My Mouth Before 11

Everyone had filed out of the lecture hall, laughter and the scrape of chairs echoing off the walls as the door clicked shut behind the last student. Cleo had glanced at me on her way out, eyebrows raised, lips already curled into something teasing.

“I’ll wait for you outside?” she’d said, loud enough for Lewis to hear.

I just nodded, pretending not to feel the way his eyes tracked my every movement.

I couldn’t tell her the truth—that I was staying behind because I was a complete fucking mess who couldn’t handle the fact that my untouchable literature professor was apparently my anonymous club stalker.

“I just need to ask about the reading list,” I lied.

But I hadn’t brought my book. Or my pen. Or anything resembling actual academic interest. Because let’s be real—I knew why I was here. And so did he.

The silence inside the room shifted once we were alone. Not heavy. Not awkward. Dangerous.

Like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and realizing you’re not entirely sure you don’t want to jump.

I stood near his desk, heart hammering, pretending to care about the notes scrawled across my folder. Lewis leaned against the edge of his desk with that same predatory casualness he’d had at the club—one hand flat on the surface, the other adjusting his perfectly rolled cuff.

“So,” I said, because apparently my mouth had decided to work independently of my brain. “Private Room Service, huh?”

His expression didn’t change. Didn’t even flicker. “You’re upset.”

“Upset?” I let out a laugh that sounded slightly unhinged. “I’m having a complete existential crisis. My professor—my literature professor—has been sexting me for weeks. How exactly should I feel?”

“You could feel flattered.”

“I could also feel manipulated. Lied to. Completely fucking played.”

“You weren’t played.” He straightened, and suddenly the room felt smaller. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you responded to those messages.”

“I didn’t know it was you.”

“Would it have mattered?”

The question hung between us like a loaded gun. Because here’s the thing that scared me most—I wasn’t entirely sure it would have.

“This is insane,” I whispered. “You’re my professor. I’m your student. There are actual laws about this shit.”

“Are you planning to report me?”

I stared at him. At those granite eyes that had dissected my essays and apparently memorized every detail about my personal life. At the man who’d somehow managed to occupy every corner of my thoughts without me even knowing his real name.

“I should.”

“But you won’t.”

It wasn’t a question. The arrogant certainty in his voice made me want to prove him wrong. Made me want to walk out, file a complaint, transfer sections, pretend this never happened.

His gaze never left me.

I could feel it—like a heat tracing over my skin, unbuttoning every piece of clothing I still wore. My stomach twisted, thighs pressed tighter together.

He hadn’t touched me, not even once, but I was already unraveling.

Lewis’s voice dipped, almost tender. “Come here, princess.”

And I went—without another question, without resistance. My heels clicked softly on the hardwood as I crossed the space between us, like a girl being summoned in a dream.

“Kneel.”

The word landed like a slap and a caress all at once. I dropped without thought, the cool tile biting into my knees while fire coiled low in my belly.

He stared down at me, calm, composed, while I knelt trembling, wrecked by nothing more than his voice.

“I expect obedience,” he said, measured and firm. “Not hesitation. Not defiance. You said ‘yes’ and that means you trust me. Completely.”

I nodded, eyes wide when breath caught in my throat.

He reached behind him and retrieved a small black box, elegant and perfectly wrapped with satin ribbon. A gift, a command in disguise.

“Open it.”

My hands shook as I untied the ribbon, the silk sliding like sin between my fingers. Inside, nestled in tissue, was a matching lingerie set—deep wine-red lace, delicate and devastating. Barely-there straps. Sheer cups. It wasn’t something you wore. It was something you offered.

I swallowed hard, heat blooming across my chest.

“You’ll wear that tomorrow,” he said smoothly. “Under something modest. That oversized raincoat. Or the faux fur one you wore last Friday.”

My breath caught. He noticed?

“I notice everything,” he said, reading my thoughts like a book he’d already studied. “You’ll also wear this.”

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small bottle of perfume. The glass was pale pink, minimalist, and expensive.

“This,” he said, “is the only scent I want on your skin. One spritz. Behind each ear. Nowhere else.”

I nodded again, dizzy and wet and overwhelmed. Still kneeling, my eyes flickering between the box, the bottle, and his face.

“Hair?” he added, voice softening into something almost cruel in its precision. “Loose waves. Soft. Nothing polished. I want you to look like temptation dressed as innocence.”

“I… I don’t know how to do waves,” I admitted, instantly regretