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who exhibited inappropriate behavior.”

A pause. Controlled. Intentional.

Then, “That’s a bold accusation,” Hetty replies, her tone as level as a blade. “Particularly from someone who appears to be auditioning for approval.”

He lets out half a breath – more exhale than laugh. “Is that what you think I want?”

“You want the scrutiny,” she answers simply. “You continue to invite it.”

Trevor swallows. “Maybe I just want to know what you’ll do.”

She regards him for a moment, unblinking. “What I’ll do,” she echoes softly. “Interesting.”

Another charged silence. He feels it gathering behind his ribs, pressing against the walls of his chest.

“You’re not the first faculty member to test boundaries,” she finally says. Her eyes sweep over him as she adds, “But you are…uniquely persistent.”

He smiles faintly, hoping he doesn’t look as anxious as he feels. “Guess I respond well to structure.”

Hetty removes her glasses with unhurried precision, setting them on the desk as though concluding a thought. “Do you?”

He shrugs, feigning ease, but his hands are too still. “It helps me focus.”

She stands. No rustle, no announcement – just the deliberate shift of her chair, the air in the room changing as she rises.

As she moves, Trevor holds his ground. Barely – every muscle is on the verge of either bolting or leaning in.

She stops a pace too close. “This visit wasn’t a matter of procedure,” she says, voice low.

He swallows. “No?”

“No,” she continues, studying him with dispassionate interest. “You wanted my attention.”

She lets it hang. Long enough that he feels it in his teeth.

“That’s…a theory,” he says, carefully.

“It’s an observation.” Hetty’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You submitted nothing all weekend. Nothing this morning. You waited until the final hour of the final day – until I was alone – to deliver in person. Why?”

“I was working,” he says too quickly, too smoothly.

“No,” she says, voice like pressure. “You were waiting.”

His breath sticks.

“You wanted a moment. Not a meeting. Not an email. A moment.” She takes half a step closer. “With me.”

Trevor doesn’t move. Can’t. Not when the air between them feels like it might shatter.

She looks at him, eyes cool, expression unreadable. “That kind of restraint,” she says, “suggests you’re not built for instant gratification.”

She could be talking about anything. The folder. The deadline. The silence.

But she isn’t.

He doesn't respond.

“You enjoy the wait,” she continues. “The build. The ache.”

She practically purrs the last word, and his pulse jumps visibly in his neck.

Then she touches him – just her fingers curling around the base of his tie, knuckles brushing his abs in a whisper of contact that makes him bite back a whimper.

“You understand, of course,” she adds, quiet and composed, “that gratification still depends on merit.”

That lands hard.

He nods slowly. Carefully.

Hetty steps back, not dismissing him – just done.

“I’ll review your materials on my schedule,” she says. “You’ll receive notes in writing.”

Trevor breathes once, shallowly, then steps out of her office with the folder unopened on her desk.

Chapter 9

Summary:

Simmer down and pucker up
I'm sorry to interrupt
It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of trying to kiss you

Do I Wanna Know - Arctic Monkeys

On Thursday, Trevor runs into Pete after class, and the relentlessly cheerful tech professor ropes him into grabbing a drink. Not that Trevor minds. Pete’s a good guy and a solid hang.

And honestly, he could use better influences in his life.

They end up at a beer garden a few blocks from campus with a view of Jersey City across the Hudson. Communal tables, decorations strung overhead, music playing from speakers in the corners of the patio. It’s fairly busy for a Thursday afternoon, but not so loud it prevents conversation.

“Man, this week feels like it’s already doing overtime,” Pete says, stirring his beer. 

Trevor smirks. “What happened? One of your students try to hack the grading system?”

Pete laughs. “Close. We were talking about AI bias in class, and this kid — dead serious — asks if it’s possible to train a dating app to only match him with women who like dogs and own boats.”

Trevor raises an eyebrow. “Efficient, I’ll give him that.”

“Yeah, but then he wants to know if I could personally code it for him. Like I’ve got a side hustle building bespoke romance algorithms.” Pete shakes his head, still grinning. “I told him that if he wants it done, he can make it his end of term project, which…quite honestly makes me a little queasy.”

Trevor chuckles, taking a sip. “You’re shaping the minds of tomorrow.”

Pete points at him with his glass. “Exactly. Just…maybe not the ones that’ll cure cancer.”

“No money in cancer research,” Trevor points out. “A hyper-specific dating app, though? Kid’s gonna clean up if he can hook an investor.”

Before he can even process what’s happening, Alberta slides onto the bench beside him. Large sunglasses, long hair styled in braids that seem a mile long, smile bright and knowing.

“Surviving?” she asks, tone light but edged with appraisal.

“Just,” Pete says. “You?”

“Functioning purely on ambition and the suspiciously reverent fear of twenty undergrads,” Alberta replies. She takes a long sip from Pete’s beer without breaking eye contact, then sets the glass down like it was hers all along. Pete just raises a hand to order another. 

Trevor chuckles. “Healthy motivational model you’ve got there.”

“Please. Fear keeps them from murdering Gershwin.”

Pete grins. “And here I was thinking jazz was all about freedom.”

“It is,” Alberta says, “but only for the people who know what they’re doing. Everyone else gets a leash.”

Trevor chuckles. “You running a conservatory or a boot camp?”

“Both,” she answers without hesitation, “One of my sopranos came in this morning insisting she could belt like Ella even though she’s got the range of a damp sponge. Five minutes in, she’s purple in the face, swaying like she’s about to faint. I had to tell her to either breathe properly or let me call campus EMS.” Alberta waves a dismissive hand, as if to say she deals with such crises before breakfast.

Trevor smirks. “Do they know you talk about them like this off-duty?”

“Honey, I talk to ‘em worse than that to their faces. Builds character.”

Pete tilts his head. “Or trauma.”

“Great art requires a little trauma,” Alberta says. “And speaking of great art, I expect you both at my set this Saturday. Eight o’clock, Blue Note.”

Trevor raises an eyebrow. “The Blue Note? You’re just casually dropping a jazz temple into the conversation?”

“It’s a residency,” Alberta says, waving her hand as if it’s no more remarkable than a coffee date. “Two Saturdays a month.”

Pete points his beer at her. “That place is legendary. You deserve this, Alberta.”

“So what I’m hearing is, wear something nice and clap in the right places,” Trevor chuckles.

“Exactly,” Alberta says, satisfied. “And if you don’t know where the right places are, watch the people who do.”

Pete grins as his new beer is placed in front of him. “That’s going on my tombstone.”

Trevor smirks. “Mine’s still going to say ‘overdressed and underprepared.’”

“Then this Saturday will be very interesting,” she grins, the kind of smile that makes Trevor mildly suspicious.

They slip easily into the kind of conversation that sprawls – Alberta dropping deadpan critiques of past performances, Pete egging her on, Trevor chiming in just enough to keep from being outnumbered. 

---

He holds office hours after class on Friday. It’s usually quiet enough that he can catch up on emails before the weekend. Only one or two students usually stop by — they’re too eager to start their weekends. He’s responding to an email from his department head when there’s a quiet knock on the doorframe.

He looks up to see Stephanie, one hand on the frame, the other clutching the strap of the tote that sits on her shoulder. She takes one of his classes, and while she always contributes to the conversation, she doesn’t always make the strongest points.

“Got a minute?” she asks, stepping in without waiting.

“Uh–sure. Yeah.” He straightens. 

She drops her bag onto the chair across from his desk, then doesn’t sit. “It’s about the midterm.”

“Alright,” he says. “You having trouble with a section?”

“Kind of,” she says, and walks around the desk toward him instead of staying where she is. “It’s not the material, it’s just…I don’t know. I thought maybe if we talked about it in person, I’d get a better sense of what you want.”

Trevor frowns slightly. “You should’ve gotten the framework by now. Everything’s on Canvas.”

Stephanie laughs — low, deliberate in the way a twenty-year-old probably thinks is seductive, and that’s when Trevor knows trouble has walked into the room. “I don’t mean that kind of sense.” She plants one hand on the desk, just beside his. Her voice drops. “Come on. I know how this works.”

He draws his hand away. He’s watched enough porn in his life to know where she thinks this is going. “Stephanie, this is not happening,” he says, standing and putting his chair between them.

“Trevor,” she purrs, sidestepping it. “You think I haven’t noticed? The looks. The way you talk to me after class.”

“Stephanie – ” His tone sharpens. He retreats, only to find his back literally pressed to the wall. He puts his hands between them like he’s trying to placate a bear. “I talk to you the way I talk to all my students. You’re reading this all wrong.”

“Am I?” she challenges, stepping in close. “Because I think maybe you’ve just been waiting for me to make the first move.”

She puts a hand on his chest. Bold. Intentional.

Trevor catches her wrist firmly. “Okay. That’s enough.”

She looks at him like she likes it, and she leans in, tilting her head like she might kiss him. 

Then the door swings open, and the worst case scenario enters.

Blue eyes flick from Stephanie’s hand to Trevor’s face, and then her gaze levels like a sniper.

Stephanie doesn’t move, but Trevor uses her distraction to slip past her, putting much-needed distance between them.

Hetty’s eyes track him. She lifts a brow. “Am I interrupting?”

The younger woman smiles tightly. “Just asking a few questions about the midterm,” she answers, crossing her arms.

Trevor swallows thickly. “Which we’re…clearly done with.” He gestures vaguely toward the door.

Stephanie glances between them, lips curving like she’s reading a private joke. “Sure. I’ll, uh…see you Monday.” She takes her time picking up her tote, swinging it over her shoulder like she’s exiting a stage she owns.

Hetty doesn’t step aside. She waits until Stephanie is almost level with her before shifting just enough to let her pass. No words. No smile. The kind of silence that makes a person aware of every inch of themselves.

Stephanie slips out into the hallway, the door shutting behind her.

Trevor exhales, runs a hand through his hair. “That wasn’t what it looked like.”

Hetty folds her arms, unreadable. “And what was it, exactly?”

“She came onto me,” he says, still rattled. “I didn’t see it at first. I thought she had a real question. Then she…” He shakes his head, worried for his job, his reputation – any shot he may have had with the woman standing in front of him. He takes a deep, steadying breath. “She got in my space. Touched me. I told her to stop. I stopped it.”

Hetty doesn’t move. Just watches him with that same piercing stillness, the silence pressing in with the weight of judgment.

“Do you remember what I said during your observation?” She asks. “About your casual tone. Your familiarity.”

Trevor stiffens. “That was about tone, not this.”

“That is this,” Hetty replies, her tone cold. “This is how it begins. Smiles. Ease. Informality.”

He bites back a sharper response, keeps his voice even. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“You didn’t have to,” she says. “You made yourself accessible. Approachable. And some students will interpret that however they wish.”

“So I should, what? Alienate them? Teach in a bulletproof glass box?”

“Teach like you understand you have power,” she snaps. “Because whether or not you acknowledge it, you do.”

Trevor sighs. “I didn’t invite her here.”

“Perhaps not,” Hetty says, tone sharp and biting, “but if I’d walked in thirty seconds later, we wouldn’t be having this conversation; we’d be scheduling a Title IX hearing.”

Trevor exhales like he’s been punched in the chest. “You think I wanted that?”

Hetty doesn’t flinch. She stands just inside the door, arms folded, posture impeccable, fury distilled into stillness. “I think you were careless.”

“I shut it down,” he snaps.

“Not before she touched you.”

A bitter, incredulous laugh escapes him. “Jesus. Are you serious right now?”

Her arms stay crossed, her posture immovable. “You should be grateful I was the one who walked in. Because if it had been a student or some other faculty member, this would be a very different conversation.”

He steps out from behind his desk – restless, keyed up, jaw tight. “Why are you so angry?”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Because you showed appallingly poor judgment. Because I have to anticipate the fallout of situations like this. Because students talk. And because you’re arrogant enough to think charm excuses carelessness.”

“No.” He jabs a finger at her, short, sharp. “This isn’t just about professionalism.”

“Oh?” Her brow arches. “Do enlighten me, Professor Lefkowitz.”

He narrows his eyes, moves closer. “You saw her touch me and lost it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she sneers. 

“Oh, come on,” he says. “You walked in and looked at me like I betrayed you.”

Her silence is instant and taut. No scoff. No rebuttal. Just a stillness so perfected it would be impressive if it weren’t so fucking infuriating.

Trevor pushes. “You can’t even deny it.”

“You have a very active imagination,” she says crisply.

“Don’t put this on me,” he snaps. “You’re the one acting like I cheated on you.”

Something flickers behind her eyes.

“I’m acting,” she hisses, “like a superior who just watched you jeopardize your job.”

“No,” he says, stepping closer, voice low. “You’re acting like someone who’s pissed that it wasn’t you.”

The silence that follows burns.

She doesn’t step back. Her voice, when it comes, is ice. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not the one imagining things,” he fires back. “You came in, saw something out of context, and decided it was a betrayal.”

Her lips part slightly. That’s when he knows he’s gotten under her skin. Not far. Not deep. But enough.

She recovers quickly. “You’re out of line, Professor Lefkowitz.”

“So reel me back in.”

The air stills. She studies him–quiet, assessing. Not rattled. Not flustered. But something sharper glints behind her eyes.

He doesn’t back down. Can’t. He's finally – finally – struck a nerve. 

“You saw a student touch me,” he says, voice low, “and you looked at me like I gave her something that was meant for you.”

Her jaw ticks. It’s subtle. Barely there. But he sees it.

Hetty’s voice, when it comes, is cool as glass. “Your presumptions are becoming tedious.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

The air is thick, tense. There’s hardly a breath of space between them.

She doesn’t touch him. Just tilts her head, gaze flicking over his face with surgical scrutiny. “You want me to say something inappropriate,” she murmurs. “So you don’t have to be the only one who crossed a line.”

“You crossed it in my classroom,” he retorts. “I’m just following your lead.”

Her eyes sharpen. She steps in, close enough that he feels the whisper of her breath, the faint pressure of her presence like a hand at his throat.

“Careful, Trevor.” The way she says his name is intentional – low, calculated, edged with warning and an undercurrent of something that could ruin him. It hits him like a spark in dry grass, an uncontainable rush tightening in his chest. Then she adds, in the quietest, most erotic whisper he's ever heard, "You're so close to getting what you want."

He inhales sharply. 

She sees it. Of course she does.

Her eyes drop to his mouth – deliberate, unhurried. The shift tilts the air between them, drawing him into that hair’s-breadth space where the fraction of a movement would be enough. His pulse hammers. He swears he feels the whisper of her lips, the barest brush of heat without contact.

“Behave,” she breathes, so close he can taste the word. “Make sure your next office hours are uneventful.”

Then she's gone – no glance back, no parting expression – leaving him suspended in that charged absence, every nerve still straining toward her.

Chapter 10

Summary:

Did you say, I've got a lot to learn?
Well, don't think I'm trying not to learn
Right here is the perfect spot to learn
Teach me tonight

Teach Me Tonight - Natalie Cole

i listened to this song on repeat while writing this chapter. highly recommend.

Notes:

another quick update - because i'm nicer than hetty. 😘

Saturday night, The Blue Note is packed. Low light, clinking glass, a haze of brass and laughter. Alberta is halfway through a number, her voice bold and brassy, drawing the room in like it’s what she was born to do.

Trevor weaves through the crowd, spotting Flower first. She’s wearing a purple jumpsuit with an abstract design embroidered in white thread, and she sits with her legs folded in a green chair, a glass of bourbon in her hand. Thor sits at her side in all black, massive and unmoving except for the slow swirl of his beer. 

Pete’s wedged into the corner, wearing a plaid suit and watching Alberta with quiet reverence and a slightly goofy smile. Sass has one arm around Joan’s shoulders, and the other is already waving him over, the fringe of his suede jacket swinging as he gestures.

“Finally,” Sass says as Trevor slides into the empty chair. “Thor was about to start telling me about his kettlebell routine again.”

“Is not routine,” Thor says, as though offering the secrets of the universe. “Is philosophy.”

Flower pats his arm. “It’s also very sexy.”

Pete sips his drink without looking away from the stage. “Can we not talk about exercise while Alberta is singing? I’m having a moment.”

Alberta leans into the mic, hitting a note so clean it makes Trevor’s drink hand pause midair. She’s wearing a red satin gown that catches the light like it’s in on the performance.

“Damn, she’s good,” Trevor comments before letting his drink continue its journey.

Pete nods with a reverent smile. “She’s incredible.”

Trevor lets himself sink into the vibe  –  the warm press of the crowd, the swing of the upright bass, the heat of a room full of people leaning in to listen. It’s comfortable, easy. The friends have fallen into a rhythm, teasing and toasting, Alberta keeping everyone’s attention tethered to the stage between sips and jokes.

“Alright, Sasappis,” Joan says, knocking back the last of her martini and getting to her feet. “I think it’s about time you take me for a spin around the dance floor.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her boyfriend chuckles, taking her hand and letting her pull him toward the center of the room. Thor and Flower join seconds later, and Pete just keeps watching Alberta like she hung the moon.

Trevor sips his drink and leans back on the couch – and then he sees her.

She’s alone at the far end of the bar, a glass of champagne in hand, the gold catching the low light. Her hair spills over her shoulders in glossy, burnished red coils that seem to move even when she’s perfectly still. She wears a deep emerald dress that skims her frame with deliberate elegance, every line designed to draw the eye, and her legs are crossed, the slit in the fabric allowing for a tasteful glimpse of her thigh.

The warmth of the room shifts into a slow, dangerous pull, and he finishes his drink like a shot. By the time he starts moving toward her, he’s aware of the way his heart is pounding, how his steps unconsciously match the lazy swing of Alberta’s band. He tells himself he’s just going to say hello, but already there’s the low hum of something else: curiosity, defiance, and that charged, reckless thread that always winds itself around her.

“Professor Lefkowitz,” she says when he reaches her, her voice as cool as the condensation sliding down her glass.

He presses a hand to his chest in mock injury. “Wow. Cold. Here I was thinking we’d made it to a first-name basis. Was it something I said? Or am I dressed wrong for a jazz night?”

There’s a slight quirk of her lips, and he wonders not for the first time what it would be like to get a real, actual smile out of her.

Her eyes flick over him, deliberate, lingering just long enough to make him aware of every choice he made getting dressed tonight. “If you have to ask, Professor, the answer is probably yes.” She takes a measured sip of champagne, gaze never quite leaving his. “But you’ve marginally improved from orientation, so perhaps there’s hope.”

He leans an elbow on the bar, angling toward her. “Gotta say, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a jazz club regular. Feels a little…unruly. Too much improvisation for your taste.”

Her brows lift, the faintest flicker of challenge in her eyes. “That is a common misconception. Jazz, when done well, is not chaos. It is built on a framework  –  rules of composition, structure, progression. The players may deviate, but they always return to the order beneath.”

He grins. “Controlled chaos.”

Her gaze softens as it follows the line of Alberta’s voice through the room. “And Alberta happens to be exceptionally gifted,” she says, the words carrying a quiet certainty. The curve of her mouth is small, but it’s there, and it feels like it’s meant for him as much as for the singer.

The song wraps up, and the room applauds. Alberta laughs and waves her hands with faux humility. Then she leans into the mic, the spotlight catching the gold at her throat. “This one,” she says, her voice warm and low, “is for the dreamers and the troublemakers  –  you know who you are.” A slow ripple of laughter moves through the room. “It’s called ‘Teach Me Tonight.’”

The first notes curl through the air, lazy and sinuous, the kind of rhythm that slides under the skin. Trevor watches Hetty’s gaze flick toward the stage, her posture loosening by an almost imperceptible degree.

He gathers his courage and extends his hand, palm up, tilting his head toward the small patch of polished floor in front of the stage. “Dance with me.”

Her eyes cut back to him, one brow lifting in quiet appraisal. “You strike me as the type to lead without knowing the steps.”

He grins, leaning just close enough for the music to bridge the gap between them. “Then I’ll improvise.”

For a moment, she only studies him  –  weighing the invitation like a contract with fine print she might regret. Then, with a subtle shift, she sets her glass down on the bar and slides her hand into his. Her fingers are cool, deliberate, but there’s a heat in the way she lets him guide her toward the floor.

He catches the rhythm easily, his hand finding the narrow curve of her waist. She’s close enough now for the faint trace of her perfume to cut through the warm press of bodies and brass.

“You’re not bad,” she says after a moment, her tone dry but edged with something warmer.

“Learned to dance for my bar mitzvah,” he explains, steering them into a slow turn. “Spent weeks rehearsing just so I could awkwardly twirl my bubbe without taking her out at the knees.”

That earns him the smallest, sharpest spark in her eyes  –  the kind that might pass for amusement if she weren’t so careful with her tells. “A noble cause,” she replies. “And yet, here you are, attempting to twirl me. Should I be concerned for my knees?”

He grins, his gaze locked on hers. “I’ve improved my aim.”

Her lips curve  –  not enough to be called a smile, but enough to let him know she’s enjoying herself more than she means to.

They sway through another measure, her steps measured, his looser, more inclined to brush the edge of the beat. The song curls around them, all smoke and suggestion.

“Are you always this persistent?” she asks at last, her voice pitched low enough that it barely threads through the music.

He leans in, just enough to feel the shape of her breath against his cheek. “Only when I’ve been invited to play the game.”

Her eyes catch the light, a flicker of amusement glinting through the measured calm. “And you’re certain the invitation was meant for you?”

“Pretty sure,” he says, his mouth curving in a way that dares her to deny it.

She tilts her head, the movement almost imperceptible, the corner of her lips tugging upward. “Confidence is a dangerous quality, Professor Lefkowitz.”

“Trevor,” he corrects immediately, eyes still focused on hers. 

The sound of it from her mouth is a slow ignition. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t even breathe differently, just lets the smallest grin edge into place.

“Not to break the mood,” he murmurs after a moment, “but yesterday…I need you to know nothing happened. I’ll admit I push boundaries, but you have to believe me — that’s one I would never cross.”

Her gaze holds his, level but no longer sharp. “A prudent distinction,” she comments.

“And even if she weren’t a student,” he goes on, “she’s really not my type.”

He adjusts his hold faintly, just slight enough that she’s pressed a little closer to his chest, pleased when she allows it. “And what makes you think I’m interested in knowing your type?” she asks, arching a brow in challenge — one he’s feeling confident enough to meet.

He smirks and leans in, mouth by her ear. “Because you’ve been daring me to admit it since the moment we met,” he murmurs. “That I want you to put me on my knees and ride my face until you decide I’ve earned the right to breathe again.”

Her grip tenses ever-so-slightly against his shoulder – unnoticeable to anyone else, but it’s probably the biggest reaction he’s ever gotten out of Hetty Woodstone. “You speak as though you think you’d survive it,” she says before dropping her voice into a low purr. “But I suspect you’d be begging long before I was finished with you.”

It’s a miracle his pulse doesn’t give him away. The picture she’s just painted is exactly the one that’s been camped out in his head since day one  –  her above him, pinning him there with nothing but her weight and will, wringing every drop of obedience out of him until he’s wrecked. He wants it in a way that’s almost embarrassing.

But he doesn’t let any of that show. On the outside, he just lets the corner of his mouth hitch like she’s amusing him. “Guess we’ll have to test that theory,” he says lightly, like it’s no big deal. Like he isn’t already half-hard and imagining how she’d look down at him when she finally decided he’d had enough.

She hums the darkest, wickedest sound he’s ever heard, and it sends a jolt of arousal straight through him. She leans in, her breath hot against his ear. “We both know you’d stay there until I decided you’d had enough – and then beg me to change my mind.”

It slams into him  –  not just the words, but the authority in them, the quiet, immovable fact that she will decide when he’s had enough. He can see it too clearly: himself kneeling between her thighs, jaw aching, lungs burning, holding still because she hasn’t said he could stop. And God help him, he’s half-ready to sink to his knees right here in the middle of the room.

The song ends, applause swelling like a curtain she can slip behind. Her hand leaves his shoulder in an unhurried drag, and it feels like she’s peeling something raw out of him, leaving him hard and on edge. She takes two steps back, her gaze cutting through him like she’s measuring how well he’ll obey when she finally decides to let him.

Her lips curve, the smallest, most lethal promise he’s ever seen – a promise that she’ll use him exactly the way he just described…and keep him there until he’s shaking from it. Then she turns and walks off, leaving him standing in the middle of the room with his pulse in his throat and his cock throbbing like she’s already got her hands on him.

Chapter 11

The campus theatre smells like sawdust and stage makeup  –  half-finished flats leaning in the wings, racks of costumes crammed into the corner, students running choreography under the warm spill of work lights.

Trevor slips in after his last class. Alberta’s already seated in the back row, legs crossed, notebook balanced on her knee. She spots him instantly and waves him down with a little curl of her fingers  –  the kind that makes ignoring her impossible.

“Sit,” she says, and he does.

“You looking for moral support or free labor?” he asks as he sits in a plush seat next to her.

“Neither,” Alberta says, eyes still on the stage. “I’m here for the rehearsal. You’re here because I felt like having company.”

On stage, the choreographer calls a five, and Alberta turns to him. “How’d you like my show the other night?” She asks as she jots down something in her notebook.

Trevor laughs. “Oh, so that’s what I’m doing here,” he says, shaking his head in amusement.

“Baby, I don’t need validation from a white boy who couldn’t tell the difference between Etta James and Nina Simone,” she tells him with an arched brow that briefly makes him fear for his life. But then it turns into a grin. “But I’m always appreciative of flattery.”

He huffs out another laugh. “You were great. Fantastic. It was a really fun night.”

“Yeah, and you sure seem to know your way around a dance floor,” she adds pointedly.

Trevor leans back in his seat. “You saying I looked good out there?”

Alberta crosses one leg over the other and looks at him like he’s a particularly tricky passage she’s about to sight-read with ease.

“You and Professor Woodstone  –  you looked like you were about two seconds from dropping to your knees.”

His mouth opens and then shuts again. “It was just a dance,” he answers carefully, like saying more might be self-incrimination.

“Oh, I know what it was. I had the best view in the house.” She draws a lazy loop in the air with one finger. “Could feel the heat rolling off you two from the stage.”

Trevor laughs – too quickly. “You’re reading a lot into a few minutes of movement.”

“Honey, please. I could see the steam coming off you from ten yards away. If she’d told you to bark, you’d have been on all fours before the downbeat.”

He snorts, half-offended, half-choking. “Wow. Graphic.”

“That was me being delicate.” She leans back, voice pitched low enough not to carry. “You, on the other hand, looked about one breath away from sinking your teeth into her shoulder.”

Trevor snorts, too fast. “I  –  no. Absolutely not.”

“Mmh.” Her gaze stays on the stage. “You had that starved look, baby. The kind that says, please, mistress, ruin me.”

Trevor’s ears go hot. “That’s  –  ” He scrubs a hand over his face. “You are making this sound so much worse than it was.”

Alberta finally looks at him, slow and deliberate, like she’s lining up a shot. “Worse?” she repeats. “Honey, if that’s you holding back, I’m scared to think about full throttle.”

He groans, tipping his head back toward the dim ceiling. “You are relentless.”

“Accurate,” she says, jotting something in her pad like she’s recording evidence. “And don’t bother pretending I imagined it. You two had a charge. The kind you don’t fake.”

“That’s…not what was happening.”

She cocks her head, eyes glinting. “If you say so.”

Trevor drags a hand down his face. “God, I can’t win with you.”

“You’re not supposed to win with me,” Alberta says, the corners of her mouth curling. “You’re supposed to tell me what the hell’s going on between you and our very dignified Dean of Faculty before I start spreading my own version of the story.”

He lowers his hands, narrowing his eyes at her. “And what version is that?”

She lets the pause stretch, savoring it. “The one where everyone blushes and nobody asks for sources,” she says, sweet as sugar.

Trevor exhales through his nose, slow, like he can stall his way out of this.

“Look, it’s not – ” He stops, rakes a hand through his hair. “She’s just – ” A groan. “Fine. Yes. I think she’s – ” He waves vaguely in the air, like that could cover it. “Hot. In that terrifying, make-you-beg-for-permission kind of way. Happy?”

Alberta’s grin says she’s ecstatic.

“It’s not even like I’m into  –  ” He stops because Alberta makes a noise like she knows it’s a lie. “Alright, fine, maybe I am into that. And maybe I want her. Bad. Like, bad enough it’s messing with my head.”

She laughs. “Baby, that woman could hand you a syllabus that’s just ‘Suffer’ in 14-point font and you’d ask her for more homework.”

---

The gallery hums with polite conversation and the faint clink of glassware, the kind of cultivated noise that sounds expensive. Low amber light warms the exposed brick and framed canvases, each piece tagged with a white card and a price point. Somewhere near the back, a string trio is playing something unobtrusive enough to be mistaken for the sound system.

Trevor’s been here an hour and could not tell you the theme of the student art show if his life depended on it. The paintings are fine  –  great, probably  –  but he’s mostly been working through a glass of pinot and nodding at Pete, who’s been narrating faculty history like he’s auditioning for a one-man show.

“…and then the chancellor shows up three hours late, claiming he’d been ‘waylaid by urgent university business,’ which turns out to mean his car battery died at the golf course,” Pete says, delighted with his own punchline.

Trevor’s laughing politely when movement catches his eye.

Hetty.

She’s in a royal blue silk dress that manages to be modest and devastating at once, its sheen catching the light every time she turns. The cut is exact, as if the fabric had been tailored to her bones. Her hair is immaculate, a gleaming crown of true red curls, and she moves through the room like she’s been pacing herself all evening  –  watching, waiting  –  before finally deciding to join this conversation.

“Professor Lefkowitz. Professor Martino.” Her tone is smooth, polite; her gaze, impossible to read. “I trust you’re both enjoying yourselves?”

“Absolutely,” Pete says. “I was just telling Trevor about the talent show in 2019. Do you remember, Hetty? Third act in, the smoke alarm goes off, and half the audience thinks it’s part of the performance – ”

Her mouth curves faintly. “Ah, yes. The evening Professor Flaherty attempted to ‘juggle’ with the assistance of open flames. I recall advising him that such theatrics were unwise.”

“You were right,” Pete beams. “The sprinkler system agreed.”

They share a small, dry laugh. Trevor forces a chuckle, though his attention is split  –  part of him tracking every cadence in her voice, part of him acutely aware that she’s shifted closer to his side, ostensibly to allow someone to pass behind her.

Her hand brushes his hip. To anyone else, it would read as incidental. Except her fingers slip covertly into the pocket of his pants, fingertips dragging over his thigh and leaving something behind. 

She doesn’t break stride. “And how are you finding your first term, Professor Lefkowitz?”

Trevor clears his throat. “Good. Busy. I, uh – haven’t set anything on fire yet.”

Her eyes catch his for a fraction of a second, the slightest spark behind them. “A commendable standard. One hopes you maintain it.”

And then she’s gone, excusing herself with the same unhurried grace she arrived with.

Pete turns back to him, utterly oblivious. “So anyway, I told Ron, ‘If you’re going to do fire tricks, maybe don’t wear polyester’  –  but of course, he doesn’t listen. Next thing you know, the head of the History Department is trying to put him out with a tablecloth – ”

Trevor nods automatically, his hand closing over the paper in his pocket. He waits for Pete to look at a piece of art before he unfolds it, his heart pulsing in his chest when he reads an address. Central Park West. Beneath it, two words in her neat, uncompromising handwriting:

One hour.

His pulse spikes – he can hear it in his ears before the blood rushes somewhere entirely too inconvenient for a student art show.

He forces every bit of his focus on Pete, who's a great guy, but he can definitely kill a boner without even trying.

Trevor’s sure that somewhere in this monologue is a point, but it’s buried under geological layers of anecdote: faculty mixers, budget meetings, the relative merits of various department chairs.

“…so then, get this, he insists the stage lighting was too bright, like it was the lights’ fault he couldn’t read the cue cards – ”

Trevor nods, fingers drumming against his glass. The paper in his pocket feels radioactive, burning through the wool of his trousers. He can’t even sneak a look; Pete’s the kind of guy who notices when you blink too slowly.

“…and you’d think he’d be embarrassed, right? Not at all. He’s shaking hands with the donors like this was exactly how he planned it – ”

Trevor smiles on cue, scanning the crowd for Hetty. She’s nowhere in sight. Which is somehow worse  –  knowing she’s already left, that she’s waiting, that she set the clock running the moment she walked away.

Two minutes.

“…so by the time the fire marshal arrives, the guy’s trying to convince him to stay for dessert – ”

Trevor swallows the rest of his wine in one go, just to have something to do. The hum of the room seems louder now, the clink of glasses sharper, the whole place starting to feel claustrophobic.

“…and that is why we no longer allow live animals on stage,” Pete concludes, apparently having looped back to the beginning.

Trevor’s not sure how much time has passed. He checks his watch: six minutes. Six.

He’s going to die here.

Notes:

i also want to post the next chapter today, but i'm still futzing around with it.

Chapter 12

Summary:

Partition - Beyoncé
Love to Love You Baby - Donna Summer
Cola - Lana Del Rey

Notes:

you're welcome 😘😘

The night air hits like a plunge into cold water. He mapped out the subway route in his head and then decided not to risk the MTA delaying his chances. With his luck, he’d end up stuck underground, and Hetty would think he just bailed.

A taxi is way safer.

His pace is brisk but unhurried  –  nothing that would look like pursuit if someone from the reception happened to see him. He hops into a cab the very second he’s able. The address on the note is burned into his memory: Central Park South, a building he’s passed before but never entered.

When he arrives, the limestone façade gleams under the streetlights – elegant in the way old New York is elegant, with no need to advertise its worth. The uniformed doorman watches him approach, eyes sharp but impassive. Trevor gives his name. Without a word, the man opens the door and steps aside.

The lobby smells faintly of polished wood and fresh flowers. A single chandelier hangs low over a Persian rug worn just enough to prove it’s antique.

Trevor crosses to the bank of elevators at the back. Brass doors glossy enough to catch his reflection. He checks his teeth just to be sure.

The ride up is smooth and silent. He can hear his own pulse in the quiet, feel the note in his pocket like a talisman or maybe a dare. Each floor ticks past with a muted chime, ratcheting the pressure higher.

When the doors finally open, they reveal a private vestibule. Marble underfoot, a vase of white lilies on a pedestal, the kind of wealth that whispers instead of shouts.

By the time he’s standing in front of her door, he can hear his own pulse in his ears.

The door opens before he can knock.

There she is, still in that royal blue dress, hair drawn away from her face. No fresh outfit, no softening for the occasion.

“Trevor,” she says, as though they aren't standing on the precipice of a monumental shift. A small smile, unreadable. “Come in.”

The penthouse is all glass and glittering skyline, the sweep of Central Park lit below. She closes the door behind him, the sound sharp in the hush.

“Drink?” she asks, already moving toward a gleaming sideboard, the low back exposing her alabaster skin. “I seem to recall you like bourbon.”

He nods, and by the time he’s shrugged off his jacket, a heavy crystal tumbler is in his hand. She doesn’t gesture toward the sofa – the tilt of her head alone makes it clear he’s meant to sit.

He sinks into the couch, the leather cool and supple, the skyline glittering behind her like a private stage set. She settles in a chair across from him, her tumbler catching the light. She crosses her legs, and the slit in her dress slips open to expose the porcelain skin of her thigh. 

“I trust the ride over wasn’t too much trouble,” she says, settling into the chair as though the evening has only changed locations.

“Not at all.” He glances toward the skyline, then back at her. “Shaking Pete and his endless monologue, on the other hand…”

Her mouth tilts, the closest she’s come tonight to amusement. “I imagine that required some finesse.”

“More than I thought I had left in me.” He takes a sip, savoring the burn before asking, “Do you bring a lot of people here?”

“No.” She lifts her drink to her lips, those blue eyes focused intently on him as she adds, “And rarely twice.”

She sips her drink, and he feels his heart jump into his throat. “Well, I’ve always liked a challenge,” he manages.

Her gaze lingers – assessing, weighing – before she sets her glass down without looking away from him. She moves slowly, smoothly. 

He doesn’t move. Can’t. The skyline is a blur behind her, all glass and light, but she’s the only thing in focus.

She stops in front of him, the slit of her dress falling open to bare more of her thigh. He tips his head back to meet her eyes, but it feels less like a challenge than a surrender. She takes his glass and sets it on the end table.

“Most men,” she says, voice quiet and precise, “find the reality exceeds their ability.”

He’s about to answer when she shifts forward, one knee pressing into the leather beside his hip, then the other. The movement is unhurried, inevitable – the press of her weight, the brush of silk against his shirt, the faint scent of her perfume winding around him.

Now she’s straddling him, her hands braced lightly on his shoulders. Her eyes catch the light as she tilts her head, studying him like she’s not convinced he’s worth keeping.

He hasn’t even touched her yet, and he wants her to keep him more than he’s ever wanted anything. 

He swallows thickly, licks his lips. “I’m not most men,” he breathes, surprised his voice comes out at all.

She smirks and skims her palms over his shoulders, up his neck, into his hair.

“Prove it,” she whispers.

Trevor’s hands are on her instantly, sliding up her thighs and under the hem of her dress, greedy to learn the feel of her skin. He feels the hitch of her breath before she schools it away, and it only spurs him on – fingers tracing the edge of her stockings, pushing higher until his palms are full of her.

Her fingers grip his hair tightly, causing him to whimper as she forces his head back just enough to expose his throat. The sound he makes is half-breath, half-plea, and she seems to savor it.

“Slowly,” she instructs, voice low but unmistakable.

His hands obey before his brain catches up, easing their way down from the curve of her hips to her knees, then back up again in a measured glide, every inch intentional. She’s warm under his palms, soft in a way that makes his chest ache.

Her thumb drags along his jaw. “Good boy,” she murmurs. 

He whimpers, the sound of those words causing his fingers to flex slightly against her legs, and she closes the distance between their lips. 

The kiss is decisive – not rushed, but claiming – her mouth guiding his, testing how far he’ll bend for her. He answers with heat, but never with force, matching her rhythm until she lets him deepen it.

When she pulls back, there’s the faintest smudge of her lipstick on his lower lip. Her gaze drops there, then to the obvious strain against his trousers. “So eager,” she murmurs, the faintest edge of amusement in her tone.

Her hips shift just enough to let him feel her – silk dragging over the hard line of him – and his breath comes out in something between a groan and a prayer.

“Yes,” he murmurs, fighting the urge to let his eyes roll back. If this is the only time she allows him to have her, he wants to commit every moment to memory.

“Hands behind your back.”

The words are quiet, almost gentle, but there’s no mistaking the command. He does it instantly, locking his fingers at the base of his spine, muscles taut, chest rising faster now.

She smiles like she’s just confirmed something she already suspected.

She drags a single nail down his jaw before slipping her hand between them, drawing the hem of her dress upward slowly, revealing the black lace of her underwear.

His eyes move upward, finding her gaze. Her pupils dilate, a soft flush rises to her cheeks as she rocks her hips once against him – a test of willpower that he just barely manages to pass.

Pleased, she leans in, whispering against his lips, “Touch me.”

He doesn’t waste a heartbeat. He kisses her heatedly, met with her warm, pliant mouth as his hands slide along her legs – over her stockings, over the soft, smooth skin of her thighs, higher until he can grip her hips, pulling her closer. He slips a thumb between her legs, brushing over the heat of her. His breath shudders out like he’s been holding it since the moment she pulled away.

He wants to memorize every inch of her.

Her nails graze his throat, catching just enough to make him gasp into the kiss. She tilts his chin up. When his eyes flutter open, she’s looking down at him with a smile of satisfaction.

“Undress me.”

He nods slowly – a serious effort given how desperately he wants to see what she keeps hidden beneath her tailored garments. His hands find the low back of her dress and unzip her, careful not to snag the no doubt expensive fabric.

When the zipper reaches the bottom, he brings his hands to the back of her neck, undoing the buttons keeping the halter in place. The fabric falls, revealing her breasts, and they’re even more perfect than he imagined in his fantasies.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He wraps his arms around her to pull her close so he can kiss every bit of skin he can reach.

She hums, seemingly pleased, before sliding off his lap in a single fluid motion and standing before him. The remainder of her dress falls to the floor, and if Trevor wasn’t already harder than he’s ever been, the sight of Hetty in just a lacy black thong, sheer thigh-high stockings, and heels certainly would have done it.

She stands there for a moment, letting him look – letting his need burn.

Then, “Go on.”

He slides forward to the edge of the couch, hands trembling just enough to betray how fucking desperate he already is for her, and hooks his fingers into the lace. He eases it down over her thighs, past the tops of her stockings, until the scrap of fabric falls to the floor.

When he looks up, her blue eyes are watching him with a cool assessment.

“Kneel.”

He obeys instantly, lowering himself to the floor and looking up at her. He can smell her arousal already, and his mouth waters knowing what he’s about to do.

She studies him a moment longer, then steps past him – not far, just enough to claim the center of the couch. She settles into the cushions, back straight, knees apart in invitation that’s anything but casual.

On anyone else, it would look lewd. On Hetty Woodstone, it’s somehow elegant and dignified.

And fucking hot.

He shifts on his knees until he’s between those long legs, close enough that the heat of her body brushes his skin, close enough that all he can see, all he can think about, is her.

He dives in as if he’s been waiting for this for years, mouth sealing over her, inhaling the heat and salt of her skin like it’s the first breath after drowning. She lets out a sound halfway between surprise and approval, and his grip tightens, keeping her exactly where he wants her.

He’s always loved doing this. Bringing a woman to orgasm with his mouth might be the greatest feeling in the world. And Hetty’s pussy is so perfect, he could spend eternity with his face between her legs and never need anything else.

“Taste so fucking good,” he mutters into her cunt, dragging his tongue over her heat and flicking her clit. “Fuck, Hetty.”

Her breath quickens – not the careful, measured cadence he’s used to hearing from her, but something uneven, betraying the pleasure she’s trying not to hand over too easily. A quiet, involuntary shiver runs through her, and his answering sound is low, almost feral.

He redoubles his focus, sealing his lips around her and working her at an unrelenting pac. Every tremor in her thighs, every low catch of breath, fuels him like oxygen.

When her hand comes to rest in his hair, it isn’t to guide him but to keep him there, a silent acknowledgment that, for this moment, she wants him exactly like this.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers. There’s no command in it now; it’s closer to a plea, one he’s almost certain she didn’t intend to voice.

He answers by wrapping his arms around her thighs and pressing closer, which draws another sound from her, this one edged in frustration from her own slip of control. One of her hands reaches back and pulls the clip from her updo, allowing all those gorgeous red curls to fall.

He holds her steady as her hips begin to move in earnest, his tongue coaxing her higher until her breath finally breaks entirely, spilling into a low, drawn-out moan.

When she comes, it’s with a shudder that tightens every muscle. Her thighs shake around his head, and her fingers curl in his hair, tugging just enough to walk the line between pain and pleasure. She keeps him there, hips rolling against his mouth until the last tremor fades. 

She loosens her grip in his hair, starting to lean back as if the moment is over – but Trevor doesn’t move. If anything, his hold on her tightens. He drags his tongue slowly through her again, savoring the taste of her release before circling her clit.

Her breath catches, sharp. “Trevor – ”

He doesn’t let her finish, sealing his mouth over her and sucking just hard enough to make her hips jerk. Her hand twitches in his hair, halfway between pulling him off and holding him there.

“Wanna make you come again,” he murmurs against her, and then his tongue is back to work. Faster this time, relentless.

She exhales something that might be his name, or just a broken sound. “You – oh!” Her voice thins to a gasp as the pleasure spikes too quickly, her composure splintering under the onslaught.

Her thighs tense around him, then quake as another climax crashes through her – sharper, rawer than the first. She comes with her head tilted back, curls spilling over her shoulders, a strangled moan slipping past her bitten lip.

Only when she’s sagged into the cushions, trembling and flushed, does he finally slow, moving to kiss along the seam of her thigh.

“That,” she says finally, her voice still rough with the echo of release, “was very reckless.”

Before he can answer, her fingers clutch the back of his neck, and she pulls him up into a fierce, claiming kiss tasting of a dark kind of approval that has him craving more. He meets her kiss hungrily, but she keeps control, her tongue dictating the rhythm, her grip unyielding until she decides to let him breathe.

When she lets him go, it’s just enough to look at him – flushed, lips shining, chest heaving like he’s run miles.

Her fingers drag down his jaw, linger on his mouth, smearing her own wetness across his skin. Her eyes hold his.

“Take your clothes off.”

It’s not a request.

He manages to remove his shirt, fingers trembling as he works at the buttons. Then he stands, removing everything from his lower half. He leans in, but he’s surprised by the feeling of something on his chest.

Her shoe. The sharp heel pressing into his sternum, the toe grazing beneath his chin.

He groans, low and heavy in his chest as she smirks up at him. “You’re forgetting something,” she murmurs.

His brow furrows, and she points to the end table. “Drawer,” she instructs.

He opens it and finds a condom – one he hopes she placed there in preparation for this moment – for him. He tears it open and rolls it on before returning to her.

She pats the cushion beside her, a silent summons.

He sits, rigid with need, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin but not quite touching. She lets the moment stretch, her fingers idly tracing the cut of his chest, the line of his jaw, the edge of his mouth – small, maddening provocations.

Only when she’s satisfied with his restraint does she shift, swinging one knee over his thighs, easing herself into his lap. Even then she lingers, brushing against him without taking him in, her breath warm against his cheek.

“What do you want, Trevor?” she purrs.

His mouth opens, but nothing coherent makes it out – just a stammer of breath, his pulse hammering in his throat. She watches him struggle, a faint, knowing smile curving her lips, before leaning in closer.

“Say it,” she murmurs.

“I…”

“You…?” she prompts, tilting her head, eyes alight with amusement. Her hips roll, slow and deliberate, and the rest dissolves in a breath.

“I want you,” he manages at last, voice rough.

“Hm.” She leans in, breath grazing over his ear. “I’m going to need you to be more specific, Trevor.”

His hands grip her hips involuntarily, and he groans. “Want – want to be inside you.”

She smiles, low and satisfied, and sinks onto him in one slow, claiming motion, settling there like she owns the the moment, the feeling, him.

She actually might.

Trevor’s head tips back, breath caught, because the sight of her – pink in the cheeks, hair tumbling around her shoulders, lips parted just enough to draw in a sharp breath – is enough to ruin him before she even moves.

His hands squeeze her, feeling the heat of her skin under his palms, the subtle shift of muscle as she steadies herself. Every nerve in his body is lit, every beat of his heart in sync with the pressure of her around him.

“Good,” she says, almost idly, as though rewarding a correct answer.

Then she begins to move, slowly at first, a deliberate drag that makes his jaw clench, then faster, each rise and fall making his pulse spike, his lungs fight for air. The couch creaks beneath them, her scent heavy in the air, and he’s gone in seconds, every ounce of composure stripped away, reduced to holding on while she rides him exactly how she pleases.

Her rhythm shifts – not faster, but deeper, each drop of her hips angled to pull a ragged sound from his throat.

Then she catches his mouth, kissing him like she wants to taste the noise he makes – hot and filthy, teeth grazing his lower lip before her tongue sweeps in.

It’s dizzying, her mouth moving with the same deliberate control as her hips, the slick slide of her tongue keeping him just as off balance as the way she’s taking him in.

He groans into her, the sound swallowed between them, his hands twitching to hold her, to take, but she pins them to the cushions without breaking the kiss.

She finally pulls back, lips swollen, breath ragged, eyes gleaming with the kind of satisfaction that’s almost cruel.

“You’ll come when I say,” she murmurs, and he nods – desperate, aching, and hers to command.

Her body grinds against him, every roll of her hips dragging him deeper into a heat so tight it borders on unbearable.

Trevor can feel sweat slicking his spine, his pulse thundering in his ears, every muscle locked in the effort not to spill before she allows it.

She watches him like she’s memorizing each twitch, each fracture in his control, her nails tracing idle patterns over his shoulders before scraping lightly down his chest.

The faint sting makes his breath stutter, and her mouth curves in a slow, devastating smile.

Her pace sharpens, every movement a deliberate push toward the brink. Trevor’s fingers dig into her hips, trying to hold on, but she moves like she owns every nerve in his body.

Her breath comes faster, the sound raw and unguarded now, her lashes low over eyes that never stop watching him.

He feels her tighten around him once, then twice, and it’s almost his undoing.

“Now,” she gasps, voice breaking on the word, “come for me.”

It rips through him instantly, a rush so hard and blinding it borders on pain. She follows a heartbeat later, collapsing against him with a shudder, their breaths ragged and tangled in the charged quiet that follows.

She doesn’t move from his lap, just rests there, flushed and breathing hard, her hair a riot of red curls spilling against his shoulder. Trevor’s hands move from her waist, up her spine, and back down, exploring her impossibly soft skin as he nuzzles his nose into her shoulder.

When she finally lifts her head, it’s with the same composure she wore when this began  –  save for the faint, satisfied curve of her mouth.

“Mm,” she murmurs, almost to herself, “I did suspect you might be worth the exception.”

He huffs a laugh, still catching his breath as his head drops against the back of the couch. “Glad I passed the test.”

Her fingers slide up his chest, slow and deliberate, before she thumbs his lower lip.

“Oh, Trevor,” she says, that trace of amusement sharpening into something firmer, “you haven’t even seen the test yet.”

She shifts off his lap with unhurried grace, tugging him up by the wrist. He takes no small amount of pride in the slight wobble of her legs as she gets to her feet. There are no words, just that look – cool, assured, and utterly in control – as she leads him up the stairs.

The bedroom is dim, the air faintly perfumed with her scent. She removes her stockings and slips beneath the covers without ceremony, leaving space for him. When he joins her, she leaves space between them. Just enough to keep the lines clear, but not so far that he feels discarded.

Her breathing evens quickly, but Trevor lies awake a while longer, the taste of her still on his tongue, the sound of her quiet breathing a reminder of exactly who’s letting him stay.

Chapter 13

Trevor wakes to the pale spill of morning light across the room, the linen sheets faintly cool where she’s already slipped out of bed. He hears the faint rustle of fabric, the quiet pad of her bare feet on the hardwood. A moment later, Hetty appears in the ensuite doorway – hair perfectly arranged, lips touched with color, but the set of her shoulders is less rigid.

She crosses to the dresser, her hands at her ear, threading a small stud. He watches her for a beat too long before pushing himself up against the headboard.

“You look…” He pauses, because there are about twelve things he could say and all of them would sound too much like confession. “Like you already conquered the day.”

She shakes her head, glancing at him in the mirror. “Flattery before coffee? Bold strategy.”

“Then let me fix that,” he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Let me make you breakfast.”

She lets out a low, amused sound and waves a dismissive hand. “Impossible. My refrigerator is an arctic wasteland. Ice cubes, one bottle of champagne, and capers I suspect predate the Obama Administration. I don’t entertain. Domestically.”

Trevor pretends to think it over. “So we order in. My treat.”

She arches a brow and looks at his reflection, completely bare except for the edge of the sheet covering his lap. 

“You misunderstand, Professor Lefkowitz. I am not in the market for…sentiment – however charmingly packaged.”

Trevor grins. “You think I’m charming,” he teases.

She scoffs. “You are a child,” she mutters, shaking her head.

He tilts his head. “It’s just breakfast. You’re making it sound like I proposed.”

Her mouth curves, faint and deliberate. “If we are to continue…”

“Having insanely hot sex?” he asks, grinning playfully.

She rolls her eyes, but he can see the barest hint of a smile there. “I prefer to keep the arrangement clear. Enjoyable. Uncomplicated.”

“Sure,” he says, grinning as if she hasn’t just drawn a line in the sand. “But uncomplicated people still eat breakfast.”

“Not together,” she counters, fluffing her hair in the mirror. “Not as a couple.”

Trevor grins. “Good thing I wasn’t thinking ‘couple.’ Just two consenting adults fueling up after a late night workout.”

She turns and crosses her arms as she leans against the dresser. “You are either very arrogant or very foolish.”

“Maybe,” he says, getting to his feet and walking toward her, trying not to feel too self-conscious about being completely naked when she looks like that. “But I’m also starving. And if you don’t want to be seen out with me…” He gestures toward the door. “We could order in. No public exposure. Just you, me, and whatever overpriced brunch delivery Manhattan has to offer.”

She hesitates, tilting her head as she looks at him, eyes dipping almost absently toward the line of his chest before returning to meet his gaze. “You are remarkably persistent.”

“Thanks,” he says easily. “I’ve been told it’s one of my more irritating qualities.”

She tilts her head, weighing him for a moment. One of her manicured nails taps against her other arm, still crossed over her chest. “If I agree, it is not…a romantic gesture.”

“Scout’s honor.” He holds up a hand, mock-serious. “Purely transactional. I pay, we eat, you send me home before I get clingy.”

She exhales, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Fine. Breakfast in. But do not mistake this for progress.”

He grins and pumps his fist. “Yes! T-Money!”

She swats at the ‘T’ gesture he makes with his hands, and it’s the first real, honest-to-god laugh he hears from her. 

It’s probably a dangerous sign that it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

He heads down to the living room, finding his clothes have been draped over the back of the couch, and he puts on his boxer briefs before picking his phone up off the end table where it’s been placed on a charger. He tries not to read too much into any of those details as he heads back upstairs.

“Any requests? Or should I surprise you?”

“Surprise me and I shall make you regret it,” she says, settling with feline precision into the armchair by the window. Her phone rests in her lap, but she’s watching him – openly appraising the way he scrolls through menus, the grin tugging at his mouth.

“You like pancakes?” he asks.

“I like proper pancakes,” she says, as if it’s a matter of national importance. “Not those chewy abominations from a box.”

Trevor bites back a grin. “Noted. No abominations. What about eggs?”

“I have no objection to eggs, provided they are not rubber.”

“Wow. High standards.” He makes the selection and sets the order. “Alright, Duchess – pancakes, eggs, fresh fruit, coffee. All from a place classy enough to impress even you.”

“Flattery will not turn this into a courtship,” she says, crossing one leg over the other. But her voice is lighter now, and there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes.

“Good thing it’s not a courtship,” he says, leaning over her with his hands braced on either arm of the chair. “It’s breakfast. With someone I happen to like seeing naked.”

He’s feeling just bold enough to kiss her, so he does. 

She makes a little squeak of surprise, but she doesn’t shove him away, which he counts as a win. 

“Now,” he murmurs. He pulls back just enough to look at her but keeps his arms bracketing her. “You can suffer through forty minutes of me trying to get you to have a real conversation with me – ”

“How tedious.”

“ – or…” He nuzzles against the sharp cut of her jaw. “You could let me spend that time eating you out again,” he offers as he lowers himself to his knees.

She actually looks impressed at that. She uncrosses her legs. “Very well,” she replies, eyes flickering over him like she’s assessing a wager. “But be warned – one false move and I will be eating breakfast alone.” 

“That’s alright,” he says, settling between her thighs. “Best breakfast on the menu’s right here.”

Chapter 14

Notes:

were finally going to start mixing POVs here 💚

The door shuts with an almost polite click, leaving behind the scent of coffee and cedar and something far more illicit. Hetty stands for a moment in the quiet, arms folded, as if she could press the morning back into order through sheer will.

She should have sent him away the moment he woke. She intended to. Yet somehow she’d found herself in that armchair, letting him under her skin – and her skirt – like he belonged there, sunlight catching on that infuriating grin. And then, against every ounce of better judgment, she let him stay.

For breakfast.

The worst part is that it was good. All of it – the food, the conversation, the shameless way he kept looking at her as though he were still between her thighs.

She exhales sharply, shaking herself free of the thought. This was precisely what she’d sworn not to allow: his easy charm seeping under her skin, loosening the edges she works tirelessly to keep in place.

Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous.

She moves toward the kitchen with the intention of putting the morning firmly behind her, gathering the remnants of breakfast – a coffee cup, the folded napkin he’d used and left neatly at his place as if that might disguise the chaos he’d caused. The dishes clink softly in the dishwasher, an ordinary sound that feels almost indecent in the wake of the hours before.

Her morning routine should be grounding: open the curtains, water the plants, check the mail. But each motion is interrupted by a flicker of recollection – the brush of his hand at her waist as he reached past her for the sugar, the faint rasp of his laugh, the shameless look he gave her when she caught him watching her eat.

She presses her lips together, annoyed to find her pulse still quickening at the memory. Enough. This will not become a habit.

Hetty smooths the skirt of her dress and then sips her coffee. If she begins her correspondence now, the day might still be salvaged – 

Her phone rings.

The name flashing across the screen is Alberta Haynes, and Hetty already knows this will not be a call about professional matters. She answers anyway.

"Hello, Alberta."

“Morning, sugar,” Alberta’s voice purrs through the line. “You sound rested for once.”

“I sound precisely as I always do,” Hetty insists, clicking through her emails. 

“Mm, no,” Alberta counters. “Lower timbre, slight rasp, your consonants sound a little less crisp than usual…”

The redhead purses her lips, picking up her coffee mug. “I have no idea what you’re implying.”

“You sound like you got thoroughly fucked.”

Hetty laughs – quick, startled. “You are entirely without shame.”

“And you,” her friend continues, “sound entirely too pleased with yourself for 11AM on a Sunday. Who is he?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is it Trevor? It’s gotta be Trevor,” Alberta continues. 

Hetty rolls her eyes even though the other woman can’t see it. “What on earth makes you think – ”

“Oh, I don’t know. The way you’ve been pretending to be irritated with him for weeks, when really you’ve been watching him like a hawk who wants to snack on Wall Street prey.”

“You have a vivid imagination,” Hetty says, moving back into the bedroom. 

“Mhm. So vivid I can practically see him now – cute, smug, not wearing nearly enough clothing for the time of day.”

Hetty arches a brow at her own reflection in the wardrobe mirror. “That is an oddly specific fantasy.”

“It’s not a fantasy, sugar, it’s a hunch. And you just didn’t deny it.”

Hetty exhales through her nose – not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “It was Trevor,” she admits, sitting down in the same chair she occupied this morning when he brought her over the edge twice before breakfast was delivered.

Alberta’s triumphant hum is positively feline. “Knew it. And here I thought you had a strict departure schedule – shoes on, door closed, not a minute past nine.”

“That is an exaggeration.”

“Is it? I remember you once timing a man’s exit to the exact minute the bakery opened.”

Hetty smooths her hand over the armrest where there is somehow still a slight imprint from her grip. “Well…I may have allowed him to linger.”

“Linger,” Alberta repeats, tasting the word. “As in…?”

“Breakfast,” Hetty sighs. 

“With what? You finally find someone willing to eat those capers?” Alberta teases. 

Hetty manages to laugh at that before pinching the bridge of her nose. “He ordered breakfast,” she groans. “Eggs, fruit, pancakes…”

“And you let him?” Alberta’s tone is all mock horror. “Hetty! Girl, I’ve seen you send men out in blizzards for less than ordering fruit.”

“It was hardly – ”

“And pancakes,” Alberta cuts in, savoring the word like it’s evidence in a trial. “That’s practically a love letter in carb form. He must've really done a number on you.”

Hetty sits up straighter, spine as rigid as if Alberta were across from her instead of safely on the other end of the line. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Mm-hm. So why him?”

“Why him what?”

“Why does Trevor Lefkowitz, specifically, get to break the sacred no-lingering rule? And don’t act like it’s his conversational skills.”

Hetty hesitates just long enough to be telling. She takes a measured sip of coffee – it’s gone tepid, but at least it hides the shiver running, uninvited, up the back of her neck.

“Oh, this is even better than I thought,” Alberta crows. “You like him.”

“I find him tolerable.”

“You like him,” Alberta insists, her voice filled with amusement. “And not just in the way you like a particularly good bottle of wine – you like him in the way that makes you forget yourself for a whole morning.”

Hetty makes the mistake of glancing at the clock. Nearly noon. Far later than she’d intended to let the day slip away.

“I wouldn’t read too much into it,” she says at last. “Circumstances…are not conducive to that sort of entanglement.”

Alberta hums low, the kind of sound that says she’s not buying a word of it. “Mm. Those same circumstances you’ve been hiding behind for years?”

Hetty’s fingers tighten around her coffee cup. “I am not hiding.”

“You’re…abiding.” The word comes out slowly, carefully. “Which is very proper of you, Hetty, but also very lonely.”

“I am not lonely,” Hetty replies, the word feeling bitter in her mouth.

“You’re also not free,” Alberta says, and lets the silence stretch.

Hetty crosses one leg over the other, smoothing her skirt as if the fabric needs correcting. “Freedom is a vulgar modern obsession. I have everything I require.”

“Except,” Alberta says softly, “the one thing you won’t admit you want.”

Hetty lets out a slow breath, eyes drifting toward the window where the late morning light has gone from gold to white. “I am ending this call,” she replies, but there’s no bite to it. 

“Mm-hm. You do that. And enjoy the rest of your Sunday pretending you’re not gonna have Trevor back in your bed by the end of the week.”

A corner of Hetty’s mouth lifts despite herself. “Goodbye, Alberta.”

“Bye, sugar. Don’t forget to hydrate.”

Hetty ends the call, still smiling faintly, and takes a sip of coffee that’s long since gone cold.

Chapter 15

Notes:

posting another chapter because i actually finished drafting the entire fic today (don't worry, it's like 40-50 chapters). probably still have some bits and pieces to add and tweak, but for now i know where the story ends.

Hetty has no real need to go to the Economics building on Tuesday – she easily could have sent an email, but given that they’re so easily ignored, the five minute walk from her office to Beacon is really the most efficient avenue. It’s not because she wants to see him.

It’s certainly not because Alberta was right.

She finds him with his feet up on his desk, a stack of papers balanced on his thighs and a pen between his fingers. He looks far too comfortable for a man who hasn't even made it through his first quarter at Greystone.

She closes the door and crosses to his desk. “I’ve been informed,” she begins, crisp and deliberate, “that you allowed your eleven o’clock class to run fifteen minutes past the hour. This creates an inconvenience for the classes that follow.”

He lowers his feet to the floor and tosses the papers onto his desk as he leans forward on his elbows. “Guess I just got carried away. What can I say? The kids like me.”

“That is beside the point.”

“It’s kind of the point, though,” he shrugs. “And I still ended at 12:45. The next class isn’t ‘til two.”

Hetty fixes him with the sort of look that has made doctoral candidates wilt. “The schedule exists for a reason.”

He flashes an infuriatingly roguish grin. “You planning on tying me down for that lesson?”

Heat curls low in her stomach, infuriating in its insistence. He’s shameless, and worse, he knows exactly which buttons to press. She groans, whether in annoyance or something else, she refuses to examine. “Why must you always provoke?” 

“‘Cause you’re hot when you’re mad.” The answer comes quickly, easily, as if he’s been waiting for her to ask.

She sets her fingertips on the desk, leaning over him. “You ought to think before speaking.” The words land coolly, a verbal tap on the wrist, though the warmth coiling low in her stomach is anything but disciplined.

“If I did, I’d still ask you to sit on my face.”

Her gaze holds steady, unblinking, as if sheer force of will could make the words dissolve in the space between them. But his insolence sits there – brazen, indecent – and the worst of it is, her body answers before her mind can object. A slow breath, the faintest narrowing of her eyes. She tells herself it’s irritation. It’s not.

She should leave. That would be the sensible response. But his crude, shameless words have rooted themselves under her skin, vibrating through her with an unwelcome pulse. Heat pools low, sharp and insistent, until her composure feels like a corset laced too tightly.

She catches herself glancing at the clock on his wall, mentally measuring the distance to her apartment, the hours left in her day, the distance between the two of them now.

Her gaze fixes on him – slouched, smug, every line of his body daring her to do something about it – and her hand moves before her better judgment can intervene.

Her fingers find the knot of his loosened tie, curling just enough to draw him forward. He follows eagerly, the space between them collapsing until his breath brushes hers. Her fingers tighten, just enough to make him still. She can feel the rise of his breath, the faint hitch as if he’s waiting for her to close that last inch. She doesn’t.

“Nine o’clock.” The words are quiet, deliberate – less invitation than command.

Then she releases him, the silk sliding back into place as she straightens, turns, and leaves without a backward glance.

---

The door flies open and she’s on him before he can speak – fist curled in his tie, dragging him inside as the door slams. Her mouth crashes against his, hot and decisive, swallowing whatever greeting he might have come up with on the way over.

It isn’t finesse she seeks, but the sharp, satisfying jolt of his deference.

Trevor stumbles back into the wall, the thud vibrating through her as she presses her chest against his. His heartbeat is wild and uneven, and her other hand threads into his hair with a grip just shy of rough as she kisses him more fiercely.

The kiss breaks only so she can breathe him in. His mouth immediately attaches to the crook of her neck.

“You will not mark me,” she tells him, the command diluted by the breathlessness in her voice.

“It’d look so hot, though,” he mutters, his strong hands gripping her ass and pulling her hips against his erection. 

She growls and grips his chin, pressing his head back against the wall. A soft whimper passes his lips, making her grin viciously. 

She drags her gaze over him, drinking in the flush on his cheeks, the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline. “Upstairs,” she says, though it’s more an order than an invitation, and she’s already moving.

Trevor follows, of course, hands finding her hips again as soon as he’s close enough. He tries to spin her toward him on the landing, but she plants a palm to his chest and forces him back against the banister instead. His breath catches; the wood creaks under his weight.

“You’re just begging to be punished, aren’t you?” Hetty asks, lips grazing the shell of his ear without giving him the satisfaction of a kiss. 

He shudders, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. “Since the second you walked into orientation,” he groans.

Her smile is slow, predatory. “Then you’ve had time to prepare.”

She steps back just far enough to make him follow her into the bedroom. The moment he crosses the threshold, she shoves him down onto the bed with the precise force of someone who knows exactly how to unbalance a man. He lands on his back, propped on his elbows, watching her with that maddening mix of awe and hunger.

She unbuttons her shirt slowly, and his eyes track the movement, lingering on her wrists, the line of her collarbone, the swell of her chest as she tosses it aside.

“Off,” she says, flicking her gaze toward his shirt. He obeys instantly, fumbling with the buttons until she leans in and finishes the task herself, dragging the fabric over his shoulders with deliberate slowness. His breath hitches when her nails scrape lightly over his skin.

“Hetty – ”

She silences him with a kiss that’s more claim than caress, pressing him flat to the mattress as she climbs on top of him, her knees bracketing his hips. Her hand glides down the ridges of his abdomen to his belt and then further south. She rubs her palm firmly against his covered member, extracting a low, hungry groan from deep in his chest.

Trevor swallows hard. “You’re killing me.”

“Not yet,” she says, her free hand gliding over his chest possessively. “But I could.”

Her fingers work at his belt with an economy of motion that feels both merciful and cruel – merciful because it spares him the fumbling agony of doing it himself, cruel because every second she draws it out is another reminder that she controls the pace.

She slides the leather free, the soft hiss of it leaving the loops making him shiver. Her gaze holds his, steady and unblinking, as if daring him to look anywhere else.

The button pops. The zipper lowers with aching slowness.

When she slips her hand into his boxers, his whole body tenses. He bites his lip, eyes fluttering shut, only to snap them open again at the sharp tug of her other hand in his hair.

“Eyes on me, Trevor,” she murmurs, her voice soft and commanding all at once.

He obeys – of course he does – and the need in his gaze is almost indecent.

She smirks faintly, curling her fingers against him in a way that makes him gasp. “Good.”

Her touch withdraws abruptly, and he makes a frustrated sound low in his throat. She rises to her feet, shedding the rest of her clothes with efficient elegance, each movement calculated to remind him of exactly what he’s not allowed to touch without permission.

“Take the rest off,” she says, chin tilting toward him in command.

His immediate compliance sends a surge of arousal straight to her core. He removes the remainder of his clothes quickly and without grace, tossing them aside in a careless heap.

Hetty circles the bed like a predator assessing the kill, eyes sweeping over him from head to toe. She drags a fingertip up his thigh, across his hip, and over the taut plane of his abdomen until she reaches his chest. Her palm spreads flat over his racing heart.

She pushes him back again, her mouth claiming his with bruising heat as her nails graze his ribs. And then – without breaking the kiss – she swings a leg over him, settling her weight fully onto his abdomen, making him groan into her mouth.

“I believe,” she husks with a smirk, “there was something you wanted me to do.”

His hands grip her hips, attempting to move her, but she remains right where she is, chuckling darkly at his desperation.  “Fuck, Hetty,” he moans. 

“Use your words, Trevor.”

His hips buck up, searching for a pressure that won’t come. “Sit on my face,” he pleads. 

​​She studies him for a beat, savoring the way he looks beneath her – flushed, panting, his pupils blown wide.

Her fingers trace lightly down his chest, then still just above his waistband. “Do you think you’ve earned it?” she asks, voice low and sharp enough to cut.

“Yes,” he blurts, the word almost a gasp. Then, softer, more desperate: “God, Hetty, yes. Please.”

The corner of her mouth curves, not quite kindly. She shifts her weight forward, slow and deliberate, crawling up his body until her thighs bracket his chest.

His breath catches as she stops just above him, not quite touching, letting the heat of her hover be its own kind of torment. His hands twitch against the sheets, aching to grip her, but he keeps them flat, as if afraid one wrong move will cost him the reward.

The restraint makes her smirk. She slides her knees higher, thighs framing his head, and lowers herself by degrees, watching his face tilt up in anticipation.

When she finally settles onto him, his groan is guttural, almost reverent. His hands fly to her hips – not to move her, but to anchor himself, holding tight as if he might float away otherwise.

The moment he thrusts his tongue into her cunt, her hands grip the headboard.

He pulls her tighter against him, like he wants to drown in her heat, and she allows more of her weight to settle against his mouth. She rocks her hips, and he doubles his efforts, his mouth working with desperate precision, as though every second is a chance to prove his worth.

She throws her head back, her grip on the bed frame tightening as she grinds down harder. The sounds he makes beneath her vibrate in her core. Her thighs tremble as his tongue traces deeper, faster, every flick making the knot inside her tighten.

“Good boy,” she breathes, the praise slipping out unguarded, and the effect is immediate – another groan that drives her closer to the edge.

She leans forward, bracing one palm on the wall above his head, forcing his face into her with a determined roll of her hips. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t even pause for air, just follows her lead as though her pleasure is the only thing in the room that matters.

The pressure builds mercilessly, heat flooding her limbs, her breath breaking in sharp, uneven bursts. She rides him harder, chasing it, her fingers curling white-knuckled around the headboard as she teeters on the edge.

When it hits, it rips through her in a rush of sound – half gasp, half growl – as she grinds down and holds him there, his mouth still moving, prolonging every aftershock until she has to lift herself off him.

Her legs feel unsteady, but she doesn’t let that show. She slides down his body with a slow, predatory grace, her fingers skimming over his chest until they find the frantic beat of his heart.

He’s panting, flushed, staring at her like he’d do it all over again without a second thought.

“Your mouth,” she says, voice still ragged but edged with control, “is far more talented than I expected.”

His chest heaves under her, pride flickering in his eyes as she stretches to reach for the nightstand, producing a condom from the drawer. Then she slips her hands between them, sliding it onto his cock. She drags her nails down his chest as she sinks onto him in one slow, claiming motion. His head tips back with a broken sound, and she smiles, setting a pace that’s as deliberate as it is merciless.

He groans and looks up at her, something like adoration in his eyes. His hands find her hips, still allowing her to set and maintain the pace.

“So gorgeous,” he mutters, one hand moving upward to fondle her breast.

She moans and feels herself tighten around his cock. Searching for more friction, she leans forward, bracing her hands on his chest as she rides him harder.

It’s a surprise when he shifts, sitting up and wrapping strong arms around her. She gasps as his mouth finds her nipple, and her fingers fly to his hair, gripping tightly.

The feeling is delicious, the drag of his cock over her g-spot divine.

Her breath hitches, pleasure curling low in her core, and she tightens her grip in his hair, holding him to her breast as she moves against him. Every slow drag of his cock over that perfect spot makes her gasp; every deliberate pull of his mouth sends another tremor through her.

She keeps the pace steady at first, forcing herself to ride out the swell, her hips rolling with precision. His hands roam her back, her waist, but never take control – he follows her rhythm, the tension in his muscles betraying how much he’s holding back.

A shiver runs through her as he mouths at her harder, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. She answers with a sharper grind of her hips, drawing a broken sound from him. 

She leans back slightly, letting his mouth travel lower along the swell of her breast before pulling him flush to her again, a low sound escaping her throat. The coil of pleasure inside her tightens, demanding more, and she gives in – riding him harder now, chasing the friction that sparks white-hot along her nerves.

His arms grip her tightly, not to steer – only to hold on as she uses him. As if he knows the moment belongs entirely to her.

A cry breaks from her throat as the heat bursts open inside her. The world narrows to the pulse of her release, the shattering of her control as every muscle seizes around him. His arms pull her closer, dragging out the peak until she can barely breathe.

His mouth falls from her breast, and his hips stutter against her, a groan escaping his swollen lips. His eyes squeeze shut as he holds back, obviously suppressing his own release for her.

Her pulse is pounding in her ears, but she doesn’t let up. Instead, she rolls her hips with slow, deep precision, drawing a strangled moan from him.

“Hetty – ” His voice breaks on her name, and his grip on her hips tightens. The strain in his features is exquisite – jaw clenched, brows furrowed – as if holding back is costing him everything. “Fuck, please.”

She meets his gaze, still moving on him in that controlled rhythm. “Let go,” she murmurs, voice low and commanding.

It’s all the permission he needs. His head drops, his face buried between her breasts as he makes a guttural sound, release shuddering through him in hot, pulsing waves. She keeps him deep, holding him there, feeling every last tremor as he pants against her.

They stay like that for a moment, chest to chest, her breathing steadier than his. She can feel the sweat cooling between them, his heartbeat hammering against her ribs. Then, deliberately, she draws back, studying his face – the flushed skin, the half-lidded eyes, the unfiltered desire.

A slow, satisfied smile curves her lips. “I’d have been terribly disappointed our last encounter was an anomaly,” she murmurs dryly, fingers stroking through his hair.

He hums a low groan at the feeling, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he chuckles. “If I ever disappoint on this front, I’ll save you the trouble and throw myself out the window.”

She hates the way her heart flutters at that. 

“Such dramatics,” she says lightly, hoping the faint tremor she hears in her own voice doesn’t betray her.

“Guess you bring it out in me,” he murmurs, one hand smoothing down her spine as he drops an open-mouth kiss to the crook of her neck. 

Her lips press together, fighting the dangerous urge to soften completely. “I suppose there are worse traits to inspire.”

He grins against her. “That’s practically a compliment.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she warns, but her fingers are still idly combing through his hair – a contradiction she doesn’t care to address.

He carefully lies back, pulling her with him as he slips out of her with a quiet groan. She rolls off of him and onto the pillow while he makes work of disposing of the condom in the wastebasket by the bed. A moment later, he turns back over and sinks into the pillow with a quiet sigh.

She’s already drawn the sheet over herself, lying on her back with her gaze fixed somewhere past the ceiling.

He shifts closer, the warmth of his chest brushing her, and slides an arm around her waist. The gesture is easy, almost careless, but his hand lingers on her hip over the sheet. 

She turns her head just enough to raise an eyebrow at him. He shrugs, grinning lazily. “Relax, Woodstone, it’s an arm, not a marriage license.”

Her breath catches – not enough for him to notice, she hopes – but the words land in the same locked box where she keeps every thought of Elias.

She had married him young, though not for love. Her father’s will demanded it, his voice still ringing in her ears about marrying “within her station.” Elias had been handsome then, in a smug, self-satisfied way; that part had withered, though the smugness had only ripened. A philanderer from the start, he’d found her pursuit of academia quaint, something she would grow out of once she settled into her “real role.”

They haven’t lived together in years, but the marriage remains ironclad on paper – a relic with teeth. Any indiscretion on her part risks stripping her children of their inheritances. Well, not her son, who received his last year but her daughter is only twenty-three – just over a year from receiving hers. A real relationship would give him grounds to drag her through court for the humiliation. So she keeps her attachments hidden, her liaisons brief and strictly physical.

Which is why this – the warmth of Trevor’s chest against her, his arm heavy around her waist – is already dangerous.

“Then I suppose I won’t call a lawyer,” she says lightly, trying to pitch her tone to match his.

It’s enough to make him grin wider, to think she’s playing along.

She tells herself the extra beat she stays there is for his benefit – to reward him for his efforts. Not because the warmth is pleasant. Not because she likes the feeling of his hand drawing random patterns over her hip or the unguarded way he breathes as he falls asleep wrapped in her sheets.

And certainly not because she’s tired of being touched only in the dark.

Chapter 16

Notes:

this is a somewhat silly little chapter with little-to-no plot development, but i couldn't resist.

Mats thump against the polished wood floor as Hetty smooths hers into place as though setting a formal table. Beside her, Isaac drops his own in a crooked heap and nudges it into place with his foot.

“This feels suspiciously like punishment,” he mutters.

“It is discipline,” Hetty corrects, returning to her feet. “Which, in practice, can feel much the same.”

One minute before the start of class, the instructor strides in — all chiseled muscle and calm, friendly energy, barefoot in black joggers. He welcomes the class with a warm voice, accent unmistakably Australian. 

Isaac’s eyebrows climb nearly to his hairline. “Well,” he murmurs, leaning toward Hetty, “suddenly I feel far more motivated.”

Hetty chuckles and looks at her friend. “One might suggest cultivating motivation from within,” she says.

“I am,” Isaac replies under his breath. “Just…appreciating the view while I’m at it.”

Chris guides them into mountain pose. Hetty’s spine rises tall, shoulders aligned, hands steady at her sides. Isaac fidgets beside her like a schoolboy waiting for the bell.

By warrior two, Hetty is balanced and poised, eyes fixed ahead, breathing steady and controlled. Isaac’s arms tremble, his front knee wobbles, and he mutters, “My body was not built for warfare.”

Hetty huffs out a quiet laugh before recentering her breath. “Discipline is what bridges the gap between inclination and ability.”

When Chris calls for downward dog, Isaac tilts his head, watching with interest before shaking it off. He manages to fold halfway before collapsing onto his mat. “I fail to see how this benefits anyone.”

Hetty can’t help the giggle that passes as she sees Isaac’s awkward positioning, but she focuses on Chris’ instructions as he guides them through chaturanga.

Isaac, however, collapses with a huff. “Corpse pose,” he mutters.

“Shavasana is performed on your back,” Hetty corrects, reveling in the burn of her muscles as lowers herself to the flor.

“Fine, I’m surrendering,” he mutters.

She draws her shoulders down, raising her chin as she moves into upward facing dog. “There is strength in surrender, Isaac,” she replies quietly, her tone almost fond. “In fact, it may be the most difficult discipline of all.”

“Don’t drag me into your kink, Hetty Woodstone,” he mumbles.

Hetty nearly breaks form at that, a small, amused smile tugging at her lips. “Hardly a kink, Isaac,” she murmurs, voice low, calm. “A philosophy – one that allows me to dictate parameters and duration.”

He pushes himself back into child’s pose with a dramatic groan. “Yes, well, my philosophy is that brunch should never require feats of contortion.”

“Your philosophy,” Hetty replies, folding into the pose beside him, “is entirely too dependent on hollandaise.”

Isaac wobbles into downward dog again, muttering, “If Eggs Benedict is the reward, I might actually survive this.”

Hetty arches an eyebrow, voice calm but teasing. “Perhaps you would achieve more than simple survival if you focused on balance rather than butter.”

Isaac shifts, attempting a halfway decent plank, grunting as his arms shake. “Balance, right. I’m more of a ‘lean heavily and hope for the best’ kind of guy.”

Hetty glances over, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Lean too far and you’ll topple over. That’s not hope, Isaac. That’s how I end up riding in an ambulance while a paramedic re-sets your leg.”

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“I am not,” Hetty confirms with a smirk.

Chris guides them into a sequence of lunges and twists, and Isaac’s limbs protest at every angle. Hetty flows from one pose to the next with serene precision, the quiet control in her movements impossible to ignore.

Hetty arches back, exhaling as she bends into camel pose. “Seriously,” Isaac mutters, pausing to catch his breath, “how do you make this look so easy?”

“Discipline,” Hetty reiterates, voice soft, almost indulgent. “A willingness to tolerate discomfort without complaint.”

Isaac groans theatrically. “Tolerance is my strong suit when it comes to mimosas, not yoga.”

Chris walks through the class, assisting with form and breathing, and when he comes to Hetty, he says, “Excellent work, Hetty” and winks before turning to Isaac, who’s suddenly working very hard to perfect his pyramid pose.

“Ah, you’re really tense, mate,” Chris comments before beginning to adjust Isaac’s form.

He walks away after a thorough hands-on adjustment, and Isaac turns his head to her. “I love yoga,” he whispers.

Hetty chuckles and rolls her eyes.

---

They claim a corner table at The Garden, and Isaac slumps into his chair, rubbing at his shoulders. “This is more my idea of Sunday morning," he says. "Surviving an hour of contortions should come with a medal,” he mutters.

Hetty smirks, scanning the menu. “Oh, you’ll be fine after a mimosa,” she replies evenly.

They chat idly until the waitress comes back a few minutes later with said mimosas. Isaac takes a sip and leans back, eyeing her with suspicion. “You’ve been different this week,” he comments.

Hetty arches an eyebrow, calm but amused. “Oh?”

“Not in a bad way,” Isaac grins. “Just…more relaxed. Like someone let you off your leash for a bit.”

Hetty presses her lips together, a faint smile tugging at the corner. “As if I would ever allow someone to put me on a leash,” she drawls.

Isaac chuckles. “Fair enough. But it’s noticeable. You seem lighter. More willing to laugh at things that normally would annoy you.”

She shrugs primly. “Maybe I am just appreciating the little things.”

He taps his fingers against the table, eyes narrowing playfully. “Or maybe you’ve discovered a new way to shake things up without anyone else noticing.”

She grins. “Perhaps,” she answers, taking a sip of her drink but offering nothing else.

“Oh, come on, Hetty!” he cries after a moment. “I’m a boring married man now. I need some good, juicy gossip to sink my teeth into.”

She laughs and sets down her glass. “Fine,” she says, voice low, measured. “But only because you asked so nicely.” 

Isaac leans forward, practically salivating.

She sighs, unable to help the little quirk of her lips. “There is someone. A new…complication.”

Isaac nearly chokes on his mimosa, eyes widening. “Complication? Hetty, you don’t just drop words like that and walk away. Who?”

She tilts her head, letting the tension hang a beat before answering. “Trevor Lefkowitz.”

He gasps, hand to his chest. “The new economics professor?”

“Yes,” she nods.

“The one who looked like he was trying not to fall off the planet while talking to you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes.”

“Oh, well done, Henrietta,” he says, voice dropping as he claps quietly. 

“He’s…interesting. More than interesting, actually,” she admits. “Enough to make me consider…bending a little.”

Isaac looks at her for a long moment. “Henrietta Woodstone…just how complicated is this entanglement?”

“Oh, don’t be absurd,” she drawls, waving her hand dismissively. “It is purely physical.”

Isaac leans back, swirling the last of his mimosa in his glass, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Purely physical, you say? And yet you seem...happier. Are you sure it’s just carnal?”

She arches an eyebrow, taking her time to sip her drink. “I’m quite sure,” she replies evenly, though a faint smile tugs at her lips.

Isaac tilts his head, grinning like a cat who knows more than it should. “You’re smiling,” he points out. “And not the polite smile you reserve for faculty meetings or dress rehearsals. The other one. The real one.”

Hetty sets her glass down, calm and deliberate, leaning back in her chair and schooling her expression. “You think too much, Isaac,” she murmurs, though her tone has the tiniest edge of amusement.

“And here I believed you to prefer a mind at work,” he counters. 

She smirks. “Quoting Hamilton now?”

“I’ll have you know that line was originally from The West Wing,” Isaac argues, voice rising in pitch. “Aaron Sorkin is a genius, and Alexander Hamilton was an overinflated ego in a shirt ruffle!”

Hetty laughs as her best friend composes himself. When his tantrum is fully ended, he leans forward. “I’ve known you long enough to tell the difference between casual distraction and genuine fascination,” he says, his voice low and serious.

“Isaac, are you implying I have feelings for this man?”

“Oh, no, I would never,” he replies before adding, “but I would state it outright. I believe you have feelings for the new economics professor with the smoldering brown eyes and the tight little ass.”

She pauses, lips pressing together briefly. “Even if I were so inclined – which I am not – there are limits I do not cross."

He tilts his head, smirking. “Sure, but fascination can be compelling. Even for someone as disciplined as you.”

Her fingers tap lightly against the table. “Fascination does not permit indulgence. And distraction is irrelevant when boundaries are clear.”

Isaac chuckles, shaking his head. “You always make it sound so easy, keeping everything in check. But even you must notice when something – or someone – tests the limits.”

Hetty sets her glass down with care, her expression calm but unreadable. “Isaac,” she drawls, “my arrangement with Professor Lefkowitz is recreational. Nothing more.”

Isaac gasps again, clutching his invisible pearls. “Recreational? Hetty, you make it sound like you’ve joined a tennis club.”

Her lips twitch. “It is not so different. Both require stamina, coordination, and a proficient backhand.”

He lets out a scandalized laugh loud enough that the couple at the next table glance over. “You are terrible. Absolutely terrible. And now I’m picturing him in tennis whites, which is doing nothing for my composure.”

“Oh, Isaac,” she murmurs, leaning closer, “if that’s enough to turn your head, the reality would break you.”

Chapter 17

Trevor’s fingers twitch at the edge of his desk. His chest feels tight, and there’s an ache sitting low in his gut.

He’s completely unraveling.

A week without seeing her — not even the flash of her red hair weaving through the tide of students. Three days, and it’s absurd, the way it gnaws at him. He’s restless, unfocused, staring at the same stack of half-graded essays until the words blur together. His phone keeps lighting up with texts from Sass, Flower, even Pete — and he ignores them all. Nothing helps.

It shouldn’t matter this much. It’s not like they’re together. It’s not like she owes him anything. But he keeps remembering the way she looked at him last time: the sharpness of her eyes, the faint curl of her lips.

By the fourth day he can’t stand it. He tells himself he’s just going to stretch his legs, get some air — but his feet carry him across the quad toward Chancellor Hall.

Her nameplate gleams brass in the dim light. Woodstone. He stares at it for a moment, swallows hard, then raps his knuckles against the door before he can lose his nerve.

“Come in.”

Her voice — calm, precise, commanding — cuts straight through him.

He takes a deep breath, shaking out the tension as if it could shield him, and pushes the door open. She’s seated at her desk, papers stacked neatly, a fountain pen poised in her hand.

She looks up slowly, her gaze cool and appraising over her glasses. “Professor Lefkowitz,” she says, crisp as glass. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Trevor closes the door behind him, sliding into casual ease. “Figured I’d drop by. Neighborly thing to do.”

Her eyes flick up again. “Neighborly? Chancellor Hall is not a cul-de-sac, Professor Lefkowitz.”

He strolls a few steps closer, hands loose in his pockets. “Maybe not,” he responds, grinning. “But it’s still got a hell of a view.”

She sets her pen down with deliberate care, her gaze cutting through his nonchalance. “You walked into my office in the middle of the day, uninvited. Do you truly expect me to believe this was idle wandering?”

Trevor smirks, leaning back against the door as if he belongs there. “What can I say? Some things are impossible to resist.”

She rises to her feet, hands resting on the desk. “Lock the door.”

He grins and follows orders before heading toward her. She rounds the desk, leaning back against it. But before he can reach her, her palm lands on his chest. 

“Your impatience,” she drawls, “is precisely the problem.”

His mouth suddenly dries. “I just – ”

“You came here because you cannot control yourself,” she cuts in. “Because just one week without me leaves you restless. Distracted.”

Trevor swallows, the smirk faltering under her scrutiny.

“Do you expect me to be flattered by such desperation?” Her tone cuts. “No. It is a flaw. And flaws are not to be indulged – they are to be corrected.”

He nods slowly. “I’m sorry,” he breathes – not actually sorry at all because her hand begins to move over his chest toward his belt – toward exactly where he’s most desperate to feel her touch.

“I have rules,” she murmurs.

“I know,” he says, his voice rougher than he intends.

She tilts her head, studying him. Then, with that devastating precision, she lifts her hand to his jaw. The pressure is firm, commanding.

“Then you also know,” she says, “that I decide when they bend.”

Whatever reply he might manage drowns in the heat of her mouth on his. The moan that escapes him is low, heavy, and completely unbidden. His hands lift to her hips, but before he can touch her, she’s gone, leaning back against her desk.. 

“Sit,” she orders. 

Trevor obeys without thinking, sliding into the chair, the air feeling heavy around him. His pulse hammers in his throat, every nerve alert to her control. She doesn’t follow him – she lets the silence stretch almost unbearably, the weight of her control pressing into his chest in that uncomfortable, incredibly satisfying way.

“You are too eager,” she says, tilting her head, arms folded as though he’s a student caught whispering during a lecture. “It makes you careless.”

Trevor leans back, trying for casual. But every nerve in him is straining toward her. “Maybe I just know what I want.”

Her laugh is soft, cool. “And you imagine that earns you the right to have it?”

His grin falters. “No. But it earns me the right to try.”

Her hand comes down, sharp under his jaw again, tilting his head back just enough to make the power shift undeniable. “What it earns you, Professor Lefkowitz, is restraint. My restraint – and yours.”

His breath catches. He forces himself not to move, not to chase her touch. “So what do you want me to do?”

Her eyes gleam. She lowers herself onto the edge of the desk, so close his knees brush against the hem of her dress. “Watch.”

It takes him a heartbeat to realize what she means. And when she begins to slide one silk-stockinged leg over the other, slow and deliberate, Trevor’s body reacts with a force that almost knocks the air out of him.

“Hands on the arms,” she instructs. “They stray, we start over. And believe me, you do not want that.”

Trevor grips the wooden arms until his knuckles pale, jaw tight with a smirk that won’t quite hold. He nods, not trusting his voice.

Her smile is the kind that cuts — a razor of satisfaction and warning. Every twitch of his gaze or pulse is already under her command. Slowly, deliberately, she slides her hand along the hem of her skirt, gathering the fabric just enough to reveal the shimmer of stocking clasped high on her thigh.

Trevor’s breath stutters. His fingers flex, every muscle in him wired toward her.

“Good,” she murmurs, almost to herself, watching him intently. “Already straining. Already desperate.”

His voice scrapes low. “Hetty…please…”

A dangerous smirk curves her lips. “Every moment of yearning will only make it sweeter when I finally say yes. And I will…eventually.”

He shuts his mouth, throat working.

Her fingertips brush higher, over silk and skin, measured, unhurried. Trevor’s chest heaves; the urge to reach for her is a live current under his skin, almost unbearable. 

He grips the chair tighter.

“You will sit there,” she says, her tone almost academic, “and you will learn what it means to want without taking. To ache without gratifying. To endure.”

Trevor swallows hard. “And if I fail?”

Her fingers graze along the edge of her panties, her lips curving into something wicked. “Then you will start again. And again. Until you remember who dictates the terms.”

The sound he makes is low, guttural, half a laugh and half surrender. “You really enjoy this, don’t you?”

“Enjoyment,” she murmurs, “is not the point. Discipline is.”

She pulls the gusset aside, and Trevor swallows hard as she slips two fingers easily into her perfect cunt. He grips the arms of the chair as though the polished wood might save him from coming apart while his pulse hammers, sweat prickling hot along his neck. She knows. God, she knows exactly what she’s doing. A low groan rumbles in his chest, but he doesn’t move – doesn’t dare.

“You’re learning,” she murmurs, eyes alight with triumph at his obedience. “And maybe, if you’re very good…then you’ll earn your reward.”

Hetty tips her head back slightly, lashes lowering as her fingers work with slow precision, measured and merciless. A faint sound slips past her lips, but whether it’s a sigh of pleasure or a calculated taunt, he can’t tell. Probably both.

“Look at you,” she says softly, opening her eyes again to pin him where he sits. “Breathing like a man already undone.”

His cock is almost painfully hard in his pants, the ache of needing her pressing into him like a living thing. He twitches, desperate to feel her, but the rules are clear, and if she stops – if she starts over – he might just die.

“Good boy,” she praises, a razor-thin smile curving her mouth, her fingers continuing their ministrations.

He bites down hard on his cheek, the words shooting straight through him. Every nerve screams to move, to close the space between them, but the order holds him like iron chains.

Hetty leans forward just enough for him to feel the shift of her control – closer, but still untouchable. “Do you want to touch me?” she asks, her voice velvet and command woven together.

“God, yes,” he breathes, the word ragged, cracked open. “Please, Hetty…”

“Then earn it,” she whispers, withdrawing her hand with exquisite cruelty. She licks her fingers, one at a time, slow and unhurried, and his mouth waters at the memory of her taste.

“Tell me,” she says, her tone clipped and exact, her legs still open, taunting him with exactly what he’s been craving for days. “What will you do for me, Trevor, if I give you what you want?”

His throat works, words catching, because he knows she’ll see through anything glib. She doesn’t want charm. She wants the truth.

“Anything,” he says finally, his voice stripped bare. “I’ll do anything you want, Hetty. You call the shots, you set the pace – I’ll follow. I’ll wait until you say. I’ll give you whatever you need. Just please let me touch you…”

She studies him in silence, her expression unreadable, her hand still glistening from her own touch. For a heartbeat, he thinks it isn’t enough – that she’ll dismiss him, send him away starving.

But then her lips curve, slow and satisfied. “There it is,” she murmurs. “Obedience. Not wheedling. Not impatience. Just…surrender.”

Trevor exhales shakily, every muscle taut.

She slips off the desk and leans down, hands over his, her mouth grazing the shell of his ear. His hands lift, aching to feel her skin, but he quickly returns them to the armrests. 

“I want devotion, Trevor. Utter and unquestioning. I want you aching for me, not yourself. Can you give me that?”

She dips her head, brushing a kiss against the corner of his jaw.

“Yes,” he whispers. No hesitation this time.

Her lips drag over his cheek as she pulls away, returning to the desk.

“On your knees.”

He doesn’t think – he just moves, sliding from the chair to the floor before her, breath ragged, eyes locked on hers.

She tilts her chin, satisfaction flickering across her features. One hand threads into his hair, tugging just enough to remind him of her control. “You are not to touch yourself,” she murmurs, voice low and deliciously cruel. “But you may have me.”

His pulse pounds. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Her smirk deepens. She guides him closer, her thighs parting with regal ease. “Then touch me, Trevor. Show me you understand the rules.”

He exhales like a man reprieved, hands finally lifting to settle on her thighs, dragging her skirt back up to expose her heat. He leans in, obedient, hungry, every ounce of need bent toward her.

Trevor exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days. His palms find the curve of her hips, fingers splaying reverently over her skin.

Her hand tightens in his hair, keeping his gaze locked on hers. “You will do exactly as I say.”

“Yes,” he breathes. It’s not compliance — it’s devotion.

“Good.” She releases the smallest amount of pressure, letting him lower his head until his lips brush the inside of her knee.

The kiss is feather-light, worshipful. He trails higher, planting reverent touches along the line of her thigh. She lets him go only so far before her fingers tighten again, pulling him back to wait.

“Patience,” she reminds.

It’s agony, but he obeys.

Finally, she shifts, guiding his mouth where she wants it. Her breath hitches – the faintest sound, but he seizes it, eager, hungry, desperate to draw more from her. His hands tighten on her thighs, anchoring himself as he follows her cues with single-minded devotion.

Hetty leans back on her palms, her composure fraying at the edges. “Yes,” she exhales, sharp and low, every syllable still edged with command. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He couldn’t if he tried. Every movement is tuned to her responses — the flutter of breath, the faint roll of her hips, the way her heels dig into his back, making him moan against her clit.

Her control holds until the very last second — until the sound that slips from her throat is no longer measured, until her hand clenches in his hair with raw need instead of correction. He feels the tremor run through her, hears the soft, strangled cry that spills out as she comes undone.

He keeps his mouth on her, tongue sliding through her folds, making sure to enjoy every bit of her release. She hums a low groan as her climax subsides, and she tugs him to his feet.

The kiss is messy, punishing, her tongue tangling with his. Trevor can barely breathe. He can feel it coming – the moment she’ll finally let him. His pulse is wild, every nerve lit up, his body pulled tight as a bowstring. She’s worked him past patience, past pride, past sense, and he knows – he knows – she’s about to grant him release. It hangs between them like a promise, unbearable and certain.

Instead, Hetty exhales once, measured, and withdraws. She smooths her skirt back down, fingers precise, restoring every fold as though nothing has been disturbed. The transformation is seamless, cruel in its ease. Her breathing is even, her face once more composed, as though the last few minutes were a mere exercise.

“I have a meeting,” she says coolly. “You may see yourself out.”

For a second, Trevor doesn’t understand. The words don’t compute. He just stares at her, raw and undone, waiting for the relief that doesn’t come.

The smallest whimper catches in his throat, and he shuts his eyes for a moment, fighting for composure, for control over the brutal ache in his body.

He turns, heading for the door, when he hears “Eight-thirty.”

Relief crashes through him. He turns back quickly, nodding like the gesture alone might earn him mercy.

“And remember,” she says, slipping her glasses back into place, peering at him over the top, “no touching.”

The command strikes him harder than her dismissal. His stomach lurches, his cock throbs, and he swallows hard against the tightness in his chest.

“Yes,” he whispers, hoarse, like the word itself binds him.

She lowers her hand, already turning back to her desk, papers and pen gathered as though nothing between them had happened. The seamless return to business is brutal.

Trevor lingers one last moment, the doorframe cool under his hand, his body straining toward her in a rebellion already lost. But he goes, each step down the hall a test of endurance, of denial, of obedience.

Chapter 18

The five hours are agony. Pure, blistering torture.

Every second after her command is a test of flesh against willpower. Trevor’s cock is so hard it aches, straining against fabric that feels cruelly tight. Even the faintest brush of movement — sitting down, shifting in a chair — sends a jolt through him that nearly undoes him.

He tries to distract himself, but nothing works. Work is impossible; words swim like static. Food tastes like ash. His body wants one thing only — the rough stroke of his own hand, the merciful spill of release. And it’s the one thing he can’t have.

The clock moves slow, sadistic. He catches himself staring at it, calculating seconds, dragging his palm down his thigh just to keep from cupping himself. By the third hour he’s doubled over the kitchen counter, forehead pressed to cool marble, breath coming in ragged bursts as he bites down hard to keep from breaking her rule.

Every time he starts to feel more normal, his mind snaps back to the image of Hetty sitting on her desk, touching herself while he watched, and then he’s hard all over again.

Every muscle in his body is strung tight, pulsing, desperate. His cock throbs so violently it almost feels bruised, the need so consuming it borders on pain. He fists his hands in the couch cushions, he paces, he claws at the edge of sanity — but he doesn’t touch. He can’t. Not without her permission.

By 7:30 he feels like he’s losing his mind. He swears the clock slows on purpose, each second dragging like a knife. His hands twitch, desperate to get even just a little release — she’ll never know. 

But she would — somehow she would. And the potential threat of losing her approval is enough to keep him in check.

When 8:00 finally clicks into place, relief is so sharp it steals his air. He’s out the door in an instant, jacket forgotten, cock still raging in his pants, sprinting for a cab like a man aflame, all of him wired for her and her alone.

He shows up at her door at exactly eight-thirty, the picture of practiced ease he’d worked so hard to paint during the interminable cab ride from his apartment. He leans against the frame, smile ready, like he hasn’t spent the past five hours in exquisite torment.

“Evening,” he says, hoping to sound smooth as ever.

Hetty lets her gaze drift over him, slow and deliberate. Her lips curve, just faintly. “You managed not to paw at yourself.”

His smile flickers, the mask slipping just enough to show the strain underneath. “I play well with rules,” he murmurs, though his voice is rougher than he intends.

Her eyes gleam at that, amused and merciless. “I can see that.”

Her hand lingers on the door, just long enough to make him feel the weight of her silence. Then, with a faint click, she steps aside.

“Come in.”

Hetty closes the door behind him, taking her time with the lock, and when she turns back her gaze is cool, appraising. “You look surprisingly composed. Remarkable, considering how you must have suffered.”

Trevor slides his hands into his pockets, casual on the surface, though his pulse thunders. “You sure don’t make it easy.”

Hetty tilts her head, studying him with that infuriating calm. “Ease was never your aim, Trevor. If it were, you would never have caught my eye.”

He swallows, wondering how the fuck she can read him so easily. “Five hours,” he manages, his breath shallow, “felt like five years.”

“And yet you obeyed,” she replies. Her hand cups his cheek — not quite tenderly, but something darker, something more dangerous. She slips it further back, tangling her fingers in his hair. “Such a good boy.”

“Hetty…”

“Yes, Trevor?”

He shivers as her nails scratch dully against his scalp. “Can I please touch you?”

“Even better, my dear,” she purrs. Her lips curl into a smirk before she says the four words he’s been wanting to hear for seven brutally long days. “You may fuck me.”

He practically knocks her over, his lips attaching to hers, desperate and needy. A moan escapes her throat, and he counts that as a win. He steers her toward the nearest available surface — the dining table. 

The backs of her legs hit the edge, and she slides onto the surface, parting her legs to allow him closer, his hand instantly slipping between her thighs. 

Because even when he’s been on edge for five hours, he’s still a fucking gentleman.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You’re already so fucking wet.”

Her fingers grip his hair as she arches. “And yet I still managed restraint with decorum,” she murmurs. “…you, apparently, need a clock to keep your hands in line.”

“Can you blame me?” he growls, pulling away just enough to get her underwear off before thrusting his fingers inside her. “I’ve been going crazy, thinking about nothing but you all damn day.”

“Then why the hell are you still wearing pants?” she hisses. Her hands find his belt, tugging it and his pants open before shoving them down.

He curls his fingers, making her gasp. Her back arches, pressing against him, every muscle taut with tension and response. He removes his fingers and tugs her closer as he reaches into his pocket for his wallet.

“What on earth are you doing?”

He grins, pulling out the condom. “No glove, no love.”

She tugs him forward by the collar of his shirt. “Not necessary,” she mumbles against his lips.

He groans, the thought of being inside her with nothing between him and her warm, wet pussy nearly shattering his willpower. He grits his teeth and thinks about basketball.

Jesus, this woman’s got him edging himself. 

He’s so fucking gone.

“For a desperate man, you certainly are taking your time, “ she mutters after a moment.

“What can I say?” he chuckles before he finally aligns himself with her sex. “You’re a good teacher.”

He slides home, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth thrust, and oh, fuck, she feels better than he could have imagined, the combination of her long denial and the lack of latex increasing the sensation of every thrust. She shudders beneath him, nails digging lightly into his back, guiding him, holding him to her rhythm. His movements grow more urgent, each thrust eliciting soft, ragged gasps from her.

The ache in his body tightens, coiling and uncoiling, his pulse hammering as he rides the edge of control and surrender. Every inch of her under his hands sets fire through him, and he leans into it, consumed, obedient, utterly undone.

Her body reacts to his touch, muscles clenching, releasing, every shiver and arch pulling him deeper into the moment. He moves with single-minded devotion, lost in the friction, the heat, the sensation of her.

With the prolonged build up, he’s sure he’s not going to last long.

But by the look of it, she’s not either.

He slips his hand between them, fingers circling her clit hard and fast as he rolls his hips harder, working the rhythm of his fingers to bring her as much pleasure as possible. Her gasps and moans mingle with the slick slap of skin against skin, echoing through the apartment.

Her thighs clench around him, urging him deeper, faster. He drives into her, each thrust punctuated by the circling of his fingers, her pleasure rippling through him like electricity.

Her nails dig into his shoulders, her back arching as she pulls him closer, forcing him to feel every inch of her, every shudder, every shiver.

Trevor’s pulse is relentless, his breathing ragged, every nerve ablaze, and still he holds nothing back — giving, taking, responding with total abandon.

“Hetty – ” he chokes out “ – gonna…need to…”

“Yes, Trevor,” she husks. “Come. Come for me.”

He grits his teeth. “You – want you to – ”

“Come,” she repeats, and who the fuck is he to deny her?

He thrusts into her hard, keeping himself there, his vision whiting out as he finally – finally – gets his release. A groan tears from his chest, the sheer force of his orgasm like nothing he’s ever experienced before.

Her body trembles, shudders, and then arches as she cries out, her pussy gripping him like a vice that drags out his orgasm, the intensity of it making his legs shake.

“Oh, fuck,” he whines, burying his face in her neck, kissing her alabaster skin with a messy hunger that lacks finesse but still makes her moan softly.

Her arms loosen around his shoulders, nails dragging gently down his back. He shivers under the feeling and follows as she lies back on the table, with a contented sigh. She’s still fully clothed, and he’s never hated a garment more than he hates her dress at this exact moment.

Her fingers find his scalp again, nails scratching gently. “Tell me, darling,” she hums, and despite his wrecked state, his cock still twitches at the endearment, “was the torture worth the reward?”

“I think I died,” he pants. “Did I actually die? Can ghosts still fuck?”

A low chuckle rumbles in her chest beneath him. “You certainly feel alive to me,” she answers, dragging a nail down his neck and tracing along the damp collar of his shirt.

“Fuck, Hetty,” he mutters, nuzzling against her covered breast. “I’ve never come that hard in my life. Pretty sure I blacked out for a second.”

“You’re welcome,” she purrs, and he exhales a breathless laugh.

He’s still gasping when she tilts his face up with one finger. “Look at you,” she murmurs. “Completely ruined. You might never recover your dignity.”

Trevor grins weakly, sweat still damp at his temples. “Fuck dignity. That was worth every bit of humiliation."

Her lips curve, the faintest smile tugging at them. “Is that so? One might think you’ve never been properly satisfied before.”

“I haven’t,” he says, too fast, too wrecked to reel it back in. His laugh comes out hoarse. “Not like that. Jesus fuck, Hetty.”

She hums, clearly pleased, though her tone stays dry. “Good. I do expect to be memorable.”

He groans as she presses him away and sits up, the fabric of her dress tragically sliding back into place. “Trust me, that show in your office is burned into my brain.”

Her eyes glitter at his choice of words. “A show, hm?”

“More like a religious experience,” he amends, pulling his boxers back up but kicking his pants to the side. 

Hetty smooths her dress, restoring order to herself with a precision that makes his own state of ruin feel even more indecent. “Blasphemy does not become you.”

“Neither does walking, right now,” he mutters, slumping forward, head dropping to her shoulder. “I think you broke my legs.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You’ll recover,” she hums as she slips off the desk to her feet. “Come along. Unless you wish to become a lewd centerpiece on my dining table.”

Trevor lets out a hoarse laugh, dragging himself upright, muscles still trembling. “Bedroom, then?”

Her brow arches, cool as ever. “Well, you’ve yet to prove yourself capable of leaving this house upright.”

He huffs a laugh and pushes himself to follow. She’s already at the stairs, totally composed save for the light flush pinkening her cheeks, while he stumbles in her wake, wrecked and grateful and entirely devoted.

Chapter 19

Notes:

i’m trying to have Hetty’s discipline and not post the entire fic all at once but it’s hardddd

Flower’s door is wide open, and the smell hits him before he even registers her office number. Incense – sweet, musky, vaguely woodsy. Probably not campus-approved.

Her office looks like a dorm room that lost a fight with a law library. Stacks of casebooks list dangerously against towers of succulents; half-burned candles clutter the window ledge; a macramé hanging droops lopsided over the radiator. The desk itself is barely visible beneath papers, colored pens, and a chipped mug that reads Save the Narwhals in a seventies bubble font.

Flower beams at him, eyes wide like she’s had some sort of acid-based hallucination. “Whoa, Trevor. Good vibes you’re here. I was just thinking about you.”

He chuckles because Flower texted him ten minutes ago to come hang. He decides to play along anyway. “That’s either flattering or very ominous.”

“Oh, flattering,” she says, waving a hand, bracelets clinking. “Definitely. You know, I was re-reading Marbury v. Madison and it totally made me think of your class.”

Trevor has no idea how to respond. “Uh…what’s Marbury v. Madison?”

“Oh, Trevor, did Wharton fail you or what?” Flower says with grave sincerity. “In short, it established the principle of judicial review – who gets to decide what’s legitimate, right?” 

He chuckles and takes the seat across from her, leaning back comfortably. “Okay, I hear you. What does that have to do with economic theory?”

“The Supreme Court basically said, ‘We’re the grown-ups now.’ Which is the same thing markets do when they regulate themselves, right? It’s very psychedelic if you think about it.”

He stares at her, not sure if she’s joking. She isn’t.

She keeps going, her voice lilting, conversational, always a half-step off track. “And then I thought, corporate personhood is basically astrology for capitalists. Like, do you really feel like a corporation is a person? I don’t. But the law says it’s got a birth chart, in a way.”

Trevor huffs out a laugh despite himself. “That’s…definitely not how I explain it to undergrads.”

“That’s because you’re still new – your instinct is to protect them,” Flower says, nodding sagely. “Me? I think if they can vote, they can handle cosmic truths.” She punctuates the comment with a hit from her weed pen – definitely not kosher in the building, but Trevor’s no narc.

He finds himself wondering for the fifteenth time if Flower is really thirty-five or if that cult she mentioned once really did grant her immortality.

Her gaze flicks toward him, too sharp for someone who’s definitely been hitting the pen most of the day. “You’ve been spending a lot of time in Chancellor Hall lately.”

He furrows his brow. “Uh, I mean, Sass is over there, so...”

“Mhm.” She leans back in her chair, balancing on two legs, either oblivious to or unconcerned about the law books stacked precariously behind her. “Hetty’s office is there, too. I know because I leave gummies on her desk once a week.”

“Hetty Woodstone does weed?” he asks, utterly stunned at the idea of the absolute picture of control taking anything that might alter her mind more than booze.

“No!” Flower cries, obviously upset by it. “I think she might’ve done her fair share of coke back in the day, but that’s not exactly great for loosening up. And I’m pretty sure if she doesn’t, her spine will actually fuse into one long rod!”

Myriad thoughts fly through his head, and he manages to avoid the first one that sticks in favor of saying, “I’m pretty sure that’s not physically possible.”

“What isn’t?” she asks, tilting her head, genuinely having lost the train of conversation.

“Uhh…judicial review?” he prompts, desperate to steer her away from any more Hetty talk. 

“Oh, right on,” she hums. “Anyway, corporate personhood is an illusion, right? Like time. Or the cafeteria claiming their tofu stir-fry is organic. None of it’s real, but we live inside it. Which means it still matters.”

Trevor exhales, half-laughing, half-relieved. “Flower, do you ever stay on one topic?”

“Always,” she insists, grinning. “You’re just not following the thread. You’ve gotta loosen up your brain. Think of it as improv jazz. The melody’s there if you’re listening.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. And when he leaves her office, the scent of incense clinging to his clothes, he can’t help thinking she knows a hell of a lot more than she lets on.

Notes:

this chapter was mostly just me wanting flower hitting the pen in her office but i hope you enjoyed it anyway. i’ll post the next chapter today probably.

Chapter 20

Notes:

Got some BDSM going on here fyi. Enjoy!

“Pretty sure Flower knows,” he mutters against Hetty’s lips that night.

He’s lying flat on the mattress, shirt open, buttons flung around the room, and she’s sitting on top of him, blouse still in place, skirt rucked up over her hips as she grinds against his still-covered erection.

She sits up and drags her nails over his chest, eliciting from him a hiss that drags into a moan. “That sounds like the last thing in the world we need to be concerned about,” she points out a little breathlessly, fingers finding his belt buckle and wrenching it open.

He’s not sure what has her in the mood to literally tear his clothes off, but he’s sure not complaining.

“Firstly – ” She gets the buckle unfastened “ – Flower is a dear friend who would never betray my trust. “And secondly, if she did happen to let something slip, she cannot manage to stay on topic long enough for anyone to put the pieces together.” 

She pulls the belt free from the loops, and it snaps in the air with a crack that has Trevor bucking up against her. A wicked spark lights up Hetty’s eyes.

“Oh, Trevor,” she purrs. “It seems you’re having quite a difficult time remaining still. Do you need another lesson in patience?”

“I – ” He swallows hard, hands flexing where they rest on her thighs. “Fuck – I do,” he pants.

She purses her lips, something dark slipping into place. “A shame,” she murmurs. “I loathe repeating myself.”

With that, she slips off his lap, and he whimpers, reaching for her, but she’s faster, coming to stand next to the bed. She’s still holding his belt, the buckle in one hand as she pulls the leather through her fingers.

“Get up.”

His legs move before he can even process her words, and he stands before her, shirt open and falling off one shoulder.

She sits in the armchair from that first morning, her fingers still stroking the leather of his belt as her eyes rake over him. “Strip,” she commands. “Slowly.”

Trevor swallows, the heat pooling low in his belly making each breath shallow. He lets his shirt fall to the floor.

Hetty watches patiently, the faintest twitch of a smirk tugging at her lips. She taps the buckle in her hand against her other palm, a soft rhythm that drives him wild.

He toes off his shoes next, kicking them aside and then going through the mildly uncomfortable (and definitely not sexy) motion of removing his socks.

The redhead just waits patiently, legs crossed neatly at the knees, gaze dark and focused.

Finally he reaches his pants. A flick of the button, a tug of the zipper, and they fall to the floor. His underwear follows, and he steps out of them, standing bare under her scrutiny.

He steps closer, compelled, hungry for the sound and the movement of her, but she stops him with nothing more than the tilt of her head.

She tuts her tongue. “You were doing so well. But your impatience, once again, has bested you.”

A mildly affronted sound escapes his lungs. She stands and closes the distance, dragging the leather end of the belt down his chest. He shivers. “I’m afraid simply delaying gratification isn’t going to be enough this time, Trevor.”

“I – you’re right,” he breathes, his breathing shallow.

She grins wickedly. “I believe it’s time for a proper punishment.”

He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes iron.

She moves, circling him slowly, assessing him from every angle in a way that makes his skin burn with arousal – humiliation. God, she knows just what to do to get under his skin, to make him burn from the inside.

Her breath grazes his ear. “A naughty thing like you is surely acquainted with the concept of a safe word,” she murmurs.

“Mm-hmm,” he confirms.

Her nails drag over his ribs, making him twitch. “And what is yours?”

He licks his lips, suddenly dry. “Recession,” he answers.

He hears the soft hum of amusement from her lips shoot down his spine. 

“Forearms on the table.”

Trevor gulps, his heart racing. He plants his palms on the wood and then lowers himself to his elbows, cheeks burning as he presents himself to her. The knowledge that she is still fully clothed while he’s naked and nearly prostrate sends another hot wave of shame through him, making him throb.

“Tell me, Trevor,” she says, her tone conversational – like she’s sitting in a meeting instead of pacing the bedroom while he literally bends to her will, “how many lashes do you think you deserve?”

His cock leaks in anticipation. He opens his mouth to say a number and then thinks better of it. “How ever many you want, mistress.”

A pause.

“Good boy,” she purrs. “For your deference, I suppose I can offer slight leniency.” The tip of the belt drags up his thigh. 

“Ten lashes.”

His fists clench around nothing.

“You will count. And when I am finished, you will thank me,” she explains before adding, “Properly.”

He nods furiously, already craving the sting. “Yes, mistress,” he whimpers.

There’s another pause, a building of anticipation. And then –

Crack!

The leather lands, hard and precise, and he jerks forward, ass stinging in that way he’s only experienced once before. “One,” he breathes.

A few seconds, and then another – this time on his right side. “Two.”

The pause this time is longer. He knows the game here – mix up the rhythm, never let him know exactly when the next strike is coming. It’s agonizing and humiliating –

Crack!

“Three.”

It’s fucking glorious.

The only other time he did this was shortly after he closed his first big deal at Lehman Brothers. The boys took him to a strip club, and the bottles, the cocaine, and the pills were flowing.

He ended up in a private room – one where rules didn’t matter if you coughed up enough coin.

The next lash lands, and he gasps. “Four.” And then, before he can even breathe – “Five.”

“You’re doing very well,” she murmurs behind him.

His head drops to the table, the cool wood feeling incredible against his damp, flushed skin. “Thank you, mistress,” he whimpers.

He’s never done anything like this with someone who sees him like this before. Hetty knows his tells – all of his ticks. She somehow has managed to suss out all the things that rev his engine. 

He had no idea six years ago that punishment could feel like this.

“Six!” he cries as the next one lands on the left.

Seven lands high on his right thigh. Eight hits in an already abused spot above it that has tears stinging his eyes.

“Nine,” he moans at the contact that lands high on his left asscheek. 

Then nothing.

Just the cool air of the room, the soft sound of her feet padding along the floor, the anticipation of the final blow.

When it comes, he tenses every muscle in his body so he doesn’t.

“Ten!” he grunts, nails digging into his own palms.

He hears a soft thud, a quiet clink of metal as she drops his belt to the floor. Her hands find his abused, sore ass, and rub over the welts tenderly, soothingly. “Good boy,” she hums, sounding almost impressed as she drops a kiss to his shoulder.

“Thank you, mistress,” he whispers after a long moment, sinking to his knees and out of her grasp. He turns, his cock bobbing lewdly between his legs. “Please let me thank you,” he whispers, placing his hands on the sides of her thighs, just below the hem of her skirt.

He presses his face against her, can smell her arousal even through the fabric, and his hands begin to drag her skirt upward, desperate, rambling pleas tumbling from his lips.

When he’s almost reached his goal, she tangles her fingers in his hair and guides him to his feet, making him whine. “Please,” he whispers, nuzzling into her neck, carefully keeping his hips back to prove he’s learned his lesson. 

Her hands move from his hair. Then the sound of a zipper, fabric hitting the floor. She slips away, stepping out of her skirt as she undoes the first few buttons of her blouse and then pulls it off over her head.

“Come to bed,” she tells him as she unclasps her bra, tossing it away.

Finally her panties go, and she lies gracefully on the enormous mattress, red hair bright against the white sheets, and he joins her, brushing his nose against her stomach, doing everything to ignore the throbbing of his erection against the mattress.

“Can I taste you?” he asks quietly, dropping a kiss to her hip bone. “Please?”

“Yes,” she answers, sounding short of breath again. 

It’s all the permission he needs. He buries his face between her legs, sucking, licking, consuming her. He guides her legs over his shoulders, allowing him a better angle to feast on her impossibly wet pussy.

“Such a good boy,” she pants, her hands tugging his hair in a way that makes him moan against her clit.

She shakes and trembles, and he thrusts his tongue into her while nuzzling his nose against the bud, and she pulls him closer, hips rolling until –

“Fuck, Trevor!”

It’s a true, uninhibited scream that shakes the walls of her penthouse apartment. If she had neighbors, they’d surely be pissed.

Trevor wouldn’t care anyway.

He continues to lap up her release, flattening his tongue and bringing her down from her orgasm, his hips shifting against the mattress.

Fuck, he needs to come, and he needs to come soon.

She relaxes back against the pillow, chest rising and falling. He bites back a whimper against her inner thigh. Slowly, she rises to sit upright, carding her fingers through his hair (which he’s decided is his new favorite feeling in the world).

“On your back,” she says, the command softer than before.

He presses up to his knees and moves next to her, lying flat with his head on one of her fluffy pillows, sighing at the feeling of the cool, soft sheets against his bruised backside.

She leans over and kisses him deeply, slowly, like she’s savoring it. His hands find the cut of her jaw as her tongue slides against his, and he moans softly.

“You’ve done so well,” she murmurs, her hand sliding down to graze over his length. He shudders at the featherlight touch.

“Please,” he whispers again.

She turns over, straddling his hips, and he braces himself for the ecstasy of being inside of her. Instead, she kisses her way down his chest, over his stomach, until she’s settled between his legs.

“Perhaps this will help the lesson stick.”

A choked moan is ripped from him as her lips slide over him.

It’s the first time she’s given him something without taking in the same breath, and it nearly undoes him on the spot.

He grits his teeth to quell the urge to come immediately, but she takes him deeper with each pass. By the time she’s taken him all, he’s losing all control.

“H-Hetty,” he chokes out. “I-I’m gonna – ”

Her eyes find his, and she sucks harder, her hand rolling his balls with just enough pressure, and he shouts a string of profanities as he climaxes.

When he comes to, his head is pillowed on her chest, one of his legs over hers. One arm is wrapped around his shoulders, the other hand in his hair, fingers tracing patterns along his scalp.

“Welcome back,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

He groans quietly, nuzzling against her. “How long was I out?”

“Only a minute or two,” she answers. “How do you feel?”

He takes stock of his body, of his mental state, and says, “Good. Sore, but...really good.”

“I’m glad,” she replies. “You were excellent tonight. Such control.”

She says it with all the reverence of presenting a Nobel Prize, and he grins. “I’m learning,” he says, lifting his head to look up at her.

She kisses him slowly, tenderly, like maybe she really does care for him as much as he does for her.

“I’ll be right back,” she promises when she pulls away.

He clings to her a little tighter, and she rubs his back comfortingly. “I need to get some things for you – for the bruising,” she explains gently. “I won’t be gone for long.”

He holds her for another moment before letting her slip away, tying a silk robe around her frame, the dark blue complimenting her skin and hair in a way that makes him a little wistful.

She disappears into the bathroom and reappears a short while later with a jar of something and a glass of water. She turns her closed hand over. “Take this,” she tells him gently.

She drops a couple of pills into his hand – Advil – and hands him the glass of water. He sits up, grunting slightly at the pain before taking the glass and downing the pills.

“Turn over,” she says gently. “Get comfortable.”

He starts to and then decides to kiss her first – his hand pulling her toward him by the back of her neck, lips parting, tongues slipping against each other lazily.

“Sometimes you’re really nice,” he teases.

She rolls her eyes. “Aftercare is necessary.”

He kisses her once more. “And nice.”

She purses her lips, but he sees the twitch of her lips before he does lie down on his stomach, folding his arms under the pillow and turning his head so he can see her in his peripheral vision. 

She opens the jar and sets it on the nightstand. Coconut oil that she scoops out and warms between her hands before smoothing it over his tender skin. He sighs and relaxes into the pillow. “Feels good,” he mutters.

“Coconut oil can be anti-inflammatory,” she explains, her voice quiet, soothing.

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, his eyes closing as he enjoys the feeling of her hands – of her gentle attention. He's super into the domineering MILF energy she’s been giving for the last month and a half, but he finds he might love this version of Hetty even a little more.

His eyes fly open. 

It’s the first time he’s thought of love in regards to Hetty Woodstone.

He’s known for a while that his feelings for her run deeper than sex, but he really didn’t expect the L-word to come to mind so soon.

“Did that hurt?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You were very tense for a moment,” she explains, thumb rubbing over what is, in fact, a pretty tender welt on his right cheek.

“Uh…yeah,” he answers, shifting a little. “It’s okay, though.”

She makes a quiet noise that sounds like a laugh and continues working the oil into his skin gently for a few more minutes. Then she gets up and goes into the bathroom again. He hears water running, and she emerges with a towel in her hand. “This is going to be cold,” she explains.

“S’okay,” he mumbles.

She kneels on the bed next to him and drapes the towel over his backside. He twitches a little and then moans at the soothing feeling of the cold, damp towel on his hot skin. “You were so good,” she murmurs, dropping a kiss to his shoulder. Then she slips out of her robe and lies beside him, hand rubbing comforting circles over his back. “Now sleep.”

He’s already halfway there before she finishes speaking.

Chapter 21

Notes:

we’re at the halfway point, folks!

The chill of November air has settled into the city, and Trevor welcomes the warmth of the cafe as he steps inside. It smells like espresso and warm sugar, the kind of combination that makes Trevor think he could almost live here. 

“No pants!” 

Trevor laughs and looks over from the counter, spotting Jay instantly. He’s wearing an Atari shirt with a cardigan, and two coffees and a pastry are spread across the table like they’re settling in for a stakeout. Sitting next to him is a blonde who looks vaguely familiar, but who Trevor’s sure he hasn’t met before.

Trevor starts weaving between tables. He knew Jay peripherally when he was back in Massapequa, but since Jay moved to the city for culinary school, he’s become a good bro. 

“What’s up, man?” He asks before looking at the blonde. She’s cute in that All-American way. Like she’s from Nebraska or Ohio.

Jay grins. “This is my girlfriend, Sam,” he says. “Sam, this is Trevor.”

She turns out to be really cool. She’s sweet and a little goofy, but she has a sharp wit that occasionally shows its teeth – but more like a yellow lab than a pit bull. They compare bad apartment stories, complain about the subway, and argue about the best bagel shop in the city.

She’s giggling at one of Jay’s restaurant stories when she spots someone at the door. “Mom!” She calls, immediately getting up and bouncing off. Trevor chuckles and follows her with his eyes, suddenly realizing why her face looked so familiar. He’s seen her in photos – younger but still the same face.

Photos in the apartment belonging to the woman she’s hugging.

The woman who absolutely wrecked him last night.

She still looks crisp and elegant as usual, but slightly more casual than he’s seen before. She’s wearing wide-leg black trousers, cinched at her waist with a belt, and a lavender cowl neck sweater in a fabric that he wants to spend hours touching.

But then he’d probably still want to touch her if she were covered in thorns. 

Her expression is softer as she looks at her daughter, brushing a stray hair back from the blonde’s face. 

Sam loops her arm through Hetty’s. “Come meet Jay,” she says, tugging her toward the table.

Hetty allows herself to be guided, her hand resting lightly at her daughter’s elbow. “Your text said coffee, not a social engagement,” she murmurs, though her eyes soften at Sam’s smile.

Then she sees Trevor.

It’s quick – just a pause in her step, the faint narrowing of her eyes – but it lands like a punch. She recovers in an instant, the rest of her expression smoothing into something neutral, polite. No one else at the café would even notice. But Trevor does. He’s been noticing her since the first second they met.

They close the distance, Sam still beaming. “Jay, this is my mom, Hetty. Mom, this is my boyfriend, Jay.”

Jay stands, smiling easily as he shakes her hand. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you..”

Hetty gives him a small, polite smile. “Lovely to meet you, Jay.”

Sam turns toward Trevor. “And this is Jay’s friend – ”

“Professor Lefkowitz,” Hetty greets before Sam can finish. Her voice is perfectly calm, but it’s the kind of calm that hums like a live wire beneath his skin. 

Sam looks between them. “You know each other?”

“I just started teaching at Greystone,” Trevor explains. 

“Wow, small world,” Jay chimes in with a chuckle. 

“Professor Woodstone’s been pretty thorough in showing me the ropes,” Trevor adds, grinning at the redhead. 

Hetty’s lips twitch at the corner – just for a second of awareness that no one else at the table would notice, but Trevor has been tuned in to Hetty’s micro expressions from the jump. She inhales once, controlled, then tips her chin in something that could be mistaken for polite acknowledgment.

Sam sits down, gesturing to the seat across from her, which happens to be the one next to Trevor. He pulls the chair out for her, grinning like a kid who just found the afikomen at Passover. “M’lady.”

He watches her just barely resist the urge to roll her eyes before slipping gracefully into the seat. 

She smooths her skirt and turns toward Jay with the kind of attentive poise Trevor’s only ever seen her weaponize in faculty meetings. Now it’s softened, rewired into something almost maternal.

“Samantha tells me you work in a restaurant,” she says. 

Jay perks up. “Yeah, it’s my uncle’s place in Murray Hill. Pretty traditional home style Indian food. I’m his sous chef right now, but I’m saving up to open my own place someday.”

“That is admirable,” Hetty says, and there’s no mistaking the sincerity. “It takes both courage and discipline to see such plans through.”

Jay laughs a little. “Courage, sure. Discipline…I’m working on it.”

She tilts her head, a faint smile playing at her mouth. “Then I imagine my daughter is a good influence.”

Trevor busies himself with a sugar packet - not because he wants to look away, but because he’s clocking every nuance – the warmth in her tone, the way her expression softens, the almost imperceptible lean forward when Jay speaks. It’s a side of her he hasn’t seen before, and he’s caught somewhere between curiosity and quiet appreciation.

“You should come by sometime,” Jay offers. “The food’s great. My uncle does this lamb korma that’ll change your life.”

“I would be delighted,” Hetty replies, and it’s not the polite default answer; she actually sounds delighted.

Jay grins. “Maybe we’ll even get you in the kitchen to help me plate a few orders.”

Hetty’s brows lift. “Believe me, Jay, I am far more effective giving orders than taking them.”

Trevor hides his smirk behind his coffee.

Sam laughs, shaking her head. “Yeah, that sounds familiar.” She turns to Trevor, leaning forward on her elbows – a casual, almost slouching move that feels borderline scandalous for the daughter of prim-and-proper Hetty Woodstone.

“What’s my mom like at school?” she asks. “Scary? Mean? Does she go around slapping people on the knuckles with a ruler?”

“Honestly, Samantha,” Hetty drawls, the eye roll practically audible even as she smiles affectionately.

Trevor chuckles. “I mean, she scares the shit out of me, yeah,” he answers. “But in a way that makes me want to be a very good boy,” he jokes.

“And you consistently fail on that front,” Hetty drawls. 

“I said I want to, not that I’m succeeding,” he counters before turning back to Sam. “Was she a super strict mom?”

“God, no,” Sam laughs. “I mean, she pushed me to always do better, but she wasn’t hard on me or anything.”

“You never did anything that required correction,” Hetty reasons before adding, “except your dreadful habit of dropping your jacket by the front door after school.”

Jay snaps his fingers. “She still does that!”

“Babe!” Sam squeaks, swatting his chest. “I always pick it up…eventually.”

Hetty reaches across the table and squeezes her daughter’s hand. “All in all, you were very little trouble,” she says, and Sam beams at the praise. “Your brother, on the other hand…” Hetty adds.

That gets a big laugh from the blonde. “God, he’s still a nightmare,” Sam agrees. 

There’s no pause, no visible reaction – just a small, precise smile before Hetty turns to Jay as if Sam hadn’t spoken. “And what kind of restaurant do you want to run someday?”

It’s so smooth a transition, Trevor almost misses the fact that it happened at all. Almost.

Jay clearly doesn’t notice, too focused on answering her question.  “I want to stick with my roots, so an Indian place – traditional recipes with modern twists. The stuff my mom and I used to make together. I’ve been sketching menus for years.”

Sam grins at him. “And someday, it’s going to happen. But tonight,” she says, glancing at her phone, “we’re going to be late for that pop-up.”

Jay stands, already reaching for his jacket. “We should head out.” He offers Hetty a polite smile. “It was really nice meeting you.”

“And you,” Hetty says, warm enough to make it clear she means it.

Sam kisses her mother’s cheek. “Bye, Mom. Love you.”

“Have fun,” Hetty says, giving her daughter’s hand a final squeeze.

Jay gives Trevor a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Catch you later, T-Money.”

“You know it, J-Dog,” Trevor says.

The door shuts behind them, and the quiet that follows seems to pull the air tighter. Hetty sets down her coffee with care, her attention shifting back to him – steady, assessing, and entirely unreadable.

Trevor leans back in his chair, studying her. “You know,” he says, “I can’t picture you as the mom who’d let her kid drop clothes on the floor every day without making her run laps or something.”

One corner of her mouth lifts. “And yet, Samantha turned out quite well.”

“You two seem really close,” he comments.

Something in her expression softens. Barely, but enough for him to catch it before it’s gone. 

Trevor tilts his head, coffee mug in hand. “You’re different when you talk about her,” he goes on. “Not scary. Still…formidable, but in a way that’s almost – ”

“Kind?” she supplies, arching a brow.

He smirks. “Was gonna say human, but sure, let’s go with kind.”

Hetty’s eyes narrow, though there’s the faintest glint of amusement. “Ever the provocateur, Professor Lefkowitz.”

“Trevor,” he corrects with a grin. He shifts then, leaning on his elbow, just a little closer. “You know, when you break out Professor Lefkowitz, it’s basically code for ‘you’re getting too close.’”

Her brow lifts. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. It’s your velvet rope. Fancy, looks great – but it’s supposed to keep me out of the VIP area.”

Her gaze sharpens, weighing him. “And you make a habit of slipping past it?”

He shrugs, all mock innocence. “Don’t have to sneak in when you get waved in.”

Her mouth curves. Not quite a smile, but certainly a sign of interest. “You assume I’d let you.”

He leans in, grin easy. “Pretty sure you have been for the last couple months.”

“Professor Lefkowitz – ”

“Trevor,” he corrects automatically.

 “ – tread very carefully,” she finishes.

“Careful’s never been my strong suit,” he shrugs before turning to face her fully. “Look, I like what we’ve got going here. You’re quick, you’re funny…you make me actually want to pay attention. And the whole dominatrix-in-a-pantsuit thing you’ve got going on is insanely hot.” His grin tugs wider at the faint quirk of her lips.  “I like that you make me work for it. But you don’t have to ice me out every time I catch a glimpse of something real.”

She blinks, as if rewinding the last thirty seconds in her head. “You think I’m funny?”

He barks a surprised laugh. “That’s your takeaway?” 

“Well, it is an absurd notion,” she retorts, but he notices the slight movement in her shoulders, the little curve of her mouth.

“It’s not absurd,” he says with a grin. “You just dress it up in stilettos and a death stare.”

She lets the silence stretch, smirking as she leans in just enough for him to feel the shift in air between them. “That’s what keeps you coming back.”

It’s barely more than a murmur, but it slides straight through him, curling low in his stomach. “Speaking of coming back…how about tonight?”

Her eyes narrow, a flicker of amusement at the corner of her mouth. “Two nights in a row? Absolutely not.”

He tilts his head, all mock-innocence. “What if I promise to behave?”

One brow lifts, unimpressed. “You won’t.”

“Then you’ll get to punish me.”

She doesn’t answer. Just rises, deliberate and composed, gathering her bag like the matter’s decided. A final glance, cool and decisive. The kind that says he’s not getting what he wants.

And then, almost as an afterthought  – 

“Eight o’clock.”

She slips the strap of her bag over her shoulder, heels clicking as she moves toward the door without looking back. No extra sway in her hips, no parting smile – just the sharp, clean exit of someone who knows she’ll be in his head all day.

And she is. Lodged low in his gut, sparking along every nerve, leaving him restless and half-hard in his chair.

Chapter 22

Summary:

Chapter Playlist:

Do I Wanna Know - Arctic Monkeys
Fade Into You - Mazzy Star
God is a woman - Ariana Grande
Movement - Hozier
I recommend this order btw 💚

Notes:

Have another one because I love this chapter so freakin much and also I’ve set a precedent.

She should have ended it. 

She’s crossed the living room twice, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Trevor’s name. Once to tell him she’s tired. Once to say she has to work. Each time, she locks the screen without sending anything.

One night is a contained thing, something she can fold away in memory like she always does – but two is a misstep. And two in a row is dangerously close to a pattern. 

She doesn’t indulge patterns.

Patterns leave traces. A text thread, a softened edge to her voice, the faintest easing in her spine when someone’s name lights her phone. They create habits, expectations that might tempt Elias to look too closely.

He’s tried before, scenting betrayal like a hound, certain she would eventually slip, that years of being alone would leave her desperate for affection – the kind left unsatisfied by a single night. She always thought he underestimated her.

Now she worries he was right.

She has always been satisfied with her short dalliances. Two encounters with the same man was the furthest she ever let anything go – brief, calculated diversions that could be forgotten as quickly as they began.

Trevor is different. Trevor lingers. Even now, with the phone still warm in her hold, he’s in the room with her like a hand at the base of her spine. Impossible to shake. Impossible to forget. He’s the sort of man who might appear without warning, who might speak too freely, who might make it impossible to keep their names from tangling together in the wrong mouths.

Exactly the sort of man she should not have allowed this close.

And if Elias ever had proof – real proof – it wouldn’t affect Hetty. Her future is fixed, the trust in her name secured when she married. 

But he would take the one thing she could not rebuild: Samantha’s future. He would burn through the trust with cold efficiency, and the inheritance that should be their daughter’s would lost to his vices.

All for a man she cannot seem to walk away from.

She picks up the phone again.

The message comes easily. Don’t come. Two words, mercifully clean.

But she can’t send it. He would find a way in; he always does. And the worst part is that she will let him. Every. Single. Time.

Because refusal means an empty evening, the absence of his voice. No chance to see the fire in his eyes when she pushes too far, or the flicker of amusement when he catches her off guard.

And tonight, she cannot suffer the quiet ache of wanting.

---

He spends the elevator ride trying to convince himself not to read into it and fails spectacularly.

That first night, he thought he’d get only one shot – a single night with Hetty Woodstone, the most intoxicating woman he’s ever met. But it’s been nearly two months now, and this is the first time she’s let him come over two nights in a row.

That has to mean something.

The elevator doors slide open into the small, private hallway – her door the only one on the floor. He knocks twice, then forces his hands into his coat pockets before he can knock again like some overeager idiot.

The hush here is absolute, the kind of quiet Manhattan only grants from twenty stories up. It makes every detail sharper: the faint scent of her perfume already in his memory, the dry warmth in the air, the way his own heartbeat sounds too loud.

Then – footsteps. The precise, familiar click of her heels. His pulse spikes, stupid and adolescent. 

When the door finally opens, she’s in the same outfit she wore at the café – that soft lavender cashmere sweater, loose enough to be almost demure. He’s glad. He’s been thinking about it since the moment she walked in, wanting to feel the cashmere under his palms – not for its luxury, but for the excuse it would give him to touch her.

But there’s a tautness to her tonight – in the line of her shoulders, in the way her gaze shifts – that tells him she’s on edge. Like something’s wound too tight, and part of him wants to unwind it for her. Part of him wants to see what happens if he pulls the wrong thread.

The other part – that stubborn, chivalrous part of him – just needs to make sure she’s okay. 

She closes the door as he steps inside. “Drink?”

“Sure,” he says, following her. Instead of going to the living room, she leads him into a room he’s never seen before.

It’s unmistakably hers. Built-ins line the walls, the shelves dense with hardcover novels, their spines softened by age. Many are first editions, their gilt lettering catching the low lamplight. An ornate desk anchors the far wall – mahogany, he thinks, with claw-foot legs and a blotter so neat it looks arranged by a ruler. 

A pair of deep, forest green armchairs face each other across a low table, the sort of arrangement meant for real conversation. He can picture her here on a winter night, shoes off, curled in one of those chairs with a book in hand and a drink within reach. For one irrational moment, he wonders what it would be like to sit in the other, grading papers or, more likely, scrolling through his phone and sneaking glances at her expression.

He shakes off the thought as she approaches, handing him a glass of dark liquor. He can see her composed mask has slid back into place, but it’s too late. He’s already seen what’s underneath.

He takes the glass, fingers brushing hers in the handoff, and sinks into one of the chairs. “You okay?” he asks, casual in tone but not in intent.

Her gaze flickers away for a fraction too long before she sits opposite him, perching on the arm of the other chair, her posture exact, ankles crossed, hands loose around her own drink. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t buy it. The faint press of her lips, the measured stillness – it’s the kind of control that only exists to keep something from spilling over. And maybe – God, he hopes not – it’s about him.

“Did I do something?” he says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “If I did, I’d rather hear it now than watch you pretend I didn’t.”

A flicker in her expression, gone just as quickly. “You overestimate your influence.”

“Do I?” he asks, holding her gaze. He should let it drop. He should drink his whiskey and talk about anything else. But there’s a magnetic pull in her restraint, the suspicion that if he pressed just right, something sharp and beautiful would break loose.

He wants to know her.

“Perhaps,” she says lightly, “we might find a better use for our time than conversation.” Her tone is almost idle, but with that precise edge that always makes his pulse skip.

He huffs a quiet laugh, tipping his glass toward her. “I like where your head’s at,” he says easily, “but…something’s bugging you.”

Her brows lift in faint amusement. “And you believe you can read me.”

“Not always,” he admits. “But I can tell when you’re having fun. And right now, you seem like you feel obligated to follow through.”

She studies him over the rim of her glass. “Perhaps I’m merely tired,” she shrugs.

“Hetty,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “I know I pushed earlier, but…if you want me to go, that’s okay. No hard feelings.”

Her tongue peeks out, wets her lips as she mulls over his words. He finishes his drink and sets it on the coffee table. Any other woman, he might suggest they just hang out. Watch a movie and get to know each other beyond the physical. But he knows that’s a surefire way to spook her. 

Her lips curve. Not a smile, exactly, but something sharpened by certainty. “If I did not wish to take you to bed, I would simply say so.”

The statement lands with the weight of an unassailable fact. He believes her. God help him, he believes her.

“Okay,” he says slowly, searching her face for the thing she isn’t saying. “So it’s not that.”

“No,” she replies, almost gently. 

It should put him at ease. Instead, it makes the air between them hum with something taut and unsorted, the sense that there’s a locked door somewhere in her he’s just brushed up against.

She tips her glass, watching the amber swirl before meeting his eyes again. “It’s nothing of importance,” she assures him.

He studies her, caught between the impulse to press and the quiet pull of her certainty. There’s no steel in her tone this time – just a kind of measured kindness that makes him want to close the space between them.

“Not sure I buy that,” he breathes before getting to his feet. 

“Where on earth are you going?” she asks, affronted.

“I’m gonna head home,” he says, coming to stand before her.

Apparently that surprises her, because she recoils slightly. “Excuse me?”

“I get that this is just sex,” he promises. “I’m not your boyfriend or anything, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. And I’d rather walk forty blocks with a raging hard on and no pants than have you regret letting me touch you.”

She purses her lips. “You seem to believe I require coddling.”

“No,” he argues. “I think I require consent. Real, enthusiastic, can’t-wait-to-get-you-naked consent.”

The silence stretches, her eyes holding his for a long beat, the faintest shift in her posture easing that perfect, refined poise.

“You think I am humoring you,” she says, softer now, almost contemplative.

“I think that brilliant mind is somewhere else,” he answers. “And I don’t want to be here if you don’t really – ”

“Trevor.” His name lands like a hand closing around his wrist, firm but not forceful. “I am precisely where I wish to be.”

There’s a glimmer then – an unguarded warmth under the cool surface. She sets her glass aside, rising to meet him eye to eye. One hand comes to rest at his collar, fingers smoothing over the line of fabric. “Do you truly believe I would invite you into my home, into my bed, without wanting every moment of it?”

He opens his mouth, but she steps closer, close enough for the heat of her to undo him.

“I want you,” she says, low and deliberate, as if selecting each word with care. “But if you are determined to imagine reluctance where there is none…” Her lips curve, slow and knowing as her other hand finds his chest, hooking a finger around the top button of his shirt. “…then I will simply have to correct you.”

It’s the look in her eyes that does it – steady, unflinching, threaded with that rare flicker of warmth he’s learned to treasure. Whatever locked door he’d approached, she’s not going to open it tonight. And he knows better than to try. She’s here. With him. Wanting this. Wanting him.

That’s enough.

His shoulders ease, a surrender as her finger lingers at his button, teasing the seam before slipping it free. Her breath grazes his cheek, deliberate, coaxing him closer.

“All right,” he murmurs, the words more exhale than agreement. “You win.”

Her smile deepens – not gloating, but something sharper, richer. The kind of smile that says he never really stood a chance.

And, God help him, he’s fine with that.

Her thumb traces the open edge of his shirt, skimming the heat of his skin. “You should be used to that by now,” she says, and this time it’s not a challenge – it’s almost fond.

When she leans in, her mouth finds the corner of his jaw first, lingering there as though tasting the moment. Her fingers slip beneath the fabric at his collar, not tugging, just holding him steady. The quiet possession of it makes his breath stutter.

He rests a hand at her waist, careful, letting her set the pace. She doesn’t rush; she tilts her head, lips brushing along his cheek until they’re a breath apart.

“You don’t have to think,” she murmurs, her voice low but without its usual steel. “Only follow.”

It’s not an order so much as an invitation, but it still settles into him like something binding. He nods once, and her mouth finds his, slow but certain, the kiss deepening only when she decides it should.

Her free hand slides up to cup the side of his neck, fingers threading into his hair with a gentleness that feels almost dangerous. He lets himself sink into it, into her, knowing he’s exactly where she means him to be.

Where he wants to be.

Her kiss doesn’t break; it shifts – her mouth guiding his, the tempo entirely hers. When she finally draws back, it’s only far enough to breathe against his skin.

Her fingers slip from his collar to the first few buttons of his shirt, undoing them with steady precision. The cashmere brushes his knuckles as his hands find her waist, the texture almost as soft as the skin beneath.

Her hand skims under his shirt, cool fingers against overheated skin, tracing up his sternum before she slips them higher, along the column of his throat – not choking, not threatening, simply feeling the beat of his pulse.

He swallows, the sound loud in the hush of the study.

When she kisses him again, it’s deeper, surer, and this time she lets him draw her nearer – though she never quite surrenders the space between them entirely, keeping just enough distance to make him aware of every inch.

The scent of her fills his head as her thumb drags once along his jaw. Then her other hand trails lower, past his ribs, settling at his waistband with deliberate weight.

She doesn’t move further. Not yet. Just stays there, holding him in that exquisite suspension where wanting becomes almost unbearable.

Her hand at his waistband tightens just enough for him to feel the intention in it. His breath hitches, and she catches it – lips curving against his as if she’s just claimed something.

Then, at last, she closes the last inch between them. The press of her body is solid and certain, the drape of her sweater moving with her. He feels her warmth through the cashmere, the slow exhale against his cheek as her mouth takes his again – deeper but with a heat that leaves no room for doubt.

His hands slide along her back, over the fine knit, finding the shape of her shoulder blades and the dip of her waist. She doesn’t stop him this time. If anything, her fingers flex against him in silent permission.

The kiss tilts, gaining an edge, and his thumb grazes the side of her ribcage, feeling the subtle catch of her breath. That small crack in her composure grounds him more than anything she’s said. Her palm cups his jaw, thumb brushing once across his lower lip before she pulls back just enough to meet his eyes. There’s no veil in them now, no distance.

Just…affection.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t trust his voice, so he simply drops his forehead to hers. She allows it, her fingers curling lightly at the back of his neck, holding him there for a beat before pulling him into another kiss.

This one isn’t measured. It’s warmer, messier, the kind that leaves him feeling more than a little unsteady. Smoothly, almost gently, she guides him until the backs of his thighs meet the desk, a faint rustle of paper breaking the quiet. She doesn’t break the kiss as her fingers find the closure of his shirt.

They move slowly, each button undone with intention. By the time she reaches the last, she dips her head and brushes her lips over the hollow between his collarbone and shoulder.

His hand slips beneath the soft cashmere, fingers meeting warm skin, tracing the line of her spine. Her fingers still, her body melting into his.

Something in him gives way. His hands map the shape of her ribs, the curve of her back; she steps between his knees, closing the space, and the desk holds him there. Her mouth finds his, slow at first, then deepening, her teeth grazing his lip in a fleeting claim.

When she pulls back, her eyes are bright, her breath warm against his. One fingertip catches at his waistband, not quite pulling, just holding the thought there.

“Stop thinking,” she murmurs.

And he does.

He pulls her in, his mouth trailing kisses along her jaw, down her neck until the neck of her sweater brushes against his cheek.

She slides her hand beneath the open edges of his shirt, palms sweeping over his chest as though committing the lines of him to memory. The movement is unhurried, proprietary, her nails grazing lightly until he shivers, exhaling a breath against the crook of her shoulder.

She pulls his shirt open, and he feels the softness of her sweater against his chest, the curves of her body beneath the fabric.

Her thumb drags along the waistband of his trousers before dipping just inside, not far – just enough to make his pulse spike. She reaches for him, catching his jaw in her palm, and tilts his head the way she wants it. Her mouth finds the hollow beneath his ear, a warm press of lips followed by the faintest scrape of teeth.

His hands tighten at her hips, sliding up until the hem of her sweater lifts. She doesn’t stop him. Cashmere gives way to bare skin, and he traces it like a secret, up over her waist, her ribs, skimming his thumbs beneath the swell of her breasts.

Her breath hitches, almost imperceptibly, and then she’s pushing his shirt the rest of the way off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor without breaking her gaze. The air between them sharpens.

She steps in, closing the last of the space between them until the desk edge presses into his thighs. Her sweater brushes his skin, warm and scented with her perfume. One hand smooths up his chest, over the curve of his shoulder, and around to the back of his neck – fingers flexing just enough to keep him there. He finds the hem of her sweater again, sliding his hands beneath and tracing the slope of her back. She lets him, her breath deepening, her body yielding just enough to tell him keep going.

When her mouth finds his, there’s no careful lead-in this time – just a deep, sure kiss that makes his knees threaten to give. She tastes of whiskey and something wholly her own.

Her fingers at his waistband tighten, unfastening the button of his pants as her tongue slides against his. A moan escapes him.

She breaks the kiss, her voice low and a little breathless. “Now,” she says, as if the rest of the night has been nothing but prelude.

And maybe she’s right.

Her hand stays at his waistband as she draws him forward, angling him so his hips meet hers in a slow, deliberate press. The desk behind him is unforgiving, but the way she fits against him makes it feel like the only place he should be.

He slides his hands higher beneath her sweater, palms curving over the warm lines of her back, memorizing the way she feels under cashmere and skin. She doesn’t stop him, just tilts her head, watching his face with an expression that’s almost indulgent.

Her fingers work the zipper, every movement conscious. “Good,” she murmurs, not as praise but as simple truth, and it sends a current through him all the same.

When his trousers loosen, her hand slips inside with a certainty that makes him shiver. She doesn’t stroke right away, only holds him, the heat of her palm searing through him in a way no motion could.

He leans in before he can think better of it, catching her mouth again, and this time she lets him lead for a few beats, his hands at her waist pulling her closer, as if he can anchor her there. She yields just enough before reclaiming the pace, her tongue coaxing his mouth open, her body dictating the rhythm.

When she finally moves her hand, it’s slow and devastating, her touch as precise as her words had been earlier. He shivers, fingers gripping the back of her sweater to keep from unraveling completely.

Her lips break from his just far enough for him to feel her breath. “Don’t look away,” she says, quiet but unshakable. He couldn’t if he wanted to.

And he doesn’t.

Her gaze holds him there as her hand starts moving with slow, ruinous intent, each stroke measured enough to make him feel how much she’s in control of his undoing. The air between them seems to thicken; the only sounds are his unsteady breathing and the faintest whisper of fabric as her sweater shifts under his grip.

He pushes the hem higher, fingertips sliding up the line of her spine, then flattening to map the warmth of her bare skin. She makes a low sound of approval but doesn’t pause, and he has to brace one hand on the desk to keep himself upright.

She releases his cock, dragging a whimper from his lips. Her hands find his waistband, pushing his pants and underwear down in one smooth, fluid motion. The cool air hits him as her eyes trail steadily over his body, almost as if she's really seeing him for the first time.

It makes something ache in his chest.

When her hand returns to him, it’s slow, almost reverent, her fingers curling with enough pressure to pull a sound from deep in his chest. He swallows hard, holding her gaze, but the weight of her attention makes it impossible not to stay still beneath it.

His hands find her waist and slide higher beneath her sweater, palms smoothing over the delicate shape of her ribs before tracing forward, finding the curve of her breasts. She lets him explore, only tilting her head slightly when his thumbs brush against her through the thin silk beneath.

She leans in then, her lips finding his again, her hand never faltering in its rhythm. There’s no push, no game – just the gift of her focus.

His hands linger at her waist, fingertips brushing over the curve beneath her sweater. He pulls back from the kiss, meeting her gaze, and she gives the slightest incline of her head. Slowly, intently, he lifts the hem over her hips, letting the soft cashmere slide upward. She releases him and raises her arms as he eases the sweater over her head. 

Beneath, the soft line of her bra is revealed, delicate and unstructured, the warmth of her skin brushing his palms. He lets his hands linger a moment, mapping the curve of her body, tracing the subtle swell of her breasts through the thin fabric. Her hands find his neck just tightly enough to guide, and she leans in, pressing against him, lips finding his in a kiss that’s both intimate and claiming. 

Trevor manages to slip his hands between their bodies, unfastening the belt cinching the waist of her pants. The button and zipper are next, and he hooks his thumbs into the waistband. 

She tilts her hips toward him in permission. With a smooth, purposeful motion, he slides the trousers down her hips, letting them pool at her feet. She steps free, kicking them aside without separating their lips.

She advances, and he follows her lead, sitting on the desk. She climbs gracefully on top of him, straddling his hips, forcing him to crane his neck upward to continue kissing her. He wraps his arms around her waist, and one of hers reaches behind him. He hears the slide of papers, the quiet rattle of a pen as it falls to the floor, and then she presses forward, never breaking the kiss as he lies back. The silk of her panties grazes his cock, and he moans into her. She responds with a soft bite at his lower lip.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his hands wandering over her soft skin until he can grip her hips. 

“Ask nicely,” she husks, rocking against him, her hand at his throat, her gaze singularly focused on his.

“Please, Hetty,” he whispers.

Her lips curve into a grin, and she sits up, her hands trailing down his chest as his fall to her thighs.

“Good boy,” she murmurs, and his hips stutter up toward her. She chuckles darkly. “You like that, don’t you?” she murmurs, voice low, a tease in every syllable. “Being told you’re…good.”

He swallows, hips shifting slightly, caught off guard by how exposed he feels beneath her praise. “Yes,” he whispers.

Her nails drag down his chest, scraping enough to sting without breaking skin. She shifts slightly, hips rocking just enough for him to feel the edge of her against him, the warmth and weight teasing through the thin fabric of her underwear.

“You so enjoy being made to wait,” she murmurs, voice low and controlled. “The anticipation, the ache of knowing you’re so close to getting what you want.”

He swallows hard, heat crawling over him. “Yes,” he admits, voice strained.

Her smile sharpens, a flicker of something amused in her eyes. “Tell me, Trevor,” she goes on, her hips still moving slowly. “Do you think you’ve earned it?”

He hesitates, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. “No…I don’t,” he admits, voice low, almost a whisper.

Her eyes glint with satisfaction. “And how,” she murmurs, tilting her hips just enough to keep him teetering on the edge, “do you plan on earning it?”

“By – oh, god – by making you feel good,” he manages, fingers flexing against her thighs.

A dangerous smile curves her lips. “Show me.”

His palms slide over her thighs. His thumb finds her center, caressing over the fabric of her underwear. She hums a quiet sound of approval, and he slips his hand into her panties, fingers gliding over the heat of her before two slip inside.

She cants her hips toward him, and he curls his fingers while he uses firmer pressure to rub her clit with his thumb. She shudders at his touch, a low, involuntary sound slipping past her lips, and he savors it – the knowledge that he can make her feel this way. 

He shifts to sit upright on the desk, letting his fingers move with slow, focused pressure, sliding inside her while his thumb circles her clit firmly.

Her hands find his hair, nails digging lightly into his scalp as her back arches, inviting more contact. He wraps his other arm around her, and she arches back into it, allowing him a better angle to work her g-spot with his fingers.

He leans in, trailing wet kisses over her breast before swirling his tongue around her nipple. He’s granted with a low moan and a quiet command: “More.”

He adds a third finger as he attaches his mouth to her breast, sucking firmly, reveling in the quiet gasp that escapes her lips. He increases the pace of his fingers and feels her breathing grow shallow, uneven; every little whimper and sigh urges him on, makes him that much more determined to feel her come apart. 

A shudder runs through her, small at first, then building, until she cries out, quivering and trembling as her climax crashes over her. Her walls tighten around his fingers, squeezing him, and her whole body shudders in release. He rides out every last pulse, every sound, until her trembling slows.

He kisses up from her breast to her neck until she lowers her chin, capturing his lips in a searing kiss. Her hands loosen their hold in his hair but continue to hold him close as her body slowly uncoils against his.

He lingers there, letting the warmth of her settle over him, the hum of satisfaction vibrating through her chest against his own. When she finally pulls back just enough that he can gaze at her, her beautiful blue eyes are half-lidded, still shimmering with the aftershocks of release, lips slightly parted.

She rises up on her knees, and he takes his cock in his hand, still wet with her arousal, angling himself so she can sink down onto his length. The first inch of entry draws a low, ragged sound from both of them, and she lowers herself until he’s fully sheathed inside of her warmth. She stays still for a long moment before she kisses him, pressing him back down onto the table and lying on top of him. His hands find her ass, gripping firmly, silently begging her to move.

She finally does, rolling her hips leisurely, drawing a choked moan from his throat. He thrusts up into her, matching her rhythm, and she hums in response, brushing a hand along his chest.

“Just like that,” she murmurs, voice low and rough, “keep going.”

Her lips find his again, tongues tangling as she rocks her hips with languid precision, letting him feel every inch of her, every subtle tilt and grind deliberate and focused. He matches her movements, thrusting up into her slowly, savoring the friction, the heat, the slick press of her body against his. She pulls out of the kiss just enough that her lips still brush against his. 

“Fuck me like you mean it, Trevor,” she purrs.

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

His hands grip her hips, and he plants his feet on the desk, using the leverage to increase the pace of his movements, to fuck her harder.

She gasps and plants her hands on his chest, pressing herself up in a way that gives him the most glorious view. Kiss-swollen lips parted, porcelain skin flushed with arousal, breasts swaying with each drive of his hips.

“You're so fucking beautiful,” he mutters, the words dragged out of him unintentionally.

​​He drives up into her, rapid and urgent, each thrust rough and insistent. She rocks down on him with equal force, pressing him deep, hips snapping, unrelenting, leaving no room for pause.

Her moans become less controlled and higher pitched. Her nails dig into his chest, making him hiss as she chases her release. Her eyes squeeze shut, her head falling back as a harsh, guttural sound tears from her throat and her walls squeeze around him.

The feeling sends him over the edge with her, and he moans her name as his hands grip her harder, hold her down against him as he spills inside of her.

She collapses against him, finding his lips once more. “So good,” she whispers between kisses. “So good for me.”

His arms wrap around her waist, holding her tightly against his body, relishing in the boneless way she lies against him.

They lie together, chests rising and falling in tandem, the heat between them slowly ebbing. His hands remain on her back, fingertips tracing the curve of her spine, but something in the way she presses closer, her head tilting just so against his shoulder, makes him pause.

The afterglow feels different this time – heavier. Quieter. The way she lingers, the almost imperceptible brush of her fingers against his skin, the soft exhale that seems to settle over him – it makes him wonder if beneath all the teasing and control there’s a part of her that wants this, too. 

Not just the pleasure. 

Him.

The thought is dizzying, disarming. He feels the shift in the air between them, subtle yet undeniable, and for the first time, he can’t tell if he’s the one holding back or if she is.

He exhales, heart still hammering, caught in the tension of possibility – the quiet, fragile notion that maybe, just maybe, she might be falling for him, too.

Chapter 23

Summary:

Chapter Playlist

hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have – but I have it - Lana Del Rey
Wildest Dreams - Taylor Swift
Two Weeks - FKA twigs

The cigarette glows faintly in the dark. 

It’s a rare vice – one she quit years ago when she found out she was pregnant with Thomas. She’s only smoked probably a dozen in the last twenty-five years. But when her thoughts are too loud or her life becomes too stressful, she allows the indulgence, allows the smoke to curl in her lungs and bring a sense of calm.

She inhales, lets it wrap around her thoughts, and exhales slowly, letting it drift into the night. Upstairs, Trevor sleeps in her bed, chest rising and falling, hair mussed, bare shoulder pressed against the sheets. The thought of him makes her chest tighten, makes her question the neat boundaries she drew so long ago.

He’s different. Not just in body, though tonight’s memory burns, vivid and unrelenting. He lingers in her mind, in the quiet moments, in the way her sheets now always smell faintly of him. She knows the rules. She’s always known the rules. But Trevor refuses to be a fleeting encounter. He refuses to be brief.

She taps the ash over the railing, allowing it to flutter off in the breeze. She should be able to distance herself, analyze it, compartmentalize it – but she can’t. Not completely. 

She exhales again, watching the smoke drift upward, twisting and breaking apart. She isn’t naïve; she knows desire and consequence can collide with devastating force. But desire doesn’t care for caution or calculation.

It only cares for truth.

“Didn’t know you smoked.”

With her free hand, she pulls the robe more tightly around herself, continuing to look out over the park as he approaches. “Infrequently,” she answers, taking another drag.

She feels the heat of him behind her and then his hands on her hips, sliding along her waist until she’s wrapped in a loose embrace. His lips find her neck, trailing hot, languid kisses that make her relax in his embrace as she exhales the smoke.

He nuzzles his nose against her neck just below her jaw, and she allows herself to enjoy the simple pleasure. One of his hands finds her arm, dragging along until it reaches her fingertips. He brings her hand back, lifts his head, and takes a puff. “Me, too,” he says, exhaling away from her.

She hums in acknowledgement.

He lets go of her hand and wraps himself around her again, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Does this have anything to do with whatever had you so on edge when I got here?”

She takes the last drag, savoring the calm before flicking the butt over the railing. She nods slowly.

He drops a kiss to her shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She exhales the last of the smoke and shakes her head.

“Do you want to fuck about it?”

She exhales a laugh, quiet but genuine, and feels him smile against her skin. “Sadly I don’t think amorous congress is going to remedy anything,” she answers.

“Amorous congress,” he repeats with a chuckle of his own. “Hot.” She rolls her eyes, but a smile curls her lips as he kisses the crook of her neck. “You know what usually helps me?”

“Hm?”

He lifts his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Sleep.”

Another quiet laugh passes her lips. “I’m out here because I couldn’t sleep,” she counters.

Trevor turns her in his arms, grinning. “Now that’s a problem that does have a sex solution.”

She rolls her eyes, holding the railing on either side of her waist. “You are an insatiable hound,” she drawls, but there’s no bite to it.

“Pretty sure that’s why you keep me around,” he replies before kissing her.

It’s slow and soft, a gentle press of his mouth against hers before he coaxes her lips apart and slides his tongue against hers. One of his hands gently tugs the sash at her waist, untying the bow and allowing her robe to flutter open.

The warmth of his body presses against hers, and she moans softly as she feels him hardening beneath his boxers. She slips her fingers into his hair and pulls him closer, her hips rocking toward him. His hands skim over her body from her hips up to her breasts before making their way back down, his lips following their path as he sinks to his knees.

Carefully, he hooks an arm behind her leg and pulls to drape it over his shoulder. Hetty inhales sharply and grabs onto the railing again, watching as he kisses from her knee, up her thigh, and finally to her sex. He flattens his tongue against her, licking a stripe through her folds and flicking her clit at the top. She gasps, and he repeats.

Her head falls back over the railing as he continues, the night air cool against her flushed skin. She closes her eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his mouth and the warmth of his hands anchor her. Every stroke is patient, almost reverent, coaxing rather than demanding, and the tension in her shoulders begins to melt.

Her breath catches with every pass of his tongue, the pleasure building in slow, intense waves that leave her knees threatening to give. She clutches the railing tighter, the cool metal biting into her palms, grounding her even as the rest of her wants to dissolve under his mouth.

Trevor hums against her, the vibration sending a sharp pulse of heat through her. He shifts his grip, both hands anchoring her now – one at the small of her back, the other gripping high on her thigh – holding her open for him, steadying her against the tremor running through her muscles.

She bites her lip to keep quiet, though the sound still slips out – low, breathy, dangerous. The kind of sound she never means to give him, the kind that reveals too much.

He hears it anyway. She feels the smile curve against her, infuriatingly pleased with himself, before his tongue circles her clit again, slower this time, as if savoring her restraint.

“Trevor…” It’s half warning, half plea.

When she comes, it’s like exhaling after a breath held for too long. A slow, shivering release that has her moaning his name and gripping the railing harder as her legs struggle to keep her upright. He coaxes her back down from her release with gentle licks to her still pulsing heat, with languid kisses delivered along the crease of her thigh and down her leg.

She’s still catching her breath when he rises to his feet and kisses her deeply, tasting faintly of tobacco and intensely of her arousal.

“Better?” He asks quietly a moment later, when his forehead rests against hers, his palms warm where they rest on her hips.

She should end it. Right here, right now. Before he can get any further under her skin, before she does something stupid like fall in love with him.

“I need more,” she whispers instead.

He grins softly. “I can do that,” he whispers.

He kisses her again, scooping her off the ground, and her legs immediately and instinctively wrap around his waist as he carries her back inside, the door closing behind them.

He doesn’t set her down until they reach the edge of the bed upstairs. Her robe is still open around her, but his hands don’t rush. He lingers at her shoulders, fingertips brushing over her collarbones before sliding the fabric away entirely.

Trevor stands back just far enough to look at her, his expression softened in a way that makes her pulse stutter. Then he’s on her again – not with urgency, but with that same patient, purposeful focus, like each kiss is a choice he means to savor.

She lets herself fall back against the pillows, her hair spilling over the white linen, and watches him as he lowers himself over her. The mattress dips under his weight, the warmth of his bare skin pressing into hers, the faint rasp of stubble grazing her cheek as he kisses the corner of her mouth.

His hands move with slow certainty – tracing her ribs, the curve of her waist, the inside of her thigh – mapping her as if he’s learning her all over again. She can feel her restraint fraying, can hear the soft, involuntary sounds slipping from her as he works her soul open with nothing but his mouth and his hands.

He keeps his eyes on her as he pushes into her sex, steady and unhurried. The sound she makes is quiet but raw, and she feels his breath catch against her cheek.

Neither of them speaks after that. There’s only the rhythm they find together – slow, deep, and impossibly close – the world narrowed to the press of his chest against hers, the curl of his fingers at her hip, and the faint, breathless murmurs she doesn’t intend to offer.

When she comes again, her legs are wrapped around him, her hands clutching at his back, and for a moment there’s nothing in her mind but the sound of his voice, low and unguarded in her ear as he follows her over the edge.

He falls asleep a few minutes later, holding her with his chest pressed to her back, his slow, even breathing grazing her neck with each exhale. She could move. She should move. Instead, her fingers idly trace his hand, his forearm. His skin is warm against hers – their legs tangled, his palm splayed low on her stomach like he means to keep her.

It would be so easy to let this be nothing more than what it is – a night, a lapse, an indulgence she can close the door on come morning. That’s what she told herself before the first time. Before she learned the way he looks at her in the dark, like she’s the only thing in any room worth noticing.

Her body is still humming, her heartbeat syncing treacherously to his. She can feel the faint twitch of a smile against her skin when he shifts, pressing a languid kiss to her neck before settling again.

She should end it. Not because she doesn’t want him, but because she does – far too much. Desire has never frightened her before. This does.

Trevor stirs, murmuring something unintelligible, his arm tightening around her. She feels the pull in it – the ease with which she could surrender, stay right here, let herself drift off with his breath warming her skin.

And for now, she does.

Chapter 24

Trevor doesn’t usually say yes to Sass’s ideas of a “fun night out.” They tend to involve cramped theaters with subtitles or basement poetry readings that make him want to fake a seizure just to escape. But when Sass produced two tickets to the Preservation Society’s annual gala, Trevor said yes out of sheer surprise.

“Why the hell do you even have tickets to this?” he asked.

“Because Joan wrote a screenplay about a crumbling mansion once and some donor thought we were high society,” Sass replied, already buttoning a velvet jacket.

Which is how Trevor finds himself in the cavernous ballroom of a Fifth Avenue hotel, under chandeliers the size of compact cars, with tuxedoed waiters gliding past carrying silver trays of expensive champagne and tiny hors d’oeuvres. The room hums with old money and performative benevolence. Trevor feels like a trespasser.

And then he sees her.

Hetty is across the room, her presence impossible to miss. Black silk clings with severe elegance, her red hair arranged in a gleaming, coiled knot that looks engineered to withstand natural disaster. A single diamond clip holds the style in place, flashing with each turn of her head.

She is laughing at something someone has said – a bright, brittle sound that doesn’t reach her eyes.

Next to her stands a man Trevor has never seen before. Tall with a handlebar mustache, a face lined not with significant age but entitlement. His hand at the small of her back tells the whole story.

The sight makes Trevor’s stomach turn.

Sass is still mid-rant about the “bourgeois absurdity of gilded-age cosplay” when Hetty’s gaze collides with Trevor’s. For the briefest instant, her composure falters. Then it clicks back into place - polished, unflappable.

Trevor’s drink goes untouched. He watches, stomach twisted, pulse thudding.

Eventually she excuses herself, setting her glass down with surgical precision and slipping toward the corridor that leads to the restrooms.

Trevor moves.

He waits until the foot traffic thins, then follows. The moment she turns a corner, he reaches – his hand curling around her wrist, drawing her into a narrower hallway lined with gilt mirrors and forgotten chairs.

“Professor Lefkowitz.” Her voice is cool, but her eyes flash, sharp with warning. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Who is he?” Trevor demands, his breath unsteady. He’s closer than he should be, crowding her against the wall without meaning to. “The guy with his hands all over you. Who the hell is he?”

Her chin lifts. “That is none of your concern.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Trevor says. “We’ve been hooking up for months. You told me I didn’t have anything to – ” He breaks off, runs a hand through his hair. “Christ, Hetty. Just tell me.”

For a beat, silence. The faint hum of the ballroom leaks down the corridor. Laughter, clinking glasses, a muffled swell of strings.

Then she says, her voice colder than he's ever heard, “Elias Woodstone.”

His mouth goes dry. “Woodstone,” he repeats. “Hetty, please tell me he’s just a really creepy cousin...”

A long, agonizing pause.

“He is my husband,” she finally answers.

The word slams into him like a physical blow.

Trevor stares at her, disbelieving, every instinct telling him she’s too sharp, too beautiful, too perfect to belong to that man. His mouth works before he can stop it.

“Your husband,” he repeats, as though the word itself is absurd.

She nods slowly. “Yes,” she answers.

He shakes his head. “I mean, you’ve got kids, so I figured there was a husband at some point. But…I assumed you were divorced.”

“I am not,” she replies quietly.

“I just – ” He scoffs a humorless laugh. “You pursued me.”

“I did.”

“Jesus, Hetty, say something!” he snaps. “Give me an explanation – I think I deserve that much at least!”

She purses her lips and looks back toward the ballroom before meeting his gaze again. “I wanted you,” she says. “I wanted this. And it was…enjoyable enough to continue much longer than I initially intended.”

“Enjoyable enough,” he repeats, rolling his eyes, a bitter laugh in his chest. “Sure, that’s what we’ll call it.”

“I am sorry,” she goes on. “I never intended to deceive you.”

He swallows thickly. “But you did. For months.”

Hetty exhales slowly, clasping her hands in front of herself. For the first time since he’s known her, he sees a wedding ring.

If that doesn’t prove she’s lying, nothing will.

“I cannot undo my life,” she replies. “Nor my choices. I set boundaries for a reason, Trevor, and still, you crossed them at every turn.”

He shakes his head, shoulders heavy. “You could've told me," he whispers. "You should have told me.”

Her breath catches, the faintest shift he almost doesn’t catch, and then she composes herself again. “What would that have changed?”

He laughs, but it’s a broken, watery, pathetic sound. “Everything.”

They stand locked there for a moment – his devastation naked, her restraint absolute, though her eyes flicker with something he knows she won’t name.

At last, she smooths her dress. “You should return to the party.”

He can’t breathe. His eyes burn with unshed tears. He has to get out. “See you around, Professor Woodstone.”

He doesn’t wait for a response.

---

Hetty watches him go. 

She stays still, hands folded together, feeling the sudden emptiness of the corridor as though he has taken a piece of her with him. 

She inhales sharply, tasting the remnants of him in the air, the faint scent of him that clings to her mind far longer than it should. Every rational thought fights to assert itself, to remind her that boundaries exist. This was necessary – but her chest still aches with the sudden hollowness of his absence.

She forces herself to breathe evenly, to smooth the silk at her waist, to tilt her chin so any passerby would see nothing amiss. Discipline. She has practiced it her entire adult life. But when his footsteps fade, her hands tremble, and she presses them against the cool gilt of the wall to still them. She can feel the echo of his voice, the tilt of his head, the impatient grin she will never see again.

Husband. The word had landed between them like a gauntlet, and she had let it. No defense. No confession. She had clung to silence because silence meant survival.

Because silence meant he would leave her.

For Samantha, she tells herself. Always Samantha. Yet the ache in her chest rebels quietly, stubbornly, against every rational choice she has ever made.

She exhales slowly, bitterly. She let him in, and now he is gone. And even if she tells herself it was never more than a passing infatuation, her heart knows the truth she cannot speak aloud: it hurts more than she thought possible. A tear slips down her cheek, and she sniffs, blinking quickly to stop more from forming. 

She will not cry over Trevor Lefkowitz. 

A woman with discipline does not love. A woman with duty does not allow herself that indulgence. 

Hetty straightens, adjusts her diamond pendant until it sits perfectly at her throat. By the time she returns to the ballroom, every trace of tremor is gone. She is Elias’s wife, Samantha’s mother.

But in the hollowed-out ache behind her composure, she knows Trevor Lefkowitz has left with more of her than she will ever admit.

---

Ari’s text comes almost as soon as he leaves.

He’d given Sass some half-assed excuse before bolting. He couldn’t be there anymore. Couldn’t watch her on the arm of another man while she laughed and made small talk and fucking pretended.

He looks at his phone and immediately wants to call her – wants to take it back. He’ll take whatever she’s willing to offer. It doesn’t matter that she’s married. He’ll be her side piece, her dirty little secret, whatever she’s willing to give.

He just wants her.

It’s stupid. Desperate. Pathetic. 

He’s a fucking mess.

Sapphire tonight. You in bro?

He taps the message and types back. 

Notes:

i'm sorry

Chapter 25

Summary:

You can't wake up, this is not a dream
You're part of a machine, you are not a human being
With your face all made up, living on a screen
Low on self-esteem, so you run on gasoline
I think there's a flaw in my code

Gasoline - Halsey

Notes:

i may have listened to Gasoline by Halsey on repeat while writing this chapter.

Two hours later, he’s sitting on a plush chair, Molly thrumming in his veins, a hot blonde writhing in his lap while his bros hoot and holler and throw bills at the stage.

It feels good.

Not as good as Hetty Woodstone, but she’s not an option anymore.

Turns out she never was.

His lap dance ends, and he tucks a bill into Destiny’s g-string, receiving a wink and a blown kiss before she saunters off to her next customer.

He leans over the table and snorts a bump of coke.

“Good to have you back, man!” Ari says, clapping him on the shoulder. 

Trevor blinks through the haze, the music thumping so hard it feels like it’s vibrating through his skull. He should feel triumphant, reveling in the reckless abandon, the anonymous pleasures – but instead, a hollow itch gnaws at the back of his ribs.

He downs a glass of whiskey in one pull, the burn doing nothing to warm the emptiness in his chest. Ari’s laughter echoes in his ears, a cruel soundtrack to his own awareness: none of this matters. None of it can touch what he lost – or more accurately, what he never really had.

Another blonde slides into his lap, hips slick and deliberate, and Trevor stiffens, jaw tight. He wants to let it happen. He wants to lose himself. But something – memory, conscience, or maybe just the ghost of her voice – snaps him out of it. He sits back, letting her wriggle past, feeling the flush of her skin still burn in the pit of his stomach.

Ari leans in again, grinning. “Man, you’re quiet. You okay?”

Trevor snorts, trying for bravado but tasting the bitter ash of failure instead. “Yeah…just…thinking.”

He’s met with a chorus of boos. 

Trevor shakes his head, suddenly disgusted with the emptiness, the self-loathing – of pretending this isn’t just a group of sad finance douchebags who will never know what it feels like to have something real. He tosses another bill onto the stage and slides off the chair, ignoring the protests from the guys. The music pulses, the flashing lights blur, and the noise feels like it’s trying to swallow him whole.

He steps outside, the cold December air hitting him like a slap, and for the first time tonight, he breathes without the artificial heat of Molly and cocaine and adrenaline. He leans against the brick wall, shivering, and lets the quiet crack through the chaos.

The night doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t erase the ache, the betrayal, the memory of her. But for a moment – just a moment – Trevor remembers he’s not completely lost. He exhales, tight and ragged, and starts walking. Away from the club, away from the noise, away from the hollow indulgence.

He doesn’t know where he’s going yet. He just knows it’s somewhere real. Somewhere that might allow him to feel more than the ghost of her in his chest.

---

The smell of Elias’ cologne overwhelms the clean leather scent of the back of the town car. City lights stream past the tinted windows in blurred streaks. Hetty sits rigid, knees together, hands folded over her purse. Elias leans back next to her, one arm draped casually along the seat, eyes glinting like he knows he owns everything in the car.

“It’s nice to see you,” he says, voice low and smooth, just above a murmur.

Hetty tilts her head slightly, her tone clipped but measured. “You never wish to see me. And the feeling is mutual.”

He leans forward, smirk curling. “Come now, Henrietta. We’ve had some good times.”

“You’re mistaking me for one of your many floozies, Elias,” she replies, voice calm, precise.

He chuckles, slow and oily, eyes narrowing. “You always make it sound so tedious, seeing me. Speaking with me.”

Her fingers tighten over the leather of her purse. “That’s a very flattering portrayal of how I feel about your presence.”

“And yet here you are,” he says, leaning back, smirk curling. “With me. One would almost think you enjoy these little excursions.”

Hetty inclines her head, expression controlled. “Do not mistake obligation for enjoyment, Elias,” she says evenly. “I simply make time for what is necessary.”

He laughs low, dismissive. “Time, yes. For trifles, for appearances, for the little exercises you call work. Essays, lectures, decorum – all so…quaint. Do you ever tire of pretending you are significant?”

“I tire of arrogance. I tire of idiocy. I do not tire of work,” she responds, eyes focused on the world outside the window.

“Work, yes,” he drawls, “but your work – teaching, lectures, grading – it’s incredibly demanding for someone of your…delicate constitution.”

Hetty’s jaw tightens. “Delicate, perhaps. But far more capable than you give me credit for.”

He laughs, harsh and dismissive. “Credit? I wouldn’t burden my mind with the notion that a woman’s work deserves it. You’re amusing, Henrietta, the way you insist on appearing competent.”

“I do not appear competent,” she says coolly. “I simply am. The results speak louder than your opinion ever could.”

Elias leans toward her, tone low, patronizing. “And yet you allow yourself to be bound by rules you can barely comprehend. A mind like yours, so easily distracted by triviality, must tire of responsibility.”

“Responsibility is not tiring when it is important,” she replies evenly, tilting her head toward him, meeting his gaze fully for the first time since she entered this cage. “Perhaps you should try it.”

He smirks again, unbothered. “I manage just fine, Henrietta. But you – you exhaust yourself pretending your little duties matter. It’s really quite amusing.”

“Why don’t you bore someone else with your chauvinism, Elias?” she snaps, calm but sharp as she busies herself with her phone, cursing herself for wanting to reach out to Trevor. “I have neither the time nor the desire to listen.”

He leans back, grin tightening. “You pretend, but I know better. Decades without proper attention have left you wanting. Frigid. And one day, that need is going to overwhelm your tiny, inferior female brain.”

Her eyes flick over to her husband, wanting to snap back, to wipe the smug grin from his face, to tell him precisely how wrong he is. But her teeth bite down on the primal instinct to defend her pride.

Samantha’s future is more important.

Elias’s smirk fades into a final, satisfied curl. 

The car hums around them, the driver silent and steady, the city rushing by. Elias leans back, hands behind his head, exhaling softly. Hetty doesn’t respond. She simply sits, breathing measured, grateful that the conversation is over – but the weight of it lingers, cold and heavy.

Chapter 26

The holidays come and go, but the ache of loss stays rooted in his ribs.

It gets easier to live with, more comfortable as the days pass, but still it remains present.

He spends a couple nights of Hanukkah with his mom and brother in Massapequa, which is great except for his brother’s insistence on not growing up and his mom’s constant needling about his love life and when he’s going to make her a grandma.

Pete hosts a Secret Santa between Christmas and New Year’s. Trevor gets Flower an incense burner shaped like a butterfly. Joan gifts him a surprisingly soft scarf she knitted herself.

He doesn’t tell anyone about Hetty.

He gets the sense Alberta and Flower know it happened – that she slithered into his veins and ate a hole in his heart, but they don’t say anything, which makes him think they also know it’s over. 

He settles into the rhythm of the spring semester, grading papers, fielding student questions, and trying to convince himself that Hetty Woodstone’s deliberate absence is just…professional courtesy.

He’s mostly succeeded. Mostly.

Until he’s walking through Chancellor Hall to meet Sass and hears her voice.

“...do we admire Jane for her defiance…or for the ways she navigates her chains?”

His chest tightens. He hasn’t seen her since December. Not a glance, not a reprimand, not a curve of the smile that makes his gut clench.

There’s a pause as she lets the question hang. He should keep walking, ignore the pull of her voice, the ache in his chest.

He’s too weak.

He peeks in the open doorway, sees her at the front of the packed lecture hall. A student at the front of the room is speaking, but he can’t make out their words.

“Push past the surface,” Hetty responds after a moment. “I want nuance, not recitation.”

She lets a few voices speak, nods at comments, offering small corrections. “Consider the dynamics of desire,” she continues, pacing slowly but never aimlessly, letting each word sink into the room. “The polite appearances that mask coercion, the whispers that shape choices…even in fiction, control is rarely total, and freedom is often an illusion.”

She pauses, letting the room absorb the weight of her words. “But even when roles are made clear, rules set in place, there are those who push, who provoke deliberately, just to see if authority will hold. They learn quickly that boundaries are not merely suggestions – and that crossing them can be…irresistible.”

Trevor swallows thickly, his palms sweating as her gaze finds him, bores into him. The room continues to murmur, to scribble, but he feels the pointed weight of that gaze as a private acknowledgment.  

She continues, and he understands, maybe for the first time, what she was talking about that day in his classroom. 

The room is silent aside from the click of her heels, the melody of her voice. She dictates the pulse of the room. When she asks a rhetorical question, people lean in. When she requires an answer, hands shoot up immediately. Everyone is drawn to her. Everyone craves the focus of that piercing blue gaze.

It’s not just authority – it’s gravity. She pulls attention toward her, reorients it, fixes it where she wants it.

She owns the room.

Every tilt of her head, every pause, feels choreographed for maximum effect, yet never rehearsed. She wields silence the way others wield argument, and when she fills it, her words feel inevitable. When she stops to write a phrase on the board, her hand moves with the same precision as her speech, each letter deliberate, final. 

Submission is never passive.

She underlines it once, then turns back to the room without softening her gaze.

It feels, absurdly, as though the words are meant for him alone.

“Offer me a position,” she prompts. “anything we’ve touched on today. I’ll take the opposing argument.”

Silence. A few students glance at each other, but no one speaks. She waits, the pause stretching until it becomes deliberate.

Her gaze sweeps the room, unhurried, as if she’s measuring everyone’s threshold for discomfort. No one moves. They're all too intimidated by the idea of going toe to toe with her.

Trevor feels the air shift – that subtle tightening that means she’s about to call on someone who didn’t ask for it – and before she can, his hand goes up.

Her eyes find his immediately. A faint, knowing curve touches her mouth before she speaks.

“Professor Lefkowitz,” she says, her tone both an invitation and a challenge. Heads swivel to look at him, but the only gaze he truly notices is hers. “I was unaware there was a professor auditing my course.”

“Uh, the door was open,” he answers. “Subject sounded interesting.”

A few giggles from the class. Hetty leans on the desk. “Well, you raised your hand,” she points out, folding her arms. “What topic do you wish to debate?”

He leans back in his chair. “Maybe submission’s less about control and more about testing the limits of the one calling the shots.”

A faint ripple of movement passes through the room. Hetty’s lips curve into the tiniest of smiles. “Evidence?” 

Trevor leans in the doorway, glancing at the board, and reaches into the recesses of his brain for his eleventh grade lit class. “Wuthering Heights. Catherine pushes Heathcliff, challenges him, plays with his temper. She provokes him, makes him react. That’s testing the boundaries, right?”

Hetty tilts her head, letting the silence hang just long enough for the weight of her gaze to settle on him. “So your argument is that by provoking Heathcliff, Catherine exercises power.”

“Yeah,” Trevor says, stepping fully into the room now, finding momentum in the challenge. “She’s not blindly obeying. She’s figuring out what she can get away with, where she has leverage, how far she can push. That’s agency within submission.”

She paces slowly along the front of the room, heels clicking sharply. “Agency within submission,” she repeats, voice cool, precise. “A tempting argument. But Catherine’s maneuvers are reactive, not creative. Heathcliff’s will defines the limits; she navigates them, yes – but she does not dictate them. Testing boundaries is different from shaping them. Influence is not authority.”

Trevor’s brow furrows. “But isn’t that the point? She survives on her own terms within his control. She chooses how to submit, how to provoke…isn’t that still a form of power?”

Hetty stops mid-step, gaze locking onto him with razor-sharp focus. “Influence,” she says, measured, “is not power in the sense we’re discussing. It is reactive. Heathcliff’s rage defines the boundaries. Catherine can maneuver within them, but she does not create them. Submission is absolute in that context; her choices occur only where he allows them. Do you consider survival a victory, Professor?”

“Not victory,” he responds carefully, “but it lets you keep playing. Catherine knows how far she can push Heathcliff without breaking the rules he sets. That’s…strategy. That’s leverage.”

“Leverage under constraint is not power. Heathcliff draws the lines. She obeys them. Clever reactions don’t change who holds authority.”

Trevor puts his hands in his pockets, weighing his next words. “So you’re saying…no matter what she does, she’s still bound. Always reactive. Never in control.”

Hetty inclines her head slightly, expression sharp, measured. “Precisely. Catherine may maneuver, she may prod – but ultimate authority remains elsewhere. That is the nature of submission: boundaries are set, and she obeys them.”

Trevor leans forward, a grin edging in. “Okay, so maybe she’s not drawing the lines. But she’s messing with the guy holding the chalk. Catherine knows Heathcliff’s soft spots. She can get in his head, make him trip over himself. Isn’t that a crack in the foundation?”

He swears there’s a flicker of something in her eyes – not softness, but recognition, sharp and sudden, like the snap of a hidden wire. A memory, maybe, of someone slipping past her carefully guarded composure. 

It vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the razor-sharp precision he’s come to expect. “Emotions, Professor, are volatile. Manipulating them does not create authority – it exploits weakness. Power is structural; it is formal, enforceable, enduring. Emotional sway is circumstantial, ephemeral. It bends, it shifts, it disappears.”

Trevor grins, gesturing toward her with one hand. “Okay, so, if emotional sway isn’t power, then what about…anticipation?” Hetty arches a brow in response. “Catherine knows Heathcliff. She can make him act without saying a word – can set him up, bait him, pull strings without touching a thing. Isn’t that…still power?”

Hetty’s gaze sharpens, and she leans her hip against the desk before answering, “No. Anticipation is deduction – foresight. It predicts outcomes; it does not dictate them. Heathcliff acts because he chooses to. Catherine can set the stage, but she cannot write the script. Influence can tilt the board, Professor, but only the one with authority decides the game. Planning, foresight, manipulation: all tools, never the power itself.”

Trevor swallows, trying again. “Then…what if she makes him doubt himself? Breaks his confidence? Forces him to rethink his decisions? Isn’t that, like, structural weakness in his control? That counts, right?”

Hetty finally allows a very faint, almost imperceptible exhale, the smallest tilt of the lips. “You are persistent, Professor Lefkowitz. Admirably so. But again, it is effect, not rule. Authority remains intact because it is recognized, enforceable, permanent. Doubt, hesitation, fear? They pass. The structure endures.”

Her gaze holds his. Seconds stretch. The room is still around them, but he feels like the only person here. For a heartbeat, he’s sure he’s gotten through. 

The ache in his chest intensifies.

At last, she tilts her head the barest fraction. “For the record, Professor, I happen to agree with your premise. Entirely.” A faint pause, the glint in her eyes cooling. “But agreement is far less useful to you than resistance.”

She smirks and turns away, scanning the rest of the class. “Your assignment: choose one scene from your reading list and dissect it as a study in submission. Any moment in which one character yields – voluntarily, reluctantly, ambiguously – to another’s authority, charm, economic leverage, or even moral conviction. Dig deeper. Surprise me. And for those of you already looking panicked, remember – sometimes the most revealing submission is silent.” 

She finds Trevor’s gaze for a single beat. “Look for the silences."

Notes:

i am not an expert on victorian literature (or any literature) do not come for me 🙃

Chapter 27

Early March brings a tentative warmth to the city. The air carries the soft scent of thawing earth, and students hurry between buildings, laptops clutched to their chests, scarves tugged tight against the lingering chill, midterms looming over every stride and muttered sentence. Light bounces off windows at sharp angles, glinting on coffee cups and broken umbrellas left abandoned on benches.

Trevor moves through it all, coffee in hand, letting the hum of the streets wash over him. He rounds a corner just off campus and freezes. A sharply dressed man steps out, adjusting his coat with deliberate ease. Recognition hits instantly, but Trevor keeps his expression neutral.

Elias Woodstone.

He’s looked into the man — spent time doomscrolling articles in the darkest days of his Hetty-related depression. Found very little except that her husband is some sort of angel investor who has hands in a lot of tech-related projects. 

“Morning,” Elias says smoothly, scanning the street. “Busy day?”

“Something like that,” Trevor answers lightly, tone casual. “You?”

“Of course,” Elias says with a half-smile, eyes flicking over a passing student with a slow, measured gaze that makes Trevor’s stomach tighten. He keeps his composure.

“Keeping an eye out for opportunity, huh?” Trevor says casually, tilting his head.

Elias chuckles, a little sharp, a little too knowing. “Opportunity? Life’s full of it. Most people just don’t recognize when it’s walking past them.”

Trevor sips his coffee, masking unease. “I guess knowing what you want helps.”

“Helps? It’s everything,” Elias says, leaning slightly closer, voice lowering. “Control, persuasion…the rush of bending the world to your will. Some call it charm. I call it strategy.”

Trevor nods, masking his unease, and the contrast strikes him sharply. The world bends to Hetty because it wants to; Elias bends it through sheer force, and the difference leaves a cold edge in his chest. “Sounds…effective,” he says, the words bitter on his tongue.

Elias doesn’t seem to notice. His smile widens, sharp, predatory. His eyes sweep the sidewalk again, lingering on another passing student whose curly red hair Trevor can’t help but compare to the very woman he and Elias have in common. “Efficiency is far more attractive than politeness. Most people don’t realize what they’re missing until it’s too late.”

He stands, heading away and down the street in the direction of the redhead.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Trevor murmurs as he goes. He walks the other direction, chest tight, mind racing. Every casual word, every predatory glance from Elias snaps into place.

He’s more certain than ever that he’s made the biggest mistake of his life.

---

Alberta’s apartment glows warm with lamplight, a smooth record spinning in the corner. She’s sprawled in her armchair, shoes kicked off while she regales her friends with stories. Isaac lounges comfortably on one end of the couch while Hetty curls up on the other end, sipping wine in lounge pants and a knit cardigan.

“I nearly walked out of rehearsal today,” Alberta says, shaking her head. “Do you know what one of my sopranos had the nerve to say? That Puccini was ‘basic.’ Basic!”

Isaac looks scandalized. “Appalling.”

Hetty allows herself the faintest smile. “Not entirely inaccurate.”

Alberta gasps. “Traitor!”

The laughter that follows is easy, the sort that comes from familiarity. Hetty laughs with them, and for a moment it feels unfamiliar in her own mouth. Too light. Too close to joy.

Pete slips in with a charcuterie plate, presses a kiss into Alberta’s cheek, and disappears again. Alberta barely reacts — comfort so natural it seems instinctive. Hetty keeps her eyes on the door a beat too long. She cannot remember the last time affection had come to her unbidden, without cost.

Well…perhaps that isn’t entirely true.

Her moments of sentiment with Trevor were short-lived. Not because of his faults but due to her own anxieties. The more comfortable she became with him – the more she liked him – the more she feared the consequences of their affair.

Even so…the traitorous ache of longing remains.

She blinks, returning her focus to her friends. Isaac is looking at Alberta incredulously. “And you’re expected to grade that?” he asks.

“Grade it?” Alberta snorts. “I considered writing a strongly worded letter to their parents instead. But that felt…too reasonable.”

Hetty smiles, laughing even though she’s completely missed the thread of conversation.

Pete slips past the doorway with a fresh bottle of wine, sets it down, and presses his lips to Alberta’s temple before she turns her head for a quick kiss. As he goes again, a flicker of something tightens in Hetty’s chest, but she swallows it down with the chardonnay and settles back into the conversation.

Alberta leans forward, grin sharp. “So, Hetty. Enough about my disasters. What about you? Any campus mischief lately, or are you brooding quietly?”

Hetty straightens, smooths the cardigan around her shoulders, and smiles faintly. “Mostly the usual,” she says lightly, keeping her gaze steady.

Alberta leans back, elbow on her knee, grin sharp. “Mostly the usual, huh? That’s your big story? Come on, Hetty. You’ve been off for weeks. Spill it.”

Hetty tilts her head, keeping her expression neutral. “I’m certain I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Isaac adjusts his spectacles. “Hm. I’m far from convinced. You hardly even commented on the campus squirrel conspiracy.”

Alberta snorts. “Hetty, stop playing coy. What’s got your brain tied up? I know it ain’t work-related.”

Hetty sips her wine, letting the pause stretch. “I am merely musing.”

Isaac raises his brow, prompting, “About…?”

The redhead swirls her wine and smooths her pants. “Nothing of consequence,” she denies.

A snort from Alberta. She tips her head. “Oh, I see. Nothing of consequence, huh? That’s funny, ‘cause my sources – namely an economics professor who’s been walking around like a kicked puppy – say otherwise.”

Isaac gasps, hand to his chest. “Henrietta! You didn’t break up with that gorgeous man, did you?!”

Hetty sighs. “It has concluded,” she confirms, taking a drink.

“Hetty, what the hell happened?” Alberta presses.

Painted lips purse, and Hetty reaches for the bottle, refilling her glass. She hates that the mention of Trevor makes her chest hurt. “It became far too complicated to sustain,” she answers.

“Oooooh,” Alberta sings. “Complicated? Girl, you telling us you caught feelings for that boy?”

Hetty scoffs a forced, weak sound. “Don’t be absurd.”

“I can’t say I would blame you,” Isaac chimes in. “The man is awfully charming. And that jaw…”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hetty snaps.

The other two are quiet for a brief moment before Isaac softly says, “Hetty, we care about you. We simply want to be here for you.”

“Yeah,” Alberta agrees. “Like y’all were there for me when Earl ditched me and ran off with his business associate.”

“This is very different, Alberta. Professor Lefkowitz and I – ”

“Professor Lefkowitz?” Isaac asks in disbelief. “You’ve seen the man’s genitals – don’t act as though your relationship was merely professional. Not with us.”

Hetty hums a sound of acknowledgment, swirling her wine. “He saw me with Elias,” she murmurs. “And he ended it.”

Silence hangs for a beat. Alberta makes a face. “And you didn’t tell him the truth?”

“I told him that I am married – that is the only truth that matters.”

“No it’s not,” the other woman challenges. “You don’t think he’d be interested to know your marriage is about as thrilling as Isaac’s old college romance?”

“Ah, Beatrice,” Isaac hums. “She was a handsome woman.”

“It is inconsequential,” Hetty insists. “The fact is that I was sloppy. I allowed quite frankly excellent sex to cloud my judgment. It is for the best that he broke it off.”

Alberta leans back, tapping her fingers against her glass. “Wow. Just like that, huh? He walks, and suddenly it’s all ‘for the best.’ You make it sound so…clean. I don’t buy it.”

Hetty shrugs lightly, cool and controlled as usual. “All of my dalliances have ended cleanly. I don’t see why this one should be any different.”

“Perhaps because you were sleeping with him for months?” Isaac offers. “You’ve rarely allowed men to warm your bed for more than a single night, Henrietta. This one was different.”

”Also this is the first time a man ended things with you,” Alberta points out. “Usually you’re the one kicking those poor bastards to the curb.”

”I do not kick,” Hetty protests. “And I do not believe setting boundaries is a character flaw.”

“All we’re saying is that Trevor obviously meant more to you than any of the others,” Isaac tells her gently.

“He got under your skin,” Alberta adds. “Got you pouting on my couch when we’re supposed to be gabbing about Isaac’s obsession with your yoga instructor.”

“I am not obsessed,” Isaac argues. “I simply find that yoga is far more enjoyable under his guidance.”

Alberta hums, quirking a brow. “Because he’s got an eight-pack and a dinosaur tattoo?”

“It certainly doesn’t hurt,” Isaac chuckles. “But it is a harmless crush. I am very devoted to my husband – unlike Hetty, whose husband should be dropped in the middle of the Pacific so she can resume liaising with the adorably sexy economics professor.”

He wags his eyebrows at her. Hetty huffs a reluctant laugh, shaking off the weight for a moment. “As tempting as it is to banish my husband to the depths of the Mariana Trench, I fear my only option is…patience. Twenty-six years of endurance suggest I can manage one more.”

She leans back, swirling the wine. Soon she’ll have a reprieve – spring break away from the city, from duty, from the apartment that still holds traces of memories she needs to bury. Far enough away to lose herself in someone new.

And this time, she won’t let it linger.

Notes:

this is the first chapter I’m not particularly thrilled with but I needed some setup for what’s coming next. don’t worry - there will be another chapter up later today.

Chapter 28

He has the foresight to leave before the spring break rush.

There’s still a lot of traffic heading north, others who had the same idea, but he still arrives at the rented house before noon.

He drags his bag inside, kicks off his sneakers, and stands in the middle of the living room listening to the silence. No sirens. No chaos. Just the faint hum of the fridge and, somewhere far off, a bird chirping into the empty air.

By mid-afternoon, he’s restless. He hikes the trail behind the house, a switchback that climbs into the pines until the lake spreads out below like a sheet of hammered silver. The exertion stings his lungs, but it feels good. Grounding. He wonders why he doesn’t do this more often and then remembers he usually doesn’t like nature – unless it’s attached to a drink menu.

By nightfall, the cabin feels too small, and he’s in the mood to test whether the Hudson Valley has anything resembling a decent bar. There’s a place on the main street – dim neon sign, muffled laughter drifting into the cold. He figures maybe it’s time. It’s been months since Hetty, months since she managed to rewire his brain chemistry. He’s decided – not without irony – that maybe the solution is the oldest in the book: find someone else.

The bar is warm, loud in a way that feels good after the quiet. Locals in flannel, a jukebox that hasn’t been updated since the 80s, the low burn of whiskey in his glass. He’s halfway through his second drink when he catches sight of her.

Of all the bars in all of Ulster County.

She’s wearing a black dress that manages to be both perfectly appropriate and devastatingly sexy. The slinky, shimmery fabric drapes over her curves, exposing the line of her spine, and her red hair is pulled back into a low, loose chignon just off center enough to expose the nape of her neck.

She’s at the far end of the bar, leaning against the counter, talking to a man Trevor’s never seen before. She’s laughing – not polite, measured amusement, but laughing – and the guy is leaning in like he’s earned it.

The flicker in his chest is ugly and immediate. 

He gets up before he can think too hard about it, crossing the room like the drink is steering him. He weaves through the crowd of people, careful to keep his stride calm, measured, until he’s just behind her.

He leans in, just past her. “Dude, she’s married.”

The man blinks, confused, and glances at her. She meets Trevor’s gaze for a long, unreadable beat before she rolls her eyes. “Yes, thank you for that, Trevor,” she drawls. The man takes the hint and makes himself scarce.

Trevor shrugs, mouth twitching. “Thought I’d save him the trouble.”

Hetty turns back to the bar, lifting her glass with a composure that’s clearly for his benefit. “I wasn’t aware I needed your supervision,” she says, each word polished to a shine.

“You don’t,” he says, sliding onto the empty stool beside her. “But someone’s gotta keep the locals safe.”

Her gaze cuts to him, cool and precise. “Might I remind you, you’re the one who ended our arrangement?”

The bourbon’s warmth does nothing to ease the twist in his gut. “Because you didn’t tell me you were married, not because I don’t want you.”

​​Her eyes narrow, the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth betraying interest. “Present tense,” she says. “How telling.”

Trevor takes a slow sip, letting the burn settle. He leans back slightly, eyes on the amber liquid before flicking to her. “I ran into him the other day,” he comments, aiming for casual.

Hetty stiffens just enough that he notices. Her glass pauses just before it reaches her lips. “Ran into whom?” He just gives her a look. “Ah.”

Trevor continues carefully, “Guy’s…something else. Charismatic, sure. But, uh…not exactly the guy you’d want to be stuck with in an elevator for longer than thirty seconds.”

She tilts her head, studying him. “That’s quite a judgment.”

Trevor shrugs, lips twitching faintly. “How ‘bout this one? The guy’s a dick,” he responds, earning the slightest quirk of her lips, which only makes him long for the sound of her laughter. “Makes it a lot easier to understand why you’d…step out.”

Her brow arches. “Step out?”

Trevor shrugs, leaning closer across the bar, letting the heat between them thicken. “Not judging. Hell, I’d probably do the same if I were you. Can’t say I mind being on the receiving end.”

Her gaze holds his, sharp enough to cut, but he knows her well enough by now to clock the mask . “That kind of talk,” she says, “is how people make mistakes they’ve already learned from once.”

He wonders if she’s talking about him or herself. 

“Or,” he says, voice low now, “it’s how they end up remembering why it was worth making in the first place.”

Her lips press together, but he can see it – the crack in her armor, the faint quickening in her breath. She sets down her glass with a soft click. “You should finish your drink, Trevor.”

“Only if you promise not to leave before I do.”

“Bold,” she says, lifting her brows. “But then, subtlety was never your strength.”

He smirks. “You like that about me.”

“I tolerate it,” she corrects, though the way she traces the rim of her glass says otherwise.

He watches her fingers, then her mouth. “That why you were flirting with that guy?”

“That,” she says, “was politeness. Something you might try, instead of scaring off strangers like some territorial – ” She cuts herself off, the word unsaid but hanging between them.

He leans closer, just enough that she can feel the heat of him. “Go ahead. Say it.”

Her eyes flick over his face, lingering a fraction too long on his mouth. “It’s beneath me.”

“Most things are,” he says, grinning. “But you’ve always seemed to like looking down at me.”

The corner of her mouth twitches – not quite a smile, not quite not. “Finish your drink, Trevor.”

He downs it and slaps a bill on the counter.

Chapter 29

Summary:

Chapter Playlist

Love Me Harder - Ariana Grande ft. The Weeknd
Not On Drugs - Tove Lo
“Slut!” - Taylor Swift

Notes:

am i a nice person or do i just need the dopamine of comments? that’s one secret i’ll never tell.
xoxo the jackal

The city, the bar, the music – gone.

Trevor drives in silence, the headlights cutting through the darkness, the mansion looming ahead like some impossible monument to wealth and control. Its windows glow faintly, warm light spilling into the night. He kills the engine and sits for a moment, letting the stillness sink in.

Ahead of him, Hetty steps out of her black crossover with effortless composure, heels clicking against the gravel, her red hair catching the porch light. Her gaze finds him immediately, sharp, assessing, and just a fraction softer than usual.

He kills the engine and steps out. “This is yours?”

She arches a brow. “Did you think I rented?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Of course not.”

She climbs the front steps, heels echoing against stone. He follows, the air between them thick and charged. She unlocks the door with a key that looks like it could open a cathedral and steps inside.

He follows, stepping into a cavernous foyer that smells faintly of polished wood and something floral – old money, old taste. A crystal chandelier hangs above, scattering fractured light across wooden floors. A sweeping staircase curves upward, dark wood rail gleaming under the soft glow of sconces lining the walls.

Everything is impeccably ordered – a testament to precision, control, and wealth. Rich rugs absorb the footfalls, thick curtains frame enormous windows, and the air hums with quiet warmth, the kind of comfort that feels almost deliberate, as if it exists to impress as much as to shelter.

Hetty hangs her coat on a rack by the door and moves ahead, heels clicking lightly against the floor, her presence filling the space more than any light or furniture could. Trevor follows her lead, each step careful, aware that everything about this house – the silence, the richness, the weight of history embedded in the walls – reflects her.

“Jeez, what is this place?” he asks, turning in a circle as he follows her.

“My ancestral home,” she explains. “Built in the 1870s.”

“Damn, were they robber barons or something?”

She responds with a smirk, and he chuckles. She steps closer and slides her palms over his chest, draping her arms around his neck. “But you aren’t really interested in talking about my ancestors, are you?”

Trevor swallows, heat coiling low in his belly. She’s right. He isn’t interested in the house, the antiques, the history lesson. He’s interested in her. In the curve of her neck, the way her red hair catches the light, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the polished wood.

“No,” he admits, voice low, rougher than he intends. “I’m not.”

Her lips twitch. “Good,” she murmurs, leaning closer so their foreheads almost touch. “Then let’s skip to the part that matters.”

Trevor’s hands slide down her sides, gripping her waist, relearning the warmth beneath the fabric of her dress. Her body leans into his, teasing, testing, and he can feel the familiar pull, the magnetic heat that made leaving her so damn hard.

Her chest presses against his, and he hears a slight catch in her breath before she says, in the smallest voice he’s ever heard from her, “We can’t – I can’t leave him.”

“I can live with that,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against hers. 

She bites her lower lip. “What changed?”

“I missed this,” he breathes, arms circling her waist more fully. “Missed you.”

“Do you really think a few months makes a difference?”

He breathes in sharply, the words cutting through the space between them. “I don’t know. I hope it does.”

She tilts her head, letting her lips brush his ear. “Hope can be dangerous, Trevor.” 

“Danger sounds fun,” he murmurs, fingers flexing against her waist.

She pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes glinting with challenge and something more tender. “You realize how reckless this is, don’t you?”

“Reckless?” he repeats, voice hoarse, “Maybe. Worth it? Absolutely.”

And in the quiet, heated space of the foyer, all pretense falls away. The mansion, the history, the control, none of it matters. Only the undeniable pull between them, and the storm they’ve never managed to resist.

He pulls her closer, needing to feel her against him, needing to believe this is real – that he’s really here. That she’s really in his arms again.

He hesitates, just a fraction, tasting the risk on his tongue, aware of the lines they’ve already crossed and the ones they’re about to leave behind. Hetty tilts her head, her lips grazing over his jaw, a whisper of warmth that makes him inhale sharply.

She presses just a little more insistently, enough to see if he will step back, enough to see if he will stay. And he does.

Of course he does.

She pulls back enough for their eyes to lock, neither speaking, both weighing the gravity of it. Then her nails drag along the nape of his neck, and he closes the distance, lips meeting hers for the first time since November.

The kiss deepens instantly, urgent, and magnetic. Trevor’s hands slide from her waist up to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. Hetty presses back with equal intensity, one hand threading through his hair, the other gripping the back of his neck, keeping him anchored to her.

The foyer, with its high ceilings and polished floors, disappears behind the haze of heat and want. Trevor’s breath hitches as Hetty tilts her head, lips parting, and he responds, teeth grazing, tongue teasing. Every second stretches impossibly long, a pulse of tension and release.

He backs her against the wall, and she gasps, giving him the opportunity to move his attention to her neck, sucking at the corner of her jaw. She presses fully into him as he cants his body, cornering her between his heat and the wall. Their hands roam with practiced familiarity – possessive, greedy, yet restrained by sheer disbelief that they’re doing this again.

Hetty’s laugh is low, teasing as his hand grips her upper thigh. “You really never learn, do you?” she murmurs, lips brushing his.

“Shoot me if I ever do,” he replies, voice rough, chest pressed to hers. 

She unwraps her arms from around him and grabs at the hem of his shirt. “Off.”

He reluctantly lets go of her and lets her pull the garment over his head, tossing it to the side. Her dress follows, and he flicks open the clasp of her bra with ease before pressing her between his body and the wall again, kissing her greedily.

He relishes the whimper that escapes her as her fingers tug at the fastenings of his jeans. He tilts his head, capturing the sound with a smirk, and lets his hands roam lower, tugging her underwear down over her hips before pressing insistently against her. Hetty’s back arches instinctively, one hand braced against the wall for balance, the other threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

Every breath, every brush of skin against skin, is electric, sending sparks through his chest. Trevor’s lips trail from hers to the sensitive line of her jaw, down her neck, and she shivers against him, tilting her head to give him better access.

Her hands are relentless, undoing buttons, tugging at fabric, dragging him closer even as he pins her against the wall. There’s a rhythm to their movements – a push and pull of desire and control, each testing the other, each daring the other to resist, knowing neither will.

Trevor groans low, voice husky as he hitches her leg up around his hip and slides into her warm, wet sex. The wall becomes their only anchor, the grandeur of the foyer fading behind the heat of their bodies. Hetty’s breath hitches, mingling with his, a symphony of want that neither decorum nor distance can quiet.

“Fuck, Hetty,” he rasps, “you have no idea what you do to me...”

She captures his lips with hers again, fingers gripping his hair, bordering on painful. But it only fills him with even more desire. His hips slam against her, drawing another gasp from deep in her throat. 

“Yes, Trevor,” she moans. “So good. So good for me.” 

He groans and stills his hips just long enough to support her so she can lift her other leg, locking her ankles together behind him. “You feel fucking incredible,” he mutters, fingers gripping her hip tighter.

Trevor drives into her with a steady, hard rhythm, both of her legs locked around him, her weight fully supported against the wall. Hetty’s nails dig into his neck, her back arching sharply, every movement pushing him deeper.

He grips her hips, pulling her into him with force, not letting her break the pace, not letting himself slow. Her moans are loud, ragged, and he leans in to capture her mouth, kissing hungrily.

She shivers, presses herself harder against him, and he can feel her clenching around him, urging him on. “Harder. Don’t stop,” she gasps, and he answers immediately, slamming into her deeper, faster.

Her hands grab his hair and shoulders, holding on as if letting go would throw her off the edge. Trevor keeps his rhythm relentless, every thrust driving them both closer, the wall their only support.

Her moans are guttural now, breath hitching, hips rolling involuntarily against him. “Trevor – yes,” she pants. “Right there…”

He groans, digging his hands into her ass to pull her even tighter, meeting every roll, every press of her body, pushing her closer to breaking.

“God…Hetty, please,” he rasps, voice rough, thrusting without mercy. “Please, baby…”

Her nails rake down his back, back arching against him, voice cracking with pleasure. “I…I’m – fuck – yes!”

Trevor slams into her a few more times, each harder than the last, and then the tension snaps, both of them shuddering violently, breaths ragged, bodies trembling against the wall.

He holds her there, chest pressed to hers, letting her ride out the shuddering waves, her legs still locked around him, his hands gripping her hips, keeping her upright.

When she finally comes down from it, he drops his face to her neck, stays buried inside her. They’re both panting, drenched in sweat, the heat and intensity of what just happened lingering in every nerve.

He feels her shoulders shake, and then she laughs, real and uninhibited. It draws a surprised laugh out of him as well. “What?” He asks, lifting his head to look at her.

She laughs again. “That was a different side of you,” she points out. “Taking control.”

“Good different?” He asks, groaning as she rakes her fingers through his hair, nails dragging along his scalp.

“Mhmm,” she hums, kissing him again. Slowly this time but with no less heat than before. 

He’s not sure if it's because of or in spite of their time apart — or maybe it’s just the Hetty of it all — but he already feels himself getting hard again.

“Oh,” she breathes, her hips rolling slightly, teasingly. “Already?”

“Four months, babe,” he mutters. “I’ve got a lot of time to make up for.” Her lips brush his again, slower this time, tasting, teasing. He groans low, voice rough. “We should…move,” he murmurs, barely able to form the words.

Her eyes glint. “Move where?”

“Bedroom,” he says, letting his hands skim her hips, the small of her back. “Wall’s great, but…” He tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Not exactly ergonomic.”

She laughs, low and deliberate. “Fine,” she murmurs, unwrapping one leg and then the other. She keeps her arms around him, though, kissing him thoroughly.

He keeps his hands on her waist, his lips on hers as she guides him toward the grand staircase. Every step is a tease, every brush of skin against skin deliberate. 

They climb together, occasionally stopping when the passion gets the better of them. Every step is a tug-of-war between desire and patience, every pause a chance to kiss, to grope, to push past the limits of restraint. She’s reluctant to let his hands leave her waist; he’s reluctant to pry his lips from hers.

At the top, Trevor presses her lightly against the landing wall, fingers splayed along her sides, holding her flush against him. “Please tell me we’re almost there,” he mutters, grinding against her slowly.

“So impatient,” she hums.

He growls and kisses her again, and they stumble down the hallway, still kissing frantically until he feels his legs hit the foot of a bed.

He allows gravity to take him, his arms around her waist pulling her down on top of him and causing her to laugh a little as she falls. He rolls over, settling between her thighs again, his cock gliding through her heat. Her arms coil around his neck, pulling him down for a fierce, demanding kiss. He groans, tilting his head, lips roaming from hers to the line of her jaw, teeth grazing, tongue teasing.

She arches immediately, pressing into him, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him in place. Trevor slides his hands over her breasts, down to her hips, tilting her so their bodies mesh perfectly. The world outside of this room ceases to exist as he slips back into her.

He shifts, letting her legs curl around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. Every brush of skin against skin sends sparks through him; every movement of hers demands a reaction, a grind, a press. Hetty’s low moans vibrate against his chest as she twists against him, lips seeking his, teeth grazing, heat sparking between them.

They move together with instinct, bodies communicating what words never could. Hands trace, fingers grip, bodies arch and press, a rhythm born of hunger and familiarity. Trevor’s mouth drifts over her neck and shoulder, capturing every gasp, every shiver, as she grinds into him, urging him deeper.

Neither pauses for breath longer than necessary, neither breaking the rhythm, both lost in the friction, the push and pull, the raw, electric intimacy that’s entirely theirs.

She comes around him with a cry, nails digging into his back, scraping over his skin in a way that has his hips stuttering. He grits his teeth and holds back his own climax, not ready for this to end. 

“Trevor,” she whispers as she catches her breath, finds her composure.

“One more,” he mutters against her lips. His hand slips between them, fingers rubbing against her clit with fierce determination. “Give me one more, baby.”

Her hips jerk involuntarily against his fingers, nails raking down his shoulders, pulling him closer. He responds in kind, thrusting his own body against hers, grinding slowly, insistently, making sure every nerve ending is alive, every sigh earned.

“Oh, God, Trevor…” she breathes, voice ragged, raw. He can feel the tremor in her thighs, the pulse under his fingers, the pull of her body begging for release again.

A low growl escapes him. “That’s it…just like that, Hetty,” he murmurs, voice rough, unrestrained. Every motion is deliberate, every touch demanding, coaxing, pushing her closer to the edge she’s already teetering on.

Her breaths come fast and shallow, each one punctuated by a whimper or gasp. He can feel the tightening coil of her climax, the way she presses herself harder against him, her nails leaving trails of fire across his skin.

Then she comes again, a screaming release that leaves her shaking in his arms, and Trevor holds her, letting her ride it out, guiding, grounding, matching her pace with every muscle and touch. When she finally collapses, chest heaving, hair a wild mess of curls and loosened pins, he’s right there with her, hips still just long enough to savor.

Her fingers trace patterns along his back as she catches her breath, and Trevor leans down, lips brushing hers, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating between them.

“You’re out of your mind,” she murmurs, half-laughing, half-gasping, still pressed to him.

“Completely,” he replies, voice rough, teeth grazing her jaw in a lazy, hungry bite.

Another quiet laugh escapes her, and she turns toward him, kissing him languidly.

Chapter 30

Early morning light starts to appear outside the window, soft pinks and purples painting the sky as the night only just begins to fade.

Hetty lies on her back with her head pillowed in the crook of Trevor’s shoulder. She’s been unable to keep her hands off of him — too deprived of the feeling of his skin, his hands, his lips for four months.

He’s accused her of ruining him, but he has no idea what he’s done to her. 

She holds his hand in both of hers, toying with his fingers absently while his other hand traces lazy, abstract patterns over her abdomen.

The moment feels heavy in a way that isn’t unpleasant. It’s intimate. Comfortable, even.

Perhaps that’s what inspires her to say, “I don’t love him.”

He kisses her hair, nuzzling his nose against her curls. “I kind of figured.”

She purses her lips, considering her next words. Whether he needs to know her situation – know her. Whether she’s brave enough to let him.

“I never did,” she breathes.

He sighs, shifting a little, pulling her more securely against him. “Then why did you marry him?” He asks. There’s no judgment, no anger. Just simple curiosity.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “This house…my inheritance…it all required me to marry. My father was very – ” she sighs, remembering the world in which she was raised “ – traditional. He wanted me to marry, to have children. To secure my position within our station,” she quotes, her voice little more than a whisper.

He hums in acknowledgement but says nothing, his fingers continuing their lazy exploration of her skin.

She shifts slightly, letting his fingers graze higher along her ribs. “Elias…he gave me what I needed,” she murmurs. “A marriage certificate. Children. That’s all I needed to secure my future.”

Trevor’s hand drifts down, tracing the curve of her hip. “Sounds…practical.”

“Practical,” she agrees, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Never romantic. Never emotional. Just…necessary.”

“So…” His fingers still for a heartbeat before continuing their gentle movement. “You stay married to avoid a messy divorce? Losing everything you got in the first place?”

She bites her lip. “Not exactly,” she replies. “There is a clause...my children are gifted a trust when they turn twenty-five. But in the event of divorce – shameful to my family – the trust will be reallocated.”

He sighs. “And Sam’s not twenty-five yet.”

Hetty nods. “If Elias were to ever discover indiscretion, he would drag me through divorce proceedings, take everything that should rightfully be Samantha’s. Everything I have given up for my daughter would have been for nothing.”

Trevor shifts slightly, brushing his lips along the curve of her shoulder. “So that’s why you don’t let anyone get attached. You play the part…keep the façade intact, all for her.”

She blinks, her eyes burning with the threat of tears. “Everything I have done for the last twenty-four years has been for her,” she breathes. “And my son — until he grew up to be a carbon copy of his father."

She sighs and presses their hands to her chest, just over her collarbone, the steady feeling of his breathing comforting her as she goes on, "I maintain appearances. I endure the family events, the parties, the polite smiles. I protect Samantha's future. That’s my role.”

He hums softly, letting his hand rest on her hip. She feels the tension in her body ease ever so slightly under his touch. “And the rest? What about you?”

“I am secondary,” she murmurs, loathing the break in her voice. “I make do. I survive. I find relief when necessary, but I never…” She leaves the rest unspoken.

Trevor holds her a little tighter. “You’re still here with me now,” he murmurs, voice low and soft, with just an edge of teasing – just enough to give her the out.

She gives the smallest tilt of her head against his shoulder, letting him feel her warmth, her agreement. “Yes,” she says softly. “Some things are...worth bending for.”

The quiet between them stretches, heavy and charged, as they lie together, neither pushing for more words, neither needing to. Trevor’s fingers trace lazy circles along her skin again, and Hetty lets herself melt into the connection that will undoubtedly ruin her.

---

They sleep later than she intends – later than she’s slept in two decades. It’s nearly ten by the time she opens her eyes, finding herself sprawled across his body, their legs tangled together, his arms wrapped around her securely.

She drops a kiss to the center of his chest before starting to pull away.

His hold tightens. “Nuh-uh,” he mutters into her hair.

She can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes her. “It’s late,” she whispers, resting her chin on his chest. “We shouldn’t sleep the day away.”

He opens one eye, looking down at her. “Yeah, but when you get up, that’s usually my cue to get out of your hair,” he reasons, adjusting his hold on her and closing his eyes again. “And I’m not ready to leave.”

She bites her lip gently, weighing the idea in her mind. “What if…I don’t want you out of my hair?”

Both eyes open this time, and he looks at her again, an adorable combination of confusion and excitement coloring his expression. “I’m listening.”

She huffs, only mildly annoyed at his obtuseness. “There is no risk here,” she explains quietly. “Elias is spending spring break prowling Cabo of all places. And…I’d like you to stay.”

She distracts herself from the embarrassment of the admission by drawing little circles on his chest with her index finger.

Then she’s suddenly on her back, and he’s kissing her within an inch of her life. She grunts in surprise, tangling her fingers in his mussed hair as her legs draw up to hook around his hips. 

He pulls away, gazing down at her with a goofy grin. “I’d love that.”

“Really? Your reaction suggests otherwise,” she drawls, cursing herself for her inability to school her expression into anything other than a broad smile of her own.

He just laughs and kisses her again.

It escalates quickly into something more heated, and he brings her to another slow, shuddering climax that leaves her boneless and content as she relaxes back into the pillow.

Trevor kisses along her skin as he softens inside of her. “Guess I’ll need to grab my stuff from the cabin,” he mutters, nuzzling into the crook of her neck.

“Do you want me to come with you?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Nah…I’d just end up fucking you on every surface of the place.”

Her lips twitch with a smirk. “Fair.”

“I’ll be quick,” he promises before pressing another long, languid kiss to her lips.

He rolls off of her and out of bed before heading for the door. Hetty’s gaze follows him. “Try not to do anything ridiculous while you’re gone,” she says casually, though the corner of her mouth betrays her smile.

He grins back at her. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Chapter 31

Summary:

All I wanna do is you and your dishes
You in your room, and the cups in the kitchen

Clean - Noah Floersch

Trevor drives in near silence, the sunlight catching the edges of the trees lining the winding road to his cabin. He keeps one hand on the wheel, thinking about Hetty sprawled across him, the way she had laughed, the way she had felt.

There’s not much packing involved. He hadn’t managed to unpack anything except his computer and toiletry kit. He takes a quick shower and puts on clean, comfortable clothes. All told, he’s only at the cabin for half an hour before heading out.

He stops in town and returns the rental car early. If things are really that precarious for her, he doesn’t want to risk the sight of an extra car in the driveway arousing suspicion should she have any nosy neighbors. Before he calls the Uber, he decides to make one more stop.

He walks into the mansion about an hour and a half after he left, duffel slung over his shoulder and four bags of groceries in his hands.

When he gets to the kitchen, he finds her sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. She arches a brow at him. “You packed your things in plastic bags?”

“No,” he responds, leaning in and kissing her quickly. “I’m gonna make you dinner tonight.”

She snorts, setting the paper down. “You’re going to destroy my kitchen, aren’t you?”

He grins, setting the groceries on the table and dropping his duffel. “I’ll have you know, I’m actually a pretty decent cook.”

She stands and leans over, peering into the bags, but he grabs her by the waist, pulling her in and kissing her soundly. “No peeking,” he mutters against her lips. 

“I’m going to see as soon as you begin unpacking,” she reasons, her hands fisting in his shirt.

Trevor smirks against her lips, letting his hands rest on her hips. “Then show some patience and don't watch me,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing.

She rolls her eyes, though the smile tugging at her lips betrays her. “Patience, huh? That’s rich coming from you.”

He chuckles, tilting his head to kiss her again, just a quick peck this time. “I like seeing you work for it – it’s hot.”

She huffs, pressing a playful shove into his chest, but doesn’t pull away. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he replies easily, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Now, step back. Let me unpack without interference.”

She lets out a small laugh, releasing him so he can start unloading the groceries. She turns and heads for the coffee pot, pouring another cup. She hands it to him a moment later, and he takes a sip, smiling after a moment. “You remembered.”

“That your coffee order is going to result in innumerable cavities? It’s a difficult detail to forget,” she reasons primly.

He grins and kisses her again, holding her close with his free arm around her waist. It’s such a simple thing – remembering how he likes his coffee. But coming from Hetty Woodstone, it means everything.

He releases her and resumes unpacking the groceries, sliding produce into the fridge and stacking cans and boxes on the shelves. Hetty leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with that half-amused, half-skeptical look that makes his chest tighten.

“You really think you can navigate my kitchen without starting a small fire?” she asks, voice light.

He grins over his shoulder. “I’m just putting things away. No flames yet. You’ll see my skills later.”

She rolls her eyes, though the corner of her mouth quirks up. “I’m holding you to that. One mistake, and I’ll never let you live it down.”

Trevor hums, sliding a carton of eggs into the fridge, his fingers brushing hers when she drifts closer under the pretense of inspecting the pantry. He presses a quick kiss to her knuckles and straightens. “You’ll get to enjoy the results tonight.”

Her hand lingers a moment longer than necessary, and he feels that familiar pull in his chest – lighter this time with the knowledge that she’s let down some of her walls. He drops the last of the produce into the fridge and straightens, letting his gaze drift over her.

A light flush finds her cheeks as she picks up her coffee, and Trevor watches her, memorizing the relaxed tilt of her head, the way the sunlight catches her hair. The house is quiet, but every glance, every small touch, makes the air feel charged. Hours could stretch forever here, and he wouldn’t mind at all.

The rest of the day passes in quiet familiarity. They read, tease, wander through the house. At one point, he ends up on the couch with Hetty in his lap as they make out like a couple of horny teenagers.

Eventually the sun dips low, spilling warm light across the kitchen, and Trevor starts making dinner while Hetty leans casually against the counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp but amused. A glass of white wine sits on the counter at hip height. 

Hetty tilts her head, one brow arched. “You really think you can pull this off without setting the kitchen on fire?” she teases.

Trevor puts down the spatula and grabs her waist, lifting her up to sit on the counter and making her yelp in surprise. “I don’t think, Hetty. I know,” he says confidently.

She laughs softly, shaking her head. “We’ll see about that. I’m watching every move.”

He dips a spoon into the sauce and blows on it gently before offering it to Hetty. She leans forward, letting the warm sauce brush her lips, tasting it with a reluctant hum. “Well…that’s actually good,” she admits, biting back the smirk threatening to tug at her lips.

“High praise,” he chuckles, brushing a stray curl from her face. “Now will you shut up and let me cook?” he jokes, kissing her quickly.

She stops him as he pulls away, her hands in his hair, and kisses him more deeply, moaning softly against him. He melts, his hands dropping to her thighs, squeezing gently. Once he’s thoroughly invested in the moment, she separates their lips. “Don’t get cocky,” she mutters.

“If that’s my punishment, I just might get worse.”

She rolls her eyes and shoves him away playfully. She reaches for her wine glass. “Where did you learn to cook?”

He puts the chicken into the pan. “My mom,” he answers. “My parents got divorced when I was in junior high, so I would help out with dinner at night. And then in college, Sass and I would take turns making meals when we roomed together.”

“A sensible arrangement,” she comments.

He chuckles. “We got pretty competitive about it, actually, which just made us better. Plus it was always a hit with chicks,” he adds with a wink. Hetty rolls her eyes, but there’s no malice behind it. 

Trevor continues working on dinner, the smell of garlic and rosemary filling the kitchen. He glances at her, still sitting on the counter, giving him a sharp, amused look.

“You’ve had practice, then,” she remarks. “Cooking for girlfriends?”

He shrugs. “Not really. There was one long-term thing – by my standards, anyway. Eight months. That’s about the longest I’ve ever dated someone seriously.” He lets the chicken sizzle, then turns it. “Everything else? Short flings, casual stuff. Never anything permanent.”

She watches him quietly. “So, eight months is the longest, and everything else has been…temporary?”

He shrugs, letting a small grin tug at his lips. “Basically. I never found anyone worth the effort.” He tilts his head toward her, letting the words linger without pushing, letting her feel the weight of them.

Her eyes track his movements as he plates their dinners. Nothing fancy, but he does put a little more effort into it than he usually would. There’s a quiet acknowledgment in the way she studies him, but she says nothing.

He’s reluctant to break the moment, but there are a lot of things he feels he needs to say. So he sets the plates on the table and turns back to her, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of her hips.

“I know this can’t be public,” he tells her quietly. “But this is a lot more than a fling to me, Hetty. I’m here for you. Even if the rest of the world doesn’t get to know.”

She purses her lips, averting her gaze, and for a brief moment, he wants to shove the words back into his mouth. Then her free hand finds his, threading their fingers together.

“You make it sound easy,” she murmurs. “To just let yourself feel things.”

He shrugs, squeezing her hand. “It’s not easy,” he says, voice low. “But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I mean it. I don’t do casual half-measures when it comes to people I care about.”

Her other hand sets down the glass and cups his face, thumbing over his cheekbone. “I'm concerned…that you will become resentful,” she admits slowly. “This is all very alluring now, but over time – ”

“I can handle it,” he interrupts quietly. “I can follow the rules, step back if it gets dangerous. But none of that changes the fact that this feels…really right.”

She hesitates, then presses her hand to his chest, letting her fingers splay lightly. “And you’re sure you want it enough to play by those rules?”

Trevor meets her gaze, steady and certain. “I do,” he says quietly, unwavering. “Every bit of it.”

Her lips curve slightly, a mixture of relief and caution. “A year,” she murmurs, half warning, half concession. 

He grins, brushing a kiss against her cheek. “Survive a year together. No one else needs to know. Just us.”

She lets out a soft laugh, leaning into him. “You make secrecy sound…almost tempting.”

Trevor tilts his head to kiss the undercut of her jaw. “It’s kind of hot, right? Sneaking around, making sure no one notices?”

She presses a gentle kiss to his lips, a quiet promise. “As long as we’re careful.”

“You got it, babe,” he agrees. “Now get down here and eat. I’ve got a point to make.”

Notes:

i just felt like giving you more softness today.

Chapter 32

Summary:

Is this a dream?
If it is, please don't wake me from this high
I'd become comfortably numb
Until you opened up my eyes
To what it's like when everything's right

 

You Found Me - Kelly Clarkson

Late the next morning, Trevor leans against the counter, finishing his coffee. Hetty is already in riding clothes, boots polished and hair pulled back neatly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“You ever ridden a horse?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

“A few times when I was a kid,” Trevor admits with a self-deprecating chuckle. “But nothing serious. You?”

“Decades of practice,” she says smoothly. “I thought we could go for a ride today.”

Trevor grins. “Oh, I’m sure this will be educational.”

Half an hour later, they’re mounted. Trevor’s horse is a little fidgety, sensing his tentative confidence, while Hetty’s mare glides along the trail with perfect control. She navigates tight turns and narrow paths with ease, her posture flawless, reins taut but relaxed. Trevor can’t help but watch, impressed.

“Try to keep up,” she calls back, leaning lightly into a turn, and the mare responds instantly. Trevor urges his own horse forward, matching her pace as best he can.

“Damn,” he chuckles. “You make it look effortless.”

“Effortless is a choice,” she says over her shoulder, a teasing tilt in her voice. “Confidence and timing. And knowing your horse better than it knows you.”

They ride for a while, racing across clearings, following winding forest paths. Hetty’s confidence is magnetic; Trevor finds himself growing more confident as he follows her lead, laughing, nudging his horse to match her rhythm. She never loses her composure, always just a step ahead, teasing and challenging him with subtle gestures – the flick of a rein, a playful glance, the tilt of her head.

She turns her horse down a narrow trail, one Trevor hadn’t noticed. The trees close in around them, the sunlight dappled and soft, filtering through the leaves in golden patches. He follows, trusting her completely, curiosity pricking at him.

The trail opens into a small clearing, barely more than a private glade. A gentle stream curves lazily through it, sunlight sparkling on the water. Wildflowers edge the banks, and a single oak spreads wide, its branches low enough to brush if you reach.

Trevor slides off his horse, taking in the scene. “You come here often?” he asks quietly.

“As a girl,” she admits, dismounting with practiced ease. Her boots sink slightly into the soft grass. “I used to hide here when the world felt too…expectant. Too overwhelming. My parents, school, society. I could breathe here.” She lets her hands trail over the oak’s bark, eyes distant for a moment.

Trevor watches her, heart tightening at the small vulnerability she’s letting show. “It’s beautiful,” he says, stepping closer. 

She smiles faintly, finally meeting his gaze. “It was mine.”

He brushes a loose curl from her face. “Thank you for showing me.”

For a long moment they simply stand together, the quiet wrapping around them like something sacred. Hetty leans her head against his shoulder; he folds her into his arms, holding her steady.

When he sits beneath the oak, he tugs her gently into the space between his legs. She settles in, back to his chest, her breath easing. He kisses the crook of her neck, and she tilts her head just enough to let him.

“This is nice,” he murmurs.

“Mm-hmm.”

He sighs against her, enjoying the way they fit together. “So you grew up in this house?” he asks.

She nods. “I did. When my father passed, it became mine.”

“What was it like? Growing up here?”

“Complicated,” she admits with a sigh. “In some ways, it was lovely. Wealth and status open many doors. In others…it was…”

She trails off, and he strokes his fingers over her side. “Hard?”

She wriggles a little, settling more comfortably into his embrace. “There was a lot of pressure,” she admits. “I was the eldest daughter, my father’s greatest hope for their legacy. I’ve told you he was rather old fashioned.”

“You did,” he confirms, letting his head fall back against the tree.

She turns her head toward him, her nose brushing against his neck. “Well, he didn’t approve of much that I wished to pursue.”

He brushes a kiss against her forehead. “That sucks,” he whispers.

She chuckles. “It did suck,” she drawls. “I actually…”

He furrows his brow as she stops talking. “What?” he asks quietly, lifting a hand to card his fingers through her hair.

She hums a sigh at the feeling, curling into him a bit more. “When I was…eighteen, maybe? I fell in love,” she admits.

“Oh?” He continues brushing his fingers along her scalp.

She nods slowly. “We planned on getting married. Having a family. But he wasn’t anything my father wanted for me,” she explains, her voice quiet. “He worked at the hardware store, had dreams of becoming an artist…”

Trevor doesn’t say anything, just continues to stroke his fingers through her loosening hair.

“My father found out. He told me that if I married him, I would be cut off. And I…I ended it,” she confesses. “Married Elias a few years later.”

He holds her a little tighter. “That’s a hell of a thing to put you through.”

“I made my choices,” she responds. “Thomas might have turned out to be just like his father, but Samantha is…worth every sacrifice I ever made.”

He grins. “She seems really great,” he tells her. “And Jay is crazy about her, by the way.”

Hetty’s lips twitch in the ghost of a smile.

Trevor lifts her chin, meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry you had to make that choice. But selfishly…? I’m grateful you’re here now. With me.”

Her gaze lingers on his, unreadable for a beat, before she leans in and kisses him.

---

They fall into an easy rhythm together. He’s never shared space with a woman for more than a long weekend, and he’s surprised at how natural it feels to just exist with Hetty.

One evening, she walks into the living room where he’s working, and there’s a shift in the air. “I have something I’d like to show you.”

His brows lift in interest, and he closes his laptop, setting it on the coffee table. “It’s not a dead body or anything, right?”

A dry scoff. “No, this is…something I believe you will enjoy.”

Her voice drops into that low, deliberate register that short circuits his higher brain functions. “Lead the way.”

She takes his hand and guides him through the foyer to a powder room. He blinks. “This is what you wanted to show me?”

“So impatient.” She reaches for a sconce, and he’s surprised when it turns with a quiet click, and a panel in the wall next to her shifts open.

His jaw drops. “You have a secret passage? That’s insanely cool.”

“You are a very easy man to entertain,” she teases.

“Uh, secret passages are dope. Where does it go?” he asks, bouncing on his toes.

She smirks. “Follow me and find out.”

The corridor beyond is narrow, spotless, and clearly maintained despite its century-old bones. She leads him to what looks like a vault door.

“I will preface this by saying you are under no obligation to pursue what’s beyond this door,” she says, working the combination.

His pulse ticks up. “What is it?”

She flicks her gaze toward him briefly before turning the handle. The door swings open, and every nerve in Trevor’s body sets on edge.

Because Hetty Woodstone has a fucking sex dungeon.

Chapter 33

Summary:

I don't think you know what pain is
I don't think you've gone that way
I could bring you so much pleasure

Erotica - Madonna

Notes:

you all know what’s about to happen here 😉

This chapter is pure BDSM smut. If you’re not into that, you can skip this chapter and not miss any plot 💚

Trevor’s brain stalls for a second, like it’s buffering.

The room is dimly lit, all warm pools of light and shadow. Polished wood. Leather. The faint, clean scent of something floral – lavender, maybe. Not sleazy. Not theatrical. This is…curated. Beautiful, even.

Hetty steps inside with the kind of ease that tells him this is not a museum to her; it’s a space in which she’s entirely comfortable. “I trust you are familiar with the concept,” she says lightly, her tone neither coy nor apologetic.

He manages a slow nod, still scanning. There’s a heavy four-poster bed against one wall, the kind that looks like it could survive a hurricane. Shelves of neatly coiled rope. A standing cabinet with a lock. A gleam of metal he’s definitely not ready to name out loud.

“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice lower than he intended. “Familiar enough.”

She studies him, head tilted, eyes searching for something. Discomfort? Judgment? He doesn’t flinch.

“You seem remarkably calm.”

“Believe me,” he says, and it comes out almost as a laugh, “I’m not calm.”

Something shifts in her expression, subtle but potent. A flicker of satisfaction. She takes a step toward him, then another, until he’s close enough to smell her perfume.

“This is an invitation, Trevor,” she murmurs, “but by no means an obligation.”

“Hetty,” he murmurs, “I didn’t think it was possible, but you just got, like, a thousand times hotter.”

Her mouth curves, the faintest edge of amusement sharpening it. “Flattery,” she says, “will only get you precisely as far as I wish.”

“I’m counting on that,” he says.

The air between them shifts again – denser now, threaded with a kind of electric patience. She studies him for another long moment, then turns away, not abruptly, but with the slow certainty of someone who knows he’ll follow.

He does.

She crosses to the bed, fingertips trailing along one of the heavy carved posts before resting lightly on the silk coverlet. “I keep this room for a reason,” she says, her tone still mild, though he hears the steel under it. “It’s not simply a parlor trick. Nor is it for everyone.”

He swallows, heat climbing his throat. “Guess I should be flattered, then.”

“You should,” she agrees, meeting his gaze again. “But you should also understand what you’re asking for if you step any further in.”

He’s already stepped closer without realizing it. “I’m starting to.”

Her eyes stay locked on his, unreadable but impossibly steady. Then, without warning, she closes the space between them. One hand lifts, her fingers brushing his jaw – not tentative, but measuring. Testing the give of him.

He exhales, and it’s less a breath than a surrender. She tilts her head just enough to press her mouth to his – no rush, no scramble, just deliberate pressure, as though she’s staking a claim she has every right to make.

His hands find her waist, tentative at first, then more certain when she doesn’t pull away. She tastes faintly of champagne and something darker he can’t name.

When she breaks the kiss, she doesn’t step back. “Tonight, I will allow you to choose,” she explains, gesturing to the room. “Anything you want. But before we start, we need some ground rules.”

He swallows. “Right…ground rules,” he echoes, trying to keep his voice steady.

She steps close, tilting her head so their eyes meet. “We’ll establish limits first. Hard limits – things that are off the table entirely – and soft limits, things we may explore cautiously. Understand?”

He nods, trying to absorb every word, every detail of her tone. “Yes.”

“Good. Speak honestly. If something feels wrong, say it immediately. There’s no judgment. Ever.”

Trevor lets out a slow breath. “Okay, um…hard limits: anything involving permanent marks or needles. Soft limits…I’m a little nervous about choking. After the whole…overdose thing,” he admits.

She cups his face in her hands, smoothing her thumbs over his cheeks. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Trevor,” she murmurs. “Your boundaries are important – especially here.”

He can already feel himself relaxing into her touch, falling into a familiar sensation of wanting to please. 

“Okay, maybe take choking off the table tonight,” he murmurs.

Hetty smiles faintly, approvingly. She presses a gentle kiss to his lips. “We will use the traffic light system tonight. Red means stop. Completely. Yellow means slow down or check in. Green means keep going. Repeat them back to me.”

“Red, yellow, green,” he repeats, testing the words on his tongue. “Got it.”

She brushes her fingers along his jaw. “Good. You’re clear-headed, aware, and willing. That’s what I need. And you’ll trust me to lead, right?”

“Yes,” he says quietly, chest tightening. “I trust you.”

Her eyes flick over him, measuring, savoring. “In this room, you will call me mistress,” she directs, stepping away, sitting on a leather bench in the middle of the room. 

He swallows again, heat rising, his cock already twitching in his jeans. “Yes, mistress,” he breathes.

“Take off your shirt,” she says.

His fingers curl into the hem, and he lifts it over his head, tossing it aside.

“Good boy,” she murmurs, a faint smile tugging at her lips as her eyes rake over his body. “Now…where would you like to begin?”

Trevor looks around the room slowly, heart hammering in his chest. The cross near the corner catches his eye – sturdy, leather straps at wrist and ankle height, polished wood gleaming in the dim light. His gaze lingers, hesitation mixed with curiosity.

“Um…” he starts, voice rougher than he expects. “Maybe…that one?” He nods toward the cross.

Her eyes glitter, sharp and approving. “Excellent choice,” she murmurs. He feels a surge of pride from her approval.

She reaches into a chest behind the bench and produces a slim black riding crop. Trevor swallows thickly, already feeling the tension between anticipation and submission coil tighter.

“Color?” she asks, holding the riding crop loosely in one hand.

“Green,” he breathes. “So green.”

She chuckles darkly, eyes sharp. She steps closer, circling him with predator’s grace, letting the keeper brush his shoulder, trace the line of his neck. Then she steps back, appraising him.

“Strip,” she commands.

Slowly, deliberately, he unfastens his jeans, letting them slide down over his hips. He slips out of his underwear, then removes his shoes and socks, stepping fully naked into the dim, warm light of the room. The vulnerability of it sends a jolt through him – anticipation, arousal, and a thrill of surrender all mixed together.

Hetty’s eyes never leave him, appraising, approving, enjoying the tension coiling in his stance. Trevor swallows hard, muscles already tight with anticipation, heat blooming across his skin.  Her eyes follow him, sharp, predatory. “Turn around,” she orders, voice low and certain.

He obeys immediately, pressing his palms to the wood, feeling the cool, smooth surface beneath his hands. His chest rises and falls, heart hammering in his chest.

She steps behind him, pressing close enough that her breath brushes the back of his neck. “I will secure you,” she murmurs. “Safe words are your lifeline. Repeat them once more.”

“Red, yellow, green,” he recites, voice tight, already surrendering.

Her fingers fasten the leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, each click of metal making him shiver. She steps back, and he can feel her appraising eyes on him.

The first strike lands across his back. Trevor gasps, muscles jerking involuntarily, the sharp sting sending a delicious thrill through him.

A moan passes his lips, his impossibly hard cock twitching. She strikes again, this time along the curve of his shoulder blade. He flinches, heat blooming across his back.

“Good,” she murmurs, voice low, almost a growl. “You take that well, don’t you?”

Trevor swallows hard, chest heaving. “Yes, mistress,” he breathes, hips shifting slightly on instinct.

Her hand brushes down his spine, teasing, drawing goosebumps where the crop hasn’t touched. Then she strikes again, a sharper, quicker slap across the other shoulder. Trevor’s gasp comes out sharper this time, and his knees feel weak, though he doesn’t collapse.

Hetty steps closer, pressing the crop lightly against the curve of his ribs, then flicks it sharply once, twice, watching him bite back a moan.

“Good boy,” she murmurs.

Trevor shivers, unable to hide how tightly his body coils under her attention. He’s on edge, every nerve alive, completely exposed, utterly hers.

Hetty presses the crop along his spine one last time, then drops it to the bench with a soft thud. There’s a long, agonizing moment of quiet, the only sound the rustle of fabric behind him.

Then her hands slide over his shoulders, gripping firmly. She guides his chest forward against the cross, his back arching for her.

A gentle, deliberate trail of kisses follows along his spine, then she presses her body against his back, warmth and control enveloping him, and he feels her skin against his. He moans, knowing she’s intentionally depriving him of the opportunity to see her bare, perfect form. Her hands grip his hips, adjusting him, tilting him just enough so that every nerve ending is exposed, every reaction his own but owned by her.

She tilts her head, letting her lips brush the shell of his ear. “I will be in complete control over your body, your mind, your pleasure. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mistress,” he whispers, voice shaky, surrendering fully.

A sharp slap of the crop lands across the small of his back, making him cry out involuntarily, heat pooling lower. She strikes again, methodical, calculated, and his body responds – twitching, shifting, gripping the cross instinctively, muscles straining with each touch.

“Tell me how that feels,” she orders, voice firm.

“Good…hot…mistress,” he pants, chest rising and falling. Every word is a surrender, every breath a confession.

A hum passes her lips, predatory and satisfied. “This is only the beginning, Trevor. And you…you’re already perfect for me.”

She continues teasing, coaxing, the rhythm escalating – her control absolute, his surrender total.

Her strikes grow more deliberate, each one drawing sharp, immediate reactions from Trevor. He gasps, bites back a moan, shifts instinctively against the cross, completely at her mercy. The warmth of her body presses into his back now, grounding him in every sensation, the contrast between the sting of the crop and the soft press of her chest almost unbearable.

“Hands tighter,” she orders, her voice low and hard. “Feel the restraint. Let it remind you that this is mine. You are mine.”

Trevor obeys, muscles straining, chest tight with anticipation. “Yes, mistress,” he breathes, shivering under her control.

She leans closer, letting her lips graze his neck, teeth just brushing the skin, sending shivers down his spine. The crop rests lightly against his shoulder blade, a constant reminder of her power. “Tell me when it’s too much,” she murmurs, though there’s an edge in her tone that makes it clear she expects him to hold on as long as possible.

He shakes his head faintly, voice tight with tension and need. “No…please…don’t stop.”

A sharp whack lands on his thigh, and he gasps.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” She growls in his ear.

“Mistress,” he gasps. “Don’t stop, mistress.”

“That’s my good boy,” she purrs, laying a hot kiss at the corner of his jaw.

She steps back and hums in approval. “You look beautiful like this,” she murmurs. “Restrained, submissive, covered in my marks.”

A quick, sharp flick lands across his ass. Trevor cries out, heat pooling lower, muscles straining in delicious torment. She strikes again, then slides the flat of the crop along his spine, teasing, eliciting shivers, drawing instinctive movements.

“So responsive,” she murmurs. “So obedient.”

Trevor groans, chest heaving, every nerve ending alive, completely surrendered.

She sets the crop down, and he feels her body pressing against him again. Her hands roam the sensitive lines of his sides and finally, blessedly, wrapping around his cock.

A low grunt escapes him as she grips him. She doesn’t stroke, just holds him in her hand, the other slipping into his hair, tugging his head back.

“So good for me,” she whispers. "You crave my command, don't you?"

“Yes, mistress,” he gasps, body strung tight in exquisite torment.

“Good. Let’s see how long you can hold. How much you can take before you’re begging.”

Trevor shudders violently, every nerve alight, utterly under her control, craving each measured strike, each teasing touch, desperate for her next command.

The hand in his hair slides down, trailing over his shoulders, down his back, until it slides under the curve of his ass, squeezing firmly, while the other continues gripping his cock, teasing without giving release. His breath hitches, muscles coiling as tension and desire spiral higher.

Then, without warning, she digs her nails into his ass, pressing just enough to make him groan, a delicious mix of discomfort and longing. She alternates her attention – pinching, scratching lightly, gripping, and pressing – forcing him to stay still against the cross, utterly at her mercy.

“Not an inch of movement without my permission,” she murmurs against his neck.

Trevor trembles, his chest pressed hard to the wood, body taut with anticipation. “Yes, mistress,” he pants, voice breaking with need.

She hums in satisfaction and removes her hands, making him whimper at the loss. She chuckles, running her hands down his sides, squeezing and teasing, drawing involuntary gasps and shudders. Then her fingertips graze the curve of his inner thighs, firm and precise, testing his endurance. He jerks slightly, and she presses herself closer, molding her body to his, holding him against the cross like a sculpted figure of submission.

She slides her hand lower, tracing teasing circles just at the edge of him, brushing against the sensitive rim in a way that makes him shudder. Trevor whimpers, chest tight against the cross. “Yes, mistress…please…” he pants, voice trembling with need.

Hetty lets a slow, measured finger brush against him again, just teasing, drawing out his reactions. His hips tilt back toward her, and he receives a sharp slap on his ass in response before she retreats, leaving him cold and desperate without the feeling of her body against him. “What did I say about moving?”

“I-I’m sorry, mistress,” he whines, squeezing his eyes shut.

He hears something, a click of plastic, and then she’s behind him again, her lubed fingers sliding between his cheeks, one dipping inside him. Every muscle in his body tenses in an attempt to follow her order. 

Her other arm wraps around him, and she leans in, her voice softer as she murmurs, “Relax, darling.”

He does, letting the tension melt away as she places hot, open-mouthed kisses along his back. “Mistress, please,” he whispers.

She hums a sound of approval and slips a second finger into him. “Does that feel good, baby?”

“Mm-hmm,” he whines.

She continues to work him open, making him moan, and before he’s ready for it to end, she’s gone again, her heels (fuck, she’s still wearing her heels) clicking across the floor.

The next time she approaches, she stands in front of him – the first time he’s been able to see her since they started. Her alabaster skin is lightly flushed with arousal, her hair is free and wild, and in her hands…

“Green – green,” he whimpers, surprised by his own desperation when he sees the harness in her hands.

She grins. “So needy,” she taunts, stepping toward him. She grasps his chin in one hand. “Just how I like you.”

He strains against his bindings, and she leans in, biting his lower lip hard. He groans, hips jerking toward her.

Hetty releases his jaw, stepping back just enough that he can no longer feel her warmth. For a long moment, she stands there, letting him squirm against the cross, letting the anticipation coil tighter. Then she positions the harness against her hips. The straps tighten around her waist and thighs. The dildo sits perfectly, angled for control and pleasure. His eyes stay fixed on her, chest tight, every muscle strung taut.

She saunters out of his field of view, and then he feels her at his back. She slips her fingers against his ass again, applying more lube, working him further open. “You’re going to take every inch,” she husks in his ear. “And you will not come until I say.”

He nods quickly. “Yes, mistress,” he moans.

She removes her fingers, and he whimpers until he feels the cold pressure of silicone that makes him shiver. With deliberate precision, she slips the tip inside, guiding him, letting him feel the slow drag before she presses forward more firmly. Her hands grip his hips, holding him flush against the cross, her body pressing warmly into his back.

“Y-yellow,” he whispers.

She immediately stills her movements and slides her hands over his back soothingly. “Do you want me to pull out?” she asks gently.

“N-no, just…give me a minute?”

"Of course, darling." She presses a kiss to his neck, her hands continuing to rub over his back, his shoulders. He starts to relax, adjusting to the new, intoxicating feeling of being worked open. 

He takes a deep breath and exhales, “Okay, green.”

She kisses his shoulder, pulls back, and then presses into him deeper, letting the full length stretch him. Trevor gasps, chest rocking against the cross, every nerve immediately sparking with need. She rocks her hips slowly, letting him continue to adjust, then quickening the rhythm, driving him against the restraint.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, her voice low, dripping with dominance. “So tight, so responsive…so perfect for me.” Her hands dig into his hips, thumbs pressing against the sensitive flesh at the curve of his ass, guiding him to take every thrust.

Trevor moans, arching back, cock straining toward the air, every sound a surrender. “Fuck,” he pants, unable to stop the tremor running through him.

She presses her chest fully against his back now, pressing, controlling, holding him still as she drives into him with deliberate force. Her free hand slips down his torso, teasing along his ribs, brushing over his cock without stroking.

Her teeth graze his earlobe. “Mine. Completely mine.”

He shudders violently, letting out a strangled moan. “All yours…”

She increases the pace, hips rolling with precision, each movement measured to maximize his submission. She alternates pressure, some thrusts shallow, teasing, some deep, driving him flush against the cross, holding him exactly where she wants him.

Her hands leave his hips briefly to trace down the backs of his thighs, squeezing, scratching lightly, eliciting a sharp gasp as he pulls against his restraints. She bites gently along his shoulder, marking him, testing his endurance.

“Don’t you dare come,” she commands, pressing firmly into his back. 

Trevor groans, hips jerking involuntarily, but he obeys, muscles coiling, every nerve screaming with need.

Hetty leans closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear, whispering, “Such a good boy…so desperate for me.”

Her pace slows momentarily, teasing, letting him feel the delicious tension of almost-release before resuming, each thrust calculated to push him closer to the edge and then pull him back. Trevor’s moans grow ragged, body trembling, chest pressed tight against the cross, utterly exposed and at her mercy.

She bites lightly at his neck, her chest pressing harder into his back. “This is what it means to be mine, Trevor. Every sound, every shiver, every moan belongs to me. You are mine, and only I will decide when you are allowed release.”

Trevor arches violently, hips straining, cock twitching, body shaking from the combination of sensation, control, and desire. “Please, mistress,” he chokes out, entirely consumed by her dominance.

She leans back slightly, giving herself leverage, pressing harder, and drives into him with forceful precision. He cries out, hips jerking instinctively against the restraint. She bites lightly along his shoulder and murmurs, “You’re going to come for me, Trevor. Only when I allow it. Do you understand?”

“Yes – ah! – yes, mistress,” he pants, body trembling from the exquisite torment.

Hetty’s hands grip his hips tightly, adjusting, guiding, controlling every movement. She quickens her rhythm, letting him feel the full force of her dominance, and then slows just when he thinks he might break, teasing, denying, drawing out the tension to unbearable heights.

Trevor cries out, voice breaking, body coiling against his restraints. “Mistress! Mistress, please!”

She presses herself fully into him, chest to back, whispering, “Beg properly. Beg for me, darling.”

“Please, mistress, please,” he gasps, shuddering violently. He feels his eyes burning with tears of desperation. “Please let me come.”

“Good boy,” she grunts, thrusting harder, more determined, her hand coming down hard on his ass. “Now come for me.”

A final, deliberate thrust drives him past the edge. He cries out, chest pressed to the cross, body trembling, mind utterly surrendered to her control. Hetty moans, reaching her own climax as she grinds against him, and wraps her arms around him tightly, holding him through it, letting the waves of release wash over them.

Trevor slumps against the cross, chest heaving, utterly spent, shoulders aching. He’s pretty sure his restraints and Hetty’s body against him are the only things keeping him upright.

Slowly, she slides out of him, and he hears the harness drop to the floor seconds later. Her hands are surprisingly quick to release the cuffs. She starts with his legs and then presses her body to his back as she frees his wrists, her arms hugging him tightly from behind as he grips the frame.

Notes:

posting these back to back because aftercare is important.

Chapter 34

Summary:

You love it how I touch you, my one
When all is said and done
You'll believe God is a woman

God is a woman - Ariana Grande

“You did so well, my darling,” Hetty whispers, kissing his neck, nuzzling her nose against his jaw as he starts to get his bearings.

He sways slightly, chest still rising and falling rapidly, and Hetty’s weight against his back is grounding, steadying. Her hands roam gently over his shoulders, down his arms, tracing lines of heat and lingering marks from earlier.

“You’re safe,” she murmurs, her voice low, authoritative but comforting. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.”

He leans back into her, letting her hold him fully, the sting from her earlier ministrations mingling with a dizzy warmth. “Thank you…mistress,” he breathes, voice weak but reverent.

“You may call me Hetty now if you wish,” she murmurs, slowly guiding him toward the bed, never releasing her hold on him.

“Hetty,” he breathes as she gently turns him in her arms.

She eases him backward, lowering him onto the soft sheets carefully. She climbs in beside him, pressing close so his head rests on her chest, her arm curled around him, holding him in a cocoon of warmth. Her hand glides over his back and shoulders, tracing the lines of his skin, lingering over the marks she left, but with care now, not command.

“You’re safe, Trevor,” she whispers, her voice a steady, comforting hum. “You did so well…so beautifully.”

He closes his eyes, nuzzling into her chest, body still trembling from the intensity of everything. “Hetty,” he murmurs just to hear her name again. His voice is husky, weak from exertion and release.

Her fingers rake lightly through his hair, massaging his scalp, grounding him further, coaxing him down from the lingering haze. 

She presses a soft kiss to the top of his head. “Breathe with me, Trevor.”

Trevor follows the rhythm of her breathing. He feels his muscles finally relaxing, the tension and adrenaline slowly draining from his limbs. Every exhale leaves him a little lighter, every inhale fills him with the quiet warmth of her presence.

She tucks the sheets around them, one hand stroking his hair, the other pressing gently against his side. He blinks a few times, feeling more normal, and then gazes up at her, grinning. She smiles back at him. “How do you feel, darling?” she asks, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

He hums, blinking a few times. “So good,” he replies, chuckling. “That was…”

“Intense?” she finishes.

“Yeah, and really fucking hot,” he adds. She huffs a quiet laugh and sinks further into the pillows.

She grazes her fingertips along his arm. “Have you ever done anything like this before?”

“Not really,” he admits, shrugging one shoulder. “I, uh, dabbled a little, but nothing like this. It was…always a fantasy.”

She hums and presses a kiss to his hair. “Did it live up to your expectations?”

He lifts his head and shifts, his body draped over hers as he finds her impossibly blue eyes. “Hetty, that was beyond anything I ever dreamed of,” he promises before kissing her deeply.

You are beyond anything I ever dreamed of.

She moans softly, threading her fingers through his hair, keeping the kiss slow and tender.

After a few moments, he pulls away and rests his forehead against hers. “Thank you,” he whispers.

She kisses him softly. “Thank you for trusting me,” she murmurs, voice low and warm. She guides him to lie down again, tracing gentle circles over his shoulder as she nuzzles into his hair. “Now rest. I’ll be right here.”

He sighs, melting into her embrace and drifting off to the sound of her breathing.

---

The rest of spring break passes in a haze of quiet indulgence, each day slipping into the next with the kind of easy intimacy that only builds on what has already happened. They revisit the playroom once, but otherwise are content to enjoy each other in the house proper.

Mornings are slow – coffee in bed, sunlight spilling across sheets tangled with their bodies, conversations meandering between teasing and tender. Afternoons are spent wandering the town’s quieter streets, exploring little bookstores and cafes, matching their rhythm to the quiet of their surroundings. Evenings carry a muted heat: shared dinners, soft laughter, lingering touches where hands brush and eyes linger.

By the final day, an unspoken tension hums beneath the easy rhythms, a subtle anticipation of returning to the city, to routines and responsibilities, to the world beyond the private orbit they’ve created. Yet the weight of what has passed – the trust, the surrender, the carefully curated intensity – clings to them, a quiet pulse beneath the skin as they pack and prepare to leave.

Hetty drives them back toward the city on Sunday. Trevor sits in the passenger seat, holding her hand as she drives down the highway, chuckling when he discovers she has pretty intense road rage.

They make their way into New Jersey, and out of an abundance of caution, he suggests she drop him off in Secaucus. He can take the train into the city from there.

She pulls into the station and kisses him deeply once she’s parked the car. He grins against her, stroking his thumb over her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers before slipping out of the car.

She smiles softly. “Tomorrow.”

Chapter 35

Summary:

And you understand now
Why they lost their minds and fought the wars
And why I’ve spent my whole life trying to put it into words

You Are In Love - Taylor Swift

Hetty moves through the city streets with practiced calm, but her mind keeps drifting to Trevor. Even amid the roar of morning traffic and the distant wail of a siren, she feels him there – a memory behind her eyes, a warmth at her side she can’t quite shake. The week they spent together still hums under her skin, a secret coil of intimacy she can’t quite release.

She steps onto the campus sidewalk, heels clicking against the stone, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at her lips. The students pass by, oblivious to her thoughts, yet she can’t help thinking of the way Trevor’s head had rested against her chest, the way his fingers curled into hers in those quiet, unspoken moments of trust. Their connection is unspoken here, but no less real – an undercurrent she guards fiercely, a tether of warmth in the otherwise clinical corridors of Greystone.

They fall into a rhythm, never quite regular enough to be considered a pattern, and she finds herself missing him on the nights they don’t spend together.

It’s a feeling she’s never experienced in her adult life, the emotions she always tied to her artist paling significantly in comparison to what she feels for Trevor.

She’s grading term papers when her heart stops, her pen stilling in the middle of marking a poorly written essay.

“Oh,” she breathes, eyes wide.

Her breath hitches as the thought lingers, unbidden and impossible to dismiss. 

Love.

The word tastes strange and dangerous on her tongue, yet it feels accurate, undeniable. She shakes her head subtly, as if the motion could brush the feeling away, but it only settles deeper, nestling alongside the memory of him pressed against her.

Hetty pushes herself back from the desk, running a hand over her hair, her gaze drifting to the window. Outside, students scurry along the paths, their lives urgent and unknowing, while hers has quietly shifted into something new – something shared, secret, and fiercely private. Trevor exists now in the spaces between her thoughts, the soft warmth behind her sternness, the pull that makes her chest ache when he’s not near.

She sets the pen down carefully, the half-graded paper forgotten for the moment, and lets herself lean back. She tries to pinpoint the moment it happened, when Trevor Lefkowitz managed to wriggle his way into her carefully guarded heart.

She can’t. He’s just there, settled comfortably in her chest, and she finds she doesn’t want him to leave. 

A ping from her email pulls her back – administrative drudgery waiting – but her thoughts immediately wander to the possibility of seeing him tonight. Perhaps dinner, perhaps nothing more than a quiet shared space. Even a few hours with him would be enough to anchor the week, to remind her that whatever this is between them is not fleeting.

She straightens, brushing off the warmth pooling in her chest, and sets herself to the task at hand. Yet even as she grades, corrects, and annotates, the undercurrent of him never fully fades. Her hand pauses mid-sentence, and she finds herself smiling again, imagining his crooked grin, the subtle tilt of his head, the way he says her name now with intimacy, not formality.

Hetty shakes her head, trying not to let herself get lost in the thought, but the truth is undeniable. He is mine. And I am his. She allows herself one small sigh, a private acknowledgment of the connection they share, fragile and unspoken but real. 

And entirely hers to hold.

---

She much prefers her own apartment, but Trevor’s is safer – their more frequent nights together less noticeable should anyone be watching. 

She doesn’t go just for sex either. They often find themselves curled up on the couch together, watching television or just talking for hours. They eat takeout or Trevor cooks, and they just…talk. Enjoy being together. Something Hetty hasn’t had with a man in nearly thirty years. 

This thing that was supposed to be one night to get him out of her system is now one of the most precious in her world. 

She feels utterly paranoid, but caution is necessary, so she takes the elevator to his eighth floor apartment and uses the key he slipped under her door while she was in class.

He’s sitting on the couch, watching a movie, and he looks over his shoulder, grinning when he sees her. “Hey,” he greets, looking at his watch. “You’re early.”

“I cut my meeting short,” she explains, setting her overnight bag by the door. “What are you watching?”

His eyes widen. “You’ve never seen The Cutting Edge?”

“No,” she hums, sitting next to him. “But based on your expression, I’m assuming it’s good?”

“It’s the greatest rom com ever made,” he insists, picking up the remote. “Okay, we’re gonna pause ‘cause I don’t want to spoil it for you.”

She laughs softly and leans toward him, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Hello.”

“Hi, gorgeous,” he murmurs, kissing her again. “I was gonna start dinner when I finished the movie.”

“That’s alright,” she promises, fingers curling in his t-shirt. “I like watching you cook. It’s very attractive.” He chuckles and kisses her again, a little deeper this time before getting to his feet and heading to the kitchen. 

She follows and leans against the counter, watching as he pours them each a glass of wine. He pulls ingredients out of the fridge and the cabinets, and she sips and listens as he talks about his day, about an unintelligible essay he attempted to read three times before giving up. “I’m pretty sure he used google thesaurus for seventy-five percent of the words – ”

“I love you.”

The words just…slip out. Uncalculated and ill-advised but raw and entirely true.

He freezes, the knife in his hand stilling halfway through cutting a tomato, brow furrowing like he’s trying to simultaneously solve a calculus equation and a logic puzzle.

Her heart pounds aggressively in her chest. 

She can’t believe she just blurted it out like that. She hasn’t said those words to anyone but her children in nearly three decades, and somehow they slipped out completely unbidden in the midst of him cooking dinner and talking about some idiotic student.

He sets the knife down and turns to her, lips tilting into a grin. “That’s awesome,” he chuckles.

Hetty’s jaw drops inelegantly. “That’s awesome?” she repeats.

“Yeah,” he answers, closing the distance and slipping his arms around her waist even as she stiffens in annoyance. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you since the moment you walked into my orientation.”

She scoffs, shoving his chest. He maintains his hold around her, grinning stupidly. “I am fairly certain that’s not love, Trevor,” she grumbles.

“Maybe not,” he concedes, dipping his head to meet her averted gaze. “But I do love you.”

She purses her lips, relaxing a little, letting her hands slide up his arms to his shoulders. “You couldn’t have just said that in the first place?”

“I was in shock!” he defends. “If someone told me even an hour ago that you’d be the one to say it first, I would’ve told them they were crazy and then probably bet everything I own on it.”

She bites her lip gently. “I…haven’t said that to a man in…a very long time,” she admits.

He holds her a little tighter. “Well, I’m honored,” he tells her, his eyes filled with sincerity. “And I love you.”

She cups his face in her hands and kisses him slowly. He responds in kind, pressing her backward into the counter, the dinner prep behind him forgotten as his hands wander over her body.

Then there’s a banging on the door.

They both freeze.

“Trevor! Open the door!”

Hetty’s eyes widen. “Is that…?”

“Sass,” Trevor groans.

“Seriously, dude! I’m gonna tell your doorman I smell a gas leak if you don’t let me in!”

Hetty and Trevor separate, Hetty rushing to the spare bedroom as he heads for the door. “What?” he snaps when he opens it.

Sass sweeps in like a hurricane, barely giving Trevor time to step aside.

“Okay, so you remember that sophomore I told you about, the one who wrote a fifteen-page paper on Dracula but somehow managed not to mention vampires even once? Yeah, well, he’s now submitted a new draft and – wait for it – it’s plagiarized. Entire paragraphs lifted straight from SparkNotes. SparkNotes, Trevor. Not even the good sources! If you’re gonna plagiarize, at least have the dignity to do it with JSTOR.”

Trevor pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sass – ”

“No, don’t ‘Sass’ me! This is urgent. This kid is going to tank either his grade or my faith in the entire education system, and frankly, both outcomes feel catastrophic. I was walking over here thinking about how best to break it to him that he has the academic integrity of a wet sock – ”

He cuts himself off mid-tirade, eyes narrowing. His gaze flicks toward the counter.

“You’re making dinner.”

“Uh, yeah. Man’s gotta eat,” Trevor deflects.

“Two wine glasses?” Sass prods, looking around. “You paused The Cutting Edge,” he adds when he notices the TV in the living room. “You never pause The Cutting Edge.”

Trevor blinks. “I, uh…got distracted?”

Sass doesn’t dignify that with a response. His head swivels toward the door, sniffing out the drama. The elegant leather bag Hetty abandoned sits neatly against the wall, and Sass’s eyes widen like he’s just uncovered the identities of the Zodiac Killer, Anonymous, and Banksy all at once.

“Dude, you’ve got a girl here?” he says. “Who is it? You’re making dinner and pausing your favorite movie, and she brought an overnight bag, so it’s gotta be serious, right?”

“Uh…” Trevor rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling very warm with anxiety. “Yeah, it’s pretty serious.”

“And this is a nice bag,” Sass goes on, walking over to it.

The glint of her monogram catches his eye, and he snaps his head back to Trevor. “H.W.?”

Trevor lifts his hands helplessly. “Sass – ”

“Holy shit!” Sass cries. “Hetty Woodstone? You’re dating Hetty Woodstone?!”

“Keep your voice down, Sass,” Trevor hisses. “It’s – ”

“This is huge! I knew there was tension! I said there was tension, and everyone acted like I was being dramatic, but no, it turns out I’m Nostradamus.”

Trevor drags a hand down his face.

Sass leans in, grinning like a cat who’s just eaten not only the canary but also the entire aviary. “This is the best night of my life.”

Trevor groans and calls, “Babe, you wanna come save me?”

A pause. “I’m good!” Hetty calls.

Sass’s jaw drops, then he explodes into laughter so loud it probably rattles the windows. “Babe?! Oh my God. You call her babe! This is priceless. I’m gonna die.”

Trevor buries his face in his hands. “Kill me now.”

The door to the spare bedroom finally opens, and Hetty emerges, smoothing her dress. “Good evening, Sasappis,” she greets, cool and composed save for the light flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “This is quite the surprise.”

Sass laughs, shaking his head. “Professor Hetty Woodstone. In Trevor’s apartment. Responding to the word babe. This is better than Joan’s latest rom com script.”

Trevor shoots him a murderous look. “Sass.”

“This is crazy,” Sass goes on. “Seriously, how’d this happen?”

“I am quite certain you are not interested in knowing the intimate details of our relationship,” Hetty responds, pursing her lips.

“Uh, Hetty, this is Sass we’re talking about. He lives for drama,” Trevor tells her.

“Well, I suppose the proverbial cat is out of the bag,” she replies before leveling her gaze on Sass. “If you mention a word of this to anyone, I will make your life so unbearable, you’ll wish it was hell,” she drawls.

Sass’s jaw drops as she heads back toward the kitchen, squeezing Trevor’s hand as she passes.

“This is unbelievable,” Sass reiterates, shaking his head in wonder.

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” Trevor insists.

“But what if I wanna?” Sass whines.

“I’m serious, Sass, not even Joan.”

Sass looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “But she’s my girlfriend!”

“There are very real stakes here,” Trevor hisses. “If anyone found out about this, it would implode her life.”

Sass looks at him, confused. “Why, ‘cause of her husband?”

It’s Trevor’s turn to be shocked. “You knew about that?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sass answers like it’s the dumbest thing Trevor’s ever said. “The creep hangs around just off campus and preys on vulnerable undergrads – honestly Hetty should’ve gotten out of there ages ago.”

“Thank you for that illuminating assessment of my life, Sasappis,” Hetty drawls as she appears in the kitchen entry, swirling her wine, an expression on her face that could strip paint. “However, it is not entirely comprehensive.”

Sass gulps audibly. “Hetty, I just meant…you deserve better.”

“And I appreciate that,” she responds, her voice softer now. “But there are details to which you are not privy.”

“Okay,” Sass concedes, nodding. “Uh, you can…you guys can trust me,” he groans. “I won’t say anything.”

Trevor exhales in relief. “Thank you, Sass. Seriously.”

“But,” Hetty adds as she moves to Trevor, slips an arm around his waist, “if you truly cannot resist, I suggest you speak with Professor Haynes.”

Sass’s eyes light up. “The school’s resident drama queen knows?!”

“You’re welcome,” Hetty responds, sipping her wine. “Also, ‘the academic integrity of a wet sock,’ while inelegant, seems effective.”

Sass grins. “Thanks. Okay, uh…I guess I’ll leave you to your…date night?” he says slowly. “Yep, that’s crazy.”

“Good night, Sasappis.”

“See ya, Sass,” Trevor adds as his friend leaves.

When the door closes, Trevor slumps a bit. “Sorry about that,” he grumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Usually he barges in during the day. This was new.”

“It’s alright,” she promises, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Discretion is…precarious.”

He sighs and turns to her, slipping his arms around her waist. “I really thought you were gonna kill him and throw him in the river for a second,” he chuckles.

“I would never. I like Sasappis,” she responds, draping one arm over his shoulder, the other still holding her glass. “He is an excellent professor, and I can always count on his knowledge of interdepartmental affairs.”

Trevor chuckles. “Did I just hear that Hetty Woodstone likes to gossip with my best friend?” he teases.

“Well, I do enjoy tea,” she points out. 

He laughs a little harder and kisses her.

Chapter 36

Sass stays true to his word. Trevor’s relationship with Hetty remains secret through the end of the school year, which he’s pretty sure is partially because of a very long brunch his best friend had with Alberta.

Hetty tells him that she will be spending the summer at the mansion. She gives him a key and a list of dates he is – under no circumstances – to visit. Then she kisses him deeply, her arms wrapped around him like she doesn’t want to let go.

He goes out to Long Island on Saturday. His cousin’s kid is turning thirteen, so Trevor goes to the bar mitzvah, eats way too much food, and dances with a woman his mom insists is ‘perfect’ for him. 

Even if he hadn’t already found the perfect woman, this one wouldn’t even be close. 

He hates keeping his relationship secret from his mom, but she may be the biggest gossip on the entire island – Brooklyn and Queens included. Even if he kept the details hidden, she would figure out a way to guilt him into an introduction.

So he dances with the overly chatty brunette with the overdrawn lipstick and then excuses himself.

He steps outside, needing air that doesn’t smell like hairspray and overused AXE body spray. He turns a corner and pulls out his phone, tapping Hetty’s contact. Her niece or second cousin or something is getting married at the mansion this weekend, and he knows she’s busy, but he misses her.

The phone rings a couple times. “Good evening,” she greets, and he hears the sound of music and conversation in the background.

“Guessing you’re not free to talk?”

“That would be correct,” she answers.

“I just missed you,” he admits. “Wanted to hear your voice.”

“I suppose I can relate to your position,” she answers, and he chuckles. 

“You’re hot when you’re trying to be professional.”

“Is that all?”

“Nope. I love you,” he adds. “That’s all.”

He can practically hear her fighting a smile. “Then we are in agreement. Goodbye, Professor.”

He hangs up the phone, grinning stupidly at the screen before heading back inside. He might be a fucking sap, but he can’t bring himself to care.

---

It’s a little after ten when Trevor gets back to his apartment.

He takes a quick shower and is drying himself off when he hears his phone buzzing on the counter. He grins when he sees her name.

“Hey, baby,” he says, putting his AirPods in and then wrapping the towel around his waist.

“Trevor.” Her voice curls through the line, hushed but steady, not cautious — deliberate. He hears a low mechanical hum behind her, the kind of sound that vibrates through the bones.

He smiles, leaning against the sink. “Where are you hiding?”

“The laundry room,” she answers smoothly. “Everyone else is downstairs in the ballroom, drunk on champagne and sentiment. I slipped away.”

Trevor lets out a quiet laugh. “For me?”

“For my sanity,” she counters, though the velvet edge to her tone tells him otherwise. “I couldn’t stomach another toast, another cousin shrieking about love everlasting. I needed…a reprieve.”

“Guess I’ll take what I can get,” he says, heat pricking low in his stomach. “Though I’m not really buying that this is just about avoiding the crowd.”

There’s a pause, a faint rustle of fabric. “Such a clever boy,” she murmurs, and it shoots straight to his cock.

His fingers curl around the edge of the counter. “Then tell me, Hetty. Why’d you really call?”

“I wanted to hear your voice,” she says softly, repeating his earlier words, and then, with the slightest lilt of provocation: “And because I couldn’t resist a certain…indulgence.”

Trevor’s pulse kicks. “What kind of indulgence?”

There’s a pause, a faint thrum of machinery carrying through the phone. When she speaks again, her tone has shifted, smooth and dark. “I’m sitting on the washing machine.”

His mouth goes dry. He has to swallow before he can get words out. “You’re – Jesus, Hetty.”

“Mmm.” The sound is pure satisfaction, threaded with restraint. “It’s on the spin cycle. Perfectly timed. Though I must say, it’s much less pleasurable than before I knew the feeling of your hands on me.”

Trevor groans, dragging a hand over the towel. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“Then tell me.” There’s a smile in her voice, rich with control. A soft intake of breath follows, and then she adds, lower, “What would you do to me if you were here – if I let you?”

His eyes shut, heat sparking through him at the challenge. “Jesus, Hetty,” he groans, dropping the towel and squeezing his rapidly growing erection. “All I can think about is being there on my knees. Spreading you open, tasting you until you couldn’t stand anymore.”

A low hum answers him, pleased, deliberate. “On your knees. Where you belong.”

“Yeah,” he groans, stroking once, hard. “I’d stay there as long as you let me. Just…lick your gorgeous pussy until you pulled my hair and told me you've had enough.”

Hetty lets out the faintest laugh, breathier now. “I’d never say enough. You know that.”

His grip tightens, hips jerking. “Good. Because I’d want every sound, every drop. I’d want you shaking on my tongue, Hetty.”

There’s a muffled shift of fabric on her end – her legs parting, her breath hitching. “And when I was undone for you, Trevor? What then?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, voice dropping. “Then I’d beg you to let me inside you. I’d fuck you until you couldn’t doubt how much I love you.”

A sharp breath, ragged. “God, say it again.”

“I love you,” he gasps, stroking faster now. “I’d give you everything I’ve got. Make you come until you believed it, even if you already do.”

The washer hums under her, her moan spilling into his ear like silk torn down the middle. “And you think you could keep up?”

Trevor’s laugh is broken, desperate. “I’d try, baby. I’d kill myself trying, just to keep you satisfied.”

Her answer is a strangled whimper, her voice breaking apart. “Oh, Trevor…”

Trevor’s pumping harder now, forehead pressed to the cabinet, sweat slicking his temples. “Fuck, Hetty – you’d wrap around me so tight. I’d bury my face in your neck and just…give you everything.”

She gasps sharply, and god, he wishes he could see her – wants to watch as she comes apart on her fingers. “Everything. Yes. You’d keep me full while I fell apart.”

“God, yeah,” he pants. “I’d hold you steady. Feel every clench, every pulse. I’d stay inside you until you begged me to stop – ”

Her laugh fractures into a moan, high and helpless. “As if I would ever beg.”

“Then I’d never stop,” he groans, stroking faster, his breath catching on each thrust of his hand. “Not until you were screaming for me, baby.”

There’s a thud – her head tipping back against the wall – and a desperate little cry she doesn’t swallow in time. “Trevor…”

He squeezes his eyes shut, the sound wrecking him. “I’ve got you, Hetty. Come for me. Please. I need to hear you.”

Her breath stutters, breaks, then pours through the line – raw, ragged, the sound of her shattering for him. The machine hums beneath her, her moans cresting while remaining quiet and then dissolving into keening sighs.

Trevor loses it, gripping himself tight, hips jerking as he spills into his hand with a hoarse groan of her name. “Hetty – fuck!”

Silence thickens, broken only by their ragged breathing.

She’s the one to finally break it. “I don’t want to go back to the reception,” she whispers.

He nods, quietly replying, “I know.”

“But I have to,” she adds, still quiet, still sad in a way that makes him wish he could wrap his arms around her and kiss her until she smiled. “I can’t just stay here. Someone will notice I’ve gone.”

Her words falter, and he feels it – the pull between obligation and desire. “It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

She exhales softly, a shiver running through the line. “Monday,” she agrees.

“Let me know when everyone leaves, and I’ll be there,” he replies. “And you…try to survive the rest of the night without thinking about me too much.”

“I will not make promises I cannot fulfill,” Hetty responds primly – but with a warmth beneath that makes his heart stutter.

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Good night, Hetty.”

“Until Monday, my love.”

Notes:

in every world, in every lifetime, Hetty Woodstone will find the washing machine.

Chapter 37

The noise of the party presses in as Hetty slips back into the ballroom, the glitter of chandeliers and laughter landing almost too bright, too sharp. Thomas is flirting with a bridesmaid who looks rather uncomfortable until a friend extricates her from the conversation, and Elias is at the center of things, commanding attention with practiced charm playing the crowd as if he were hosting them in his own home rather than hers. She threads through the clusters of silk and tuxedo wool, her fingers tightening around the stem of a fresh glass of champagne as though the chill might steady her.

It’s Samantha who joins her, sliding neatly into step beside her mother with a glance toward Elias. “He hasn’t changed,” Sam murmurs, tilting her glass as if in salute. “Still loves a room more than he ever loved a person.”

Hetty’s throat works before she finds her voice. “Yes,” she says, quiet, brittle at the edges. “He has always known how to hold a crowd.”

Sam studies her, the sharpness in her gaze softening. “Mom, you don’t have to pretend with me,” she reminds her.

Hetty draws a breath, the kind that tries for composure and lands closer to weariness. “I sometimes forget what that feels like,” she admits, letting her gaze drift over the room crowded with faces she’s known her whole life but who have never seen the real Hetty Woodstone.

Sam slips her arm through her mom’s, squeezing affectionately. “I imagine it must be lonely sometimes,” she says, her voice gentle.

“It can be,” Hetty concedes softly, letting her eyes flick toward her husband, imagining someone else, somewhere she can’t be.

Samantha studies her, eyes bright and searching. “You’re way too good at looking put together. Has anyone here ever seen the real you?”

Hetty studies her daughter for a moment, letting the truth of Sam’s gaze settle. Sharp-eyed, quick-tongued – she sees through Elias as easily as she sees through Hetty herself. “You’ve inherited my instincts,” she comments.

“I like to think of them as survival skills,” Sam counters, clinking their glasses together.

Jay appears next to the blonde then, a glass of champagne in his hand and a mildly exhausted expression on his face. “That guy,” he mutters, voice low, “he’s like a final-level dungeon boss – way over-leveled, enormous ego, and everyone’s just praying they don’t get roasted.”

Sam snorts, covering a grin with her glass. Hetty can’t help the amused lift at the corner of her mouth. His delivery is casual, teasing, but the sharp observation lands.

“I understood virtually nothing you just said,” Hetty says dryly, her gaze flicking to Elias for just a moment, “But I heard ‘massive ego,’ which is certainly accurate.”

Jay grins. “Seriously. You can’t just sneak past him, either – you gotta fight. And his special attack? Ego blast. One hit and half the room is dizzy.”

Sam laughs, shaking her head. “Mom’s survived worse than an ego blast.”

Hetty arches an eyebrow, taking another delicate sip of champagne. “I’ve had plenty of practice dodging attacks,” she says lightly, “though some are more exhausting than others.”

Jay leans closer, conspiratorial. “So…basically, you’re the seasoned player who knows all the cheat codes.”

Hetty furrows a brow. “Cheat codes?” she asks, wrapping her mouth around the consonants.

“It’s like…if the teacher accidentally leaves the answer key on the desk before the exam,” Jay explains.

“Ah,” Hetty replies with a nod. “That would be a glaring error.”

Jay glances toward Elias again, eyebrows twitching. “And the funny part? Most people don’t even notice it sitting there. They’re too busy trying to cram for the test.”

Hetty’s gaze sharpens slightly, though amusement lingers. “It’s a wonder they make it through at all.”

Sam laughs quietly. “I think that’s why I never liked him. He’s…exhausting to watch, let alone deal with.”

Jay nods, mock solemn. “Like a bad side quest that drags on forever.”

“Sweetie, I think we can move past the nerd metaphors,” Sam teases, rolling her eyes with an affectionate smile.

Hetty, however, ponders the idea. “A never-ending side quest,” she repeats. “It sounds like a perfect description.”

The three of them continue to talk, laughter threading through the noise of the party, Jay and Sam trading quick, playful observations, Hetty chiming in with a dry wit that feels easy in the company of the young couple. For the first time since she returned from the laundry room, she allows herself to relax, the edges of the evening blurring into something lighter.

And yet, even as she sips her champagne and smiles at their banter, a small, persistent ache lingers in her chest – an incessant wish that they were four instead of three.

Chapter 38

When he walks into the mansion on Monday night, she rushes into his arms in a flurry of red hair, alabaster skin, and blue satin. He moans against her lips, barely managing to lock the door behind him before letting his hands begin to roam. 

“Do you have any idea – ” she asks between kisses “ – how unbearable the last week has been?” Her fingers tangle in his hair, and she arches into him as he squeezes her ass and grinds himself against her. 

“I went to a bar mitzvah where my mom tried to set me up with three different women,” he replies.

“I had to share a bed with Elias,” she retorts, tugging at his t-shirt. “Family took up too many rooms.”

He growls into her neck, the ugly heat of jealousy curling in his chest as she tosses his shirt aside. “Did you…?”

“God, no,” she answers, pressing him against the door so hard his teeth shake. “Not since Samantha was conceived.”

“He’s a fucking idiot.” Trevor shifts off the door and presses forward, kissing her again, all teeth and tongue as they stumble toward the library. He doesn’t care where they are – he just needs her horizontal immediately. 

The first surface he finds is the desk.

She pulls at his jeans, unfastening them clumsily but quickly as he hikes her dress up over her hips. No time to fully disrobe. Once she’s freed his cock from its confines, he slides her panties aside and plunges deep into her heat. 

She collapses back onto the desk, back arching, and he grips her hips tighter, slamming into her again. Her hands claw for anything she can reach, which ends up being his wrists. Her nails dig into his skin, making him hiss. 

“Fuck, Hetty,” he growls. “So fucking wet already.”

She manages to sit up and grip the back of his neck, her mouth hungry against his as she clings to him. “So good, darling,” she mutters before slipping her tongue back into his mouth. 

It’s filthy and fast and so fucking hot, and before he can fully process any of it, her cunt is squeezing him, and she’s crying out against his ear as he spills inside her with a feral groan.

He’s still panting softly when she breathes, “There hasn’t been anyone else.”

He nods against her neck and then pulls back just enough to look at her. “That's really good to hear. I was never good at sharing."

She kisses him slowly, languidly, until his pulse steadies. When she finally pulls back, her eyes search his face, softer now, vulnerable in a way she so infrequently allows.

Her gaze flicks away, back toward the desk, the papers scattered and crumpled under her body. “You’re the first man I’ve allowed this close to me in decades,” she admits before adding – so quietly he almost misses it, “Maybe ever.”

His throat is tight, but he manages a crooked smile. “Hetty, don’t get me wrong, the sex is insane, but…I’d be here even without that. Just to sit on a couch and watch movies with you. Just to cook you dinner.”

Her lips twitch faintly, her defenses wobbling at his sincerity. “You are absurdly earnest,” she says, but her tone is fond.

They stay there for a moment, tangled together on the desk, the air around them still humming. Finally, she pushes lightly at his chest, smoothing her dress back into place with practiced dignity.

“You’ve wrinkled my dress,” she mutters.

“Hey, you’re the one who jumped my bones the second I walked in,” Trevor grins, tucking himself back into his jeans. 

Her eyes narrow in mock reproach, but there’s a glow beneath her composure that no glare can disguise. “Must you be so vulgar?”

“Don’t lie, you love it,” he says, stealing a quick kiss before she slips past him.

As she walks into the foyer, she picks up a glass of wine previously left on the entry table, as though reclaiming her poise. “You should know,” she says lightly, “I have no intention of sharing you, either.”

He laughs, picking up his shirt. “Babe, I’ve barely even looked at another woman since I met you.”

She sips her wine with a composure that would suggest nothing has happened at all – except for the faint pink still high on her cheekbones. He follows her to the kitchen, shirtless, hair mussed, looking every bit the opposite.

“Don’t smirk at me,” she says, sensing the curve of his mouth without even looking back.

“I’m not smirking.”

“You are.”

“Okay, but it’s a happy smirk.”

She shakes her head, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Infuriating man.”

He slides an arm around her waist and tugs her back against him, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Infuriating man who’s gonna order us food because I know for a fact you skipped dinner.”

She means to protest – she always does – but the feel of him against her, steady and warm, disarms her. “I had tea,” she says primly.

“Not dinner.” He kisses the her neck just below her ear. “And you need actual food if you’re gonna keep attacking me every time I walk into the room.”

That earns him a sharp look over her shoulder, but her lips twitch as though she’s suppressing another laugh. “I hardly think attack is the correct verb.”

“Oh, I do.” His voice dips, low and pleased.

She twists in his arms, meaning to push him away, but her hands catch on his bare chest instead, palms splayed over the warmth of his skin. For a moment she just stays there, looking into his eyes, her gaze softer than she intends.

“I cannot believe you,” she says finally, but the heat in her tone has gone.

“Yeah, you can.” He kisses her again – quick, easy. “Sushi?”

She exhales as though conceding a battle. “Very well. But no eel.”

He grins. “Deal.”

She pulls the wine out of the fridge and retrieves another glass, and they move together into the living room, his arm draped casually around her shoulders. It feels alarmingly natural – the sort of quiet domesticity she’s long denied herself. She settles onto the couch, arranging her dress with her usual precision, but he flops down beside her, one knee bent, body turned toward hers.

“I could get used to this,” he murmurs.

She considers him for a moment before shifting. She slots herself between his legs, back to his chest, and he wraps his arm around her as he presses a kiss to her temple. “So could I,” she answers with a soft smile.

Chapter 39

Trevor all but moves into the mansion, only leaving when he must – obligations in the city, family events, the occasional few days at his apartment so as to keep up the illusion. But his absence is always temporary, his suitcase never fully unpacked because it never needs to be.

They fall into a rhythm so natural it startles her. Making coffee in the morning, him humming tunelessly in her kitchen as though he’s always belonged here. He lies on the couch with his head in her lap, playing a silly game on his phone while she reads and toys absently with his hair.

The house itself shifts under his presence. Her dining table no longer feels absurdly large when he’s across from her. The porch becomes a sanctuary, a space where they spend their nights together, curled up by the fire pit, drinking bourbon and swapping stories.

There’s nothing grand or theatrical – just the steady layering of small intimacies neither of them have ever experienced. She makes sure he has the coffee he likes. He cooks dinners and steals kisses between tasks. She pretends not to notice when he borrows her silk robe after a shower (mostly because it’s too short and she likes looking at his ass). 

It is domesticity in its quietest, most treacherous form. So ordinary, so tender, she sometimes forgets how impossible it all should be.

They spend the first day of summer avoiding the fact that Trevor has to head back to the city in the morning for an entire fortnight, clinging to the illusion of permanence in every touch, every glance.

And having a lot of sex.

It’s early afternoon, and they’re in the library, her back pressed against the shelves, his shirt tossed across the room, her hair mussed from his hands. It’s breathless and greedy, the kind of goodbye that insists on being felt in bruising kisses and drawn-out whimpers.

Her legs feel like jelly beneath her, but Trevor is relentless, his fingers rubbing her clit as though making her come is the ticket to heaven.

“One more, baby,” he pants in her ear. “Just one more.”

“You – oh! – you said that last time,” she gasps, clinging to him.

“Never get enough,” he mutters, biting her earlobe and making her moan and buck into his hand. “Fuck, Hetty, you’re so gorgeous when you come. Just wanna make you feel good, baby.”

She captures his lips in a heated kiss, a high, keening sound escaping her lungs as she reaches another climax. She trembles, clutching his shoulders, fingers gripping his hair so hard it makes him grunt. “Oh, god,” she moans, feeling boneless between him and the built-ins.

He kisses her again, slow and languid, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears she doesn’t hear the front door open.

“Oh, my god!”

Immediately, Hetty shoves Trevor away, her dress falling back into place as he stumbles, righting his own clothes as Hetty’s daughter stands on the other side of the open door, looking utterly horrified.

“Samantha – ” Hetty begins, reaching for calm she doesn’t feel.

Sam lifts both hands, backing away like she’s stumbled onto a crime scene. “No. Nope. Absolutely not. I’m deleting my eyes.”

Trevor, for once, is speechless.

“W-what are you doing here?” Hetty asks, following the blonde. “You said you couldn’t come until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, Jay ended up having to work at the restaurant tonight, so I thought I’d come up early. Seriously, mom? You’re just screwing some guy in the library in the middle of the day?”

“Some guy?” Hetty repeats, the words tasting bitter in her mouth. 

“I’m just – I’m confused,” Sam explains, voice still pitched high in shock. “I mean, I know I said you must be lonely, but…” She cringes a little, and Hetty purses her lips. “Trevor Lefkowitz? Really?”

Hetty lifts her chin, smoothing her dress as if that might erase the last five minutes. “I fail to see why you say his name as though it were synonymous with ‘rabid dog,’” she drawls.

“Because it’s Trevor!” Sam hisses, hands flying. “Jay says he’s, like, a legend of chaos! He apparently treated a Wall Street apartment like a nightclub and actually almost died from partying too hard.”

Hetty doesn’t flinch. “I thought you would be more open-minded than to define someone by hearsay or youthful indiscretions.”

“He overdosed like a year ago,” Sam points out. “Isn’t he thirty?”

“Thirty-three,” Hetty corrects automatically.

“Oh, my god!” Sam cries.

Hetty glances back toward the library, hoping Trevor isn’t taking any of this too hard. “Samantha,” she sighs. “Can we please talk about this rationally? I would like to explain without you shouting at me.”

Sam plants her hands on her hips, looking at her mother in disbelief. “Fine. I’m gonna go put my stuff away. Just – pick a room where you two haven’t done it, please?” she says before grabbing her bag and heading upstairs.

Hetty grimaces and turns back to the library just as Trevor steps out. “That’s gonna be a tall order,” he murmurs teasingly.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, sliding her palms over his chest. “We were supposed to have the rest of the night together.”

He takes her hands in his and lifts one, pressing a kiss to her palm. “It’s okay. Spend time with your kid. Try to un-traumatize her.”

She groans and drops her forehead to his shoulder. His arms wrap around her, rubbing her back. “Thank you,” she breathes, hugging him around the waist.

He kisses her hair. “I’m gonna grab my stuff.”

She sighs and lifts her head. She loves her daughter more than anything in the world, but she’s more than a little annoyed by this turn of events. “Alright,” she pouts.

He kisses her quickly and goes, taking the steps two at a time.

Notes:

Just two more chapters and an epilogue to go!

Chapter 40

Notes:

decided to post another chapter because it’s my birthday and this is one of my faves and i do what i want 💚

Hetty leans back against the door and takes a deep breath before heading to the kitchen and pouring a couple glasses of rosé. It’s not her favorite, but it is Samantha’s, and buttering up her daughter seems like the best course of action.

She takes her glass and goes to the sink, where a few pans were left after dinner, when she and Trevor got a little too amorous before they finished cleaning up. She dons a pair of gloves and gets to washing.

She’s almost finished when she hears her daughter’s voice. “What are you doing?”

“Washing some pans,” Hetty answers.

“But you don’t cook,” Sam points out, sitting down and taking a drink of the wine poured for her.

Hetty sets the clean pan aside and turns, removing the gloves. “Trevor made dinner last night. We didn’t finish cleaning.”

Reading the subtext, Sam wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”

The redhead exhales a quiet chuckle and picks up her glass, sitting across from her daughter at the kitchen table. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

“Yeah,” Sam scoffs. “I would’ve really liked to go my whole life without finding out my mom has a boy toy.”

Hetty cringes at the implication, but before she can reply, she hears footsteps on the stairs and turns to see Trevor heading down to the foyer. “I’ll be right back,” she tells her daughter.

Sam furrows her brow but doesn’t protest.

“Trevor,” she says, meeting him just before he can open the door. She cups his jaw in her hands and kisses him softly, slowly, reveling in the way he melts into her.

When she pulls back, he’s grinning, and he strokes his fingertips over her side. “I’ll see you in two weeks,” he promises.

“Two weeks,” she agrees.

“Love you,” he adds, kissing her once more.

She wonders if she’ll ever tire of hearing him say those words. Or of saying them back. “I love you, too,” she replies softly.

He leaves, and Hetty closes the door behind him before turning to head back to the kitchen.

“I apologize,” she says, returning to her seat.

Sam finishes her glass and worries her lower lip between her teeth like she does when she’s thinking very hard. “You love him?” she asks after a long moment.

Hetty eyes her daughter, unable to hold back the smile on her lips even as she debates scolding her adult daughter for eavesdropping. “I do,” she murmurs. “Very much.”

The blonde leans back, processing. “Okay, so…let me get this straight: you two work together. Doesn’t that technically make you his boss?”

“As the dean, I oversee all faculty, yes.”

“Isn’t that, like a major HR violation? And what if Dad finds out? He’ll drag — ”

“He’s not going to find out,” Hetty promises, reaching out and grasping her daughter’s hands. “Samantha, I promise your future is safe. I would never do anything to jeopardize your claim to your trust – ”

“Mom, I don’t care about the trust fund.”

Hetty’s mouth snaps shut. She furrows her brows, shaking her head as though trying to clear cobwebs. “You don’t?”

“No!” Sam cries, laughing a little. “Oh, my god, is that why you’ve stayed with Dad all these years?”

“I – yes!” Hetty exclaims. “Why did you think I stayed with him?”

Sam scoffs. “I just thought it was, like, a propriety thing. Or, you know, because you didn’t want to deal with all of our judgmental family members.” Her eyes flood with tears suddenly. “Oh, my god,” she whispers.

“Samantha – ”

“You stayed with him because of me…” she whispers. “You gave up so much of your life f-for – ”

Hetty is out of her seat and pulling her daughter into a hug just as she starts to break down. Sam sobs into her mom’s shoulder, clutching the back of her dress as Hetty pets blonde hair, trying to soothe her.

“Everything I have ever done,” Hetty whispers, voice thick with tears of her own, “I have done because I love you. And I want you to have every opportunity in the world.”

“But did it make you happy?” Sam sniffles. “I mean, you inherited this h-huge fortune, and you love your work, but…have you ever really been happy, Mom?”

The redhead sighs, kissing the top of her daughter’s hair. “You, my dear girl, are all I need.”

“No, I’m not,” Sam whispers, pulling away and wiping at her eyes. “You need more, Mom. You deserve more. I mean, doesn’t it feel awful to know Dad’s running around doing whatever and whoever the hell he wants while you hide away from the world? Have you ever actually gone on a real date with Trevor? Movies or coffee or anything in public?”

“No…” Hetty answers, dragging the word out.

Sam scoffs. “Don’t you want that? Like…go to a fancy restaurant and eat dinner together and not care who sees?”

“Of course I want that,” the older woman replies. “But it is simply not an option right now. Not until you turn twenty-five.”

Sam rolls her eyes. “For the love of god, Mom, call Dan, like, right now.”

Hetty furrows her brow. “Samantha – ”

“No, I mean it. I’m not going to be the reason you delay being happy for even one more second,” the blonde insists. “I…hate that you did this, Mom.”

Hetty swallows thickly, blinking back tears. “I…I thought I was doing the right thing. Giving you everything you need to have a successful life.”

“Mom…you already did,” Sam whispers. “You gave me everything I ever needed.”

A tear slips down Hetty’s cheek, and she sniffs, swiping it away. “I just want you to have every freedom I never did,” she breathes.

“I do,” Sam promises. “I have an incredible mom who never forced me into anything I didn’t want. And…” She reaches into her pocket and then lifts her left hand, a sparkly ring now on her fourth finger. “Now I’ve got Jay, too.”

Hetty gasps. “Oh!” She grabs her daughter’s hand and inspects the ring. Small, delicate. A gold band with a round diamond – only half a carat, she’d guess, but clear and cut beautifully. “It’s lovely,” she murmurs as she hugs her daughter tightly.

Sam giggles, a watery little sound as she reciprocates the hug. “We were going to tell you together when he got here, but this just seemed like the right moment.”

“It was the perfect moment,” Hetty agrees with a little laugh of her own. She pulls back and cups her daughter’s face in her hands and kisses her forehead. “I am very happy for you, Samantha.”

“I’m happy for you, too, Mom,” she replies with a smile. “But I’ll be way happier when you call your lawyer,” she adds pointedly.

Hetty laughs, a single, surprising ha! “You are relentless.”

The blonde shrugs with a cheeky grin. “I learned from the best. Oh, my god!”

Hetty startles a little, looking around. “What? What happened?”

“Mom.” Sam grabs her mother by the shoulders. “This is just like a Hallmark Christmas movie!”

Hetty’s brow furrows in confusion. “It’s June.”

“Okay, so there’s no snow or mistletoe or ice skating, and Trevor isn’t a small town innkeeper or a lumberjack – ”

Hetty considers the image of Trevor wearing flannel and chopping wood and is a little ashamed of her internal reaction.

“ – but otherwise, this is just like that! The woman stuck in a dead-end relationship, totally miserable, and then boom! She meets a handsome, charming guy and suddenly everything makes sense.”

“You certainly changed your position on Trevor awfully fast,” Hetty drawls.

“I mean, yeah, I was freaked out at first, but imagine if you walked in on grandma having sex with a guy you’d met once – wouldn’t you have a little bit of a panic attack?” Sam asks.

Hetty grimaces. “Point made,” she drawls.

“Mom.” Sam grips her arms a little tighter, her gaze intense and focused. “Go get your Christmas happy ending.”

“It just doesn’t even make sense!” Hetty cries. “It's eighty-five degrees outside!”

“Just go with it, Mom! Make the grand gesture of divorcing your jerkwad husband to be with the guy you actually love!”

Hetty laughs, shaking her head. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” Sam shrugs. “But then…the very essence of romance is uncertainty.”

Blue eyes narrow. “Quoting Wilde to butter me up? Bold. And entirely transparent.”

“And totally working, right?” her daughter responds with a smug smile.

Hetty huffs a laugh and pulls her into another tight embrace.

Chapter 41

Summary:

Chapter Playlist:

How Bad Do U Want Me - Lady Gaga
You Found Me - Kelly Clarkson
Delicate - Taylor Swift

Notes:

I can't even begin to express how grateful I am for the reception this fic has gotten. Thank you all so much for going on this journey and for your comments and kudos.

Here are the final two chapters 💚

Trevor trudges into his apartment, the late-afternoon sun warming the city streets, his shirt already damp with the sticky humidity of June. He carries his jacket slung over one shoulder, casual and easy, but inside, he feels the pull of the mansion like gravity, reluctant to let go.

He gets why he had to leave – what he signed up for. But understanding doesn’t make him miss her any less. The sting of leaving her behind presses against his chest, sharp and stubborn.

He grabs a beer out of the fridge and cracks it open as he replays their mornings and evenings together – the quiet coffee ritual, the porch nights, the small domesticities that somehow feel extraordinary just because he’s with her. He thinks about the reckless heat of their afternoons, the intensity that always leaves him dizzy but somehow more himself than ever before.

Shaking his head, he pushes the melancholy to the back of his mind as he reaches the bedroom doorway.

“I’ve always wondered what that handsome face looks like when you miss me.”

He freezes with the bottle halfway to his lips because Hetty is sitting at the foot of his bed, legs crossed, smirk teasing the corners of her mouth. Waiting.

His face breaks into a grin. “What are you doing here?”

“Well…” She stands, smooths her skirt. “It turns out Samantha is much more supportive of our relationship than she initially appeared.”

“That’s good to hear,” he replies, taking a slow sip from his beer, trying to sound casual.

She stops just in front of him. “She pushed me to do something I should have done years ago.”

Trevor feels his heart thud in his chest as she produces her phone, handing it to him while swiping the beer from his hand. He squints at the screen.

He exhales, half-laughing and entirely stunned. “This…is a petition for divorce…”

“It is,” she confirms.

“And it’s already signed.”

He looks up, and she’s smiling. “Turns out a philandering husband with questionable judgment is more amenable when the price is right.”

“Hetty – ”

“Samantha told me to do it,” she interrupts. “Insisted I do it.”

“She just…gave up her trust fund?” 

She takes another drink before setting the bottle on the dresser. Her palms then glide over his chest, one coming to rest over the rapid drum of his heart. “She wants me to be happy.”

He swallows a lump in his throat. “So this is really happening?" he whispers. "You actually did it?”

“I did,” she murmurs. “I’m finally free.”

“No more hiding?”

She huffs, mildly irritated. “Are you going to ask sixteen more questions, or are you going to – ”

Trevor crashes his lips into hers, his arms around her waist pulling her closer as the weight of expectation melts away.

She nips at his lower lip before withdrawing just enough to breathe, “I hope you realize, Trevor, you’re no longer my secret." She brushes a thumb over his cheekbone. "You’re my choice.”

His laugh is rough, shaky, and he holds her tighter. “Best damn promotion I’ve ever gotten.” He kisses her again, harder, one hand sliding down to grip her hip like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight.

“It comes with benefits,” she teases against his lips, her hands tugging at his clothing.

He releases her only so she can pull his shirt over his head. “I’m familiar with the benefits,” he chuckles before kissing her again, feet guiding them toward the bed. “Big fan of the benefits,” he adds.

He manages to unzip her dress, and she lets it fall before they tumble onto the bed attached at the lips, chest, hips. She gasps softly at the feeling of his hand at her breast.

“I’m gonna date you so hard,” he tells her. 

She laughs at that – loudly. “Oh, really?"

“Yep,” he confirms, continuing between kisses to her soft skin, “Take you to dinner. Movies. I’m gonna kick your ass at mini-golf.”

She turns, rolling him onto his back and planting her palms on his chest. “I grew up rich – you really think I don’t know how to play golf?” she challenges, rolling her hips against him.

Trevor grins, watching her writhe on top of him. “I don’t care if you went pro. I’ll still make it interesting.” He sits up and wraps his arms around her, placing hot kisses over her chest. “And I bet you look super hot in one of those little skirts.”

A chuckle rumbles in her chest. “As if I need a revealing garment to keep your attention,” she taunts.

“Right,” he replies, flicking open the clasp of her bra. He groans as she tosses the garment away. “Fuck, you really don’t,” he mutters before attaching his mouth to her breast.

He’s rewarded with a high pitched gasp, fingers gripping his hair, and hips grinding into him more intensely.

“Trevor…” she breathes after a long moment, voice trembling between want and need.

He lifts his head and gazes up at her, brushing a curl away from her face. “Yeah?”

Her hands cup his neck, thumbs grazing over his jawline, her blue eyes filled with tenderness. “I have never been this happy,” she whispers.

He doesn’t fight the smile that curves his lips. “Me neither,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, lips brushing against hers again.

Her body arches into his, pressing closer, hands tangling in his hair as if trying to draw him in deeper. He groans against her lips, one hand bracing her back, the other sliding down her side, tracing the curves of her body. Every inch of her pressed to him ignites a fire he can’t tame.

He shifts, turning to lay her on her back again, kissing every inch of soft, porcelain skin he can reach.

She twists slightly, pulling him down for another heated kiss, nails grazing the nape of his neck, lips parting just enough to let out a breathless, “Trevor…” Her voice is fragile, yet charged, and he can feel the weight of restraint she’s always carried. 

Then, barely audible, but unmistakable: “Please.”

The rarity hits him like a freight train. That single word, stripped of all pretense, carries a gravity that makes his chest tighten and his pulse spike.

He reaches for his pants, managing to free himself one-handed before thrusting into her with one smooth motion that makes them both moan loudly.

Hetty’s hands clutch at his shoulders, digging in as if anchoring herself while her hips lift to meet him. Every movement, every heat-filled gasp, binds them tighter, urgent and relentless.

Trevor buries his face in the crook of her neck, letting the friction and warmth drive him deeper, his rhythm unyielding but attuned to her responses, to the sharp intake of her breath, the tremble that runs through her body at every thrust.

“I – fuck, Trevor…” she pants, the single name breaking free like a prayer and a plea all at once. Her fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently, guiding him, pulling him closer, impossibly close.

He meets her eyes, pupils dilated, lips curved in a mix of hunger and awe. “Hetty…” he groans, voice raw, desperate. “God, you feel amazing, baby.”

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, a mixture of exertion and need, and she arches into him with everything she has. “Don’t stop…please don’t stop,” she whispers again, this time her voice raw and commanding in its rarity, and the words are enough to shatter the last of his restraint.

Every thrust, every shiver, every shared moan draws them higher, a furious, consuming heat that leaves them trembling, bodies slick, hearts pounding in tandem. Trevor tightens his grip on her, his own need and devotion mirrored in the frantic press of her body against his, and in that moment, nothing else exists. 

He feels her nails clawing at his back as she gasps – heels digging into his backside, drawing him impossibly closer. “Yes,” she hisses. “Yes, Trevor…I – I’m so close…” 

His hand curls around the back of her neck. “Gonna be right there with you, baby,” he manages to choke out. “Wanna make you come…wanna hear you scream – ”

Her hands fumble along his shoulders, down his back, clutching as if trying to meld their bodies into one. “Oh, god…” Her voice breaks, her body tenses, and she gifts him exactly what he wanted: a loud, uninhibited scream of his name.

Her walls squeeze his cock tightly, and he chokes out a moan of his own, burying it in the crook of her neck as his hips jerk and stutter through their mutual climax. Her body twitches beneath him, legs shaking around his waist, and she tilts her head, blindly searching for his lips until they meet in a messy, passionate kiss.

Eventually Trevor drifts onto his side, propping his head on one hand, watching her with a lazy grin. “You know, for someone who claims to be impossible to impress…”

She arches an eyebrow, lips quirking. “You are such a smug bastard.”

“I prefer confident.” His fingers trace idly over her ribs.

“Confident?” she repeats, tapping his chest lightly. “Or hopelessly enamored with yourself?”

“Maybe both,” he admits, leaning in to steal another kiss. It’s softer now, lingering. “You did beg, after all.”

She swats his chest. “I do not believe a simple request constitutes begging.”

“Still got you to say please,” he teases, “which is definitely going in the top five accomplishments of my life.”

He kisses her again, any retort she might have had locked and loaded dissolving into a soft, pleased hum against his lips. “It’s nice,” she whispers a moment later, fingertips brushing over his cheekbones. “Simply lying here with you. Without worry.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pulling her closer so he can wrap her in his embrace. “It feels…perfect,” he breathes. “You feel perfect.”

She kisses him again, quick and decisive. “We should get dressed,” she murmurs. “I have to get back, and I’m not leaving without you,” she adds, fingers trailing over his chest.

He grins. “You want me to crash your mother-daughter retreat?”

She rolls her eyes with a soft chuckle. “Hardly a retreat. Her fiancé is joining us in a few days – ” 

“Jay proposed? Mazel to them,” Trevor cuts in.

“ – which means you will have a friend when Samantha and I wish to engage in…girl talk.”

He chuckles softly at the way the phrase sounds in her careful diction – like she’s an actual Victorian heroine learning 21st Century slang. He noses along her jawline until she sighs and pulls him closer.

“Five more minutes?” he murmurs.

A low hum passes her lips. “Five more minutes, my love.”

---

Five minutes turns into twenty more beneath the shower’s steady spray, their bodies slick and gleaming in the pale light filtering through frosted glass. At first it’s practical: fingers working shampoo into his hair while he runs soap over her shoulders – carefully avoiding dampening her hair – but it doesn’t stay innocent for long.

Eventually they do manage to extract themselves from one another long enough to dress and make it to the car, where Trevor tosses his bag into the backseat and slides into the passenger side, buckling in as Hetty starts the engine. 

The miles slip past in easy quiet punctuated with sporadic, comfortable conversation and occasionally interrupted by Hetty’s shouting at another car, which makes him bite back laughter. 

Trevor occasionally reaches for her, brushing fingers through her hair, squeezing her thigh gently – and when they stop at a red light in town, he leans over, pressing a loud kiss to her cheek that makes her roll her eyes as she laughs.

It’s definitely his favorite sound.

Chapter 42: Epilogue

The summer, tragically, flies. 

The awkwardness of Sam’s initial arrival fades almost instantly, and Trevor gets to know her a little better during her time at the mansion — both as his friend’s fiancée and his girlfriend’s daughter. 

On Independence Day, Hetty and Jay put together a meticulously arranged garden picnic. Jay prepares food that he hopes to put on his menu one day, while Hetty sets up a picnic that rivals anything on Bridgerton. Isaac and Nigel join for the weekend and bicker good-naturedly about the American Revolution while Trevor sips his beer and watches his girlfriend play hostess for the small group.

When the fireworks begin, everyone is seated on the blanket except Hetty, who insists there’s no room and that she’s fine standing. Trevor pulls her down into his lap and holds her around the waist instead, occasionally sneaking quick kisses to her face and neck as they watch the show over the lake.

In early August, they have a very practical conversation about their living situation. Well, practical on her part — Trevor discovers about halfway through the discussion that he’s slipped into a sort of petulant whine in his attempts to get Hetty to agree to a trial run when they return to the city. 

He’s pretty sure it’s the only argument he will ever win with her, and he celebrates with a ‘T-Money!’ and a searing kiss that turns into sex on his couch almost immediately.

Hetty turns forty-seven in late August and insists under penalty of death that no one makes a fuss. But Trevor is pretty sure surprising her with a nice dinner out with their closest friends isn’t ‘making a fuss’ so much as it is the bare fucking minimum.

She beams through the entire meal and admits to him that night, as they lie together in tangled sheets, that she’s never had a birthday celebration that was just about her. 

School is back in session the Wednesday following Labor Day, but Hetty’s duties as Dean of Faculty begin on Tuesday.

Trevor’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a Penn shirt and flipping a pancake when she comes into the kitchen. She’s dressed in a royal blue button-up and a black pencil skirt that leaves just enough to the imagination to be professional, and she brushes her hand over his shoulder as she heads for the coffee.

They eat breakfast at the kitchen island, and when she stands to leave, he pulls her back, cupping her neck in his hands and kissing her in a way that has her gripping his shirt to stay upright. 

When he pulls back, her eyes are closed, fluttering a little. He brushes his lips against her ear. “Try not to fall in love with any more cute new faculty,” he murmurs. 

Her lashes lift slowly, the faintest smirk curving her mouth. “Really, Trevor — at this point, I have exhausted my capacity for charming idiots.”

He laughs. “You’re mean.”

“Exactly how you like me,” she replies, kissing him again one more time. 

He lets her go and picks up his plate. “Have a good day, babe.”

“I will,” she answers as she drapes her purse over her elbow. “And you…” she stops at the door and turns to him with a smirk.

“Be a good boy.”

She goes, the door clicking shut behind her, and he’s left standing in the kitchen with a familiar heat low in his gut and a stupid grin on his face.

And feeling very, very lucky.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Tenure & Temptation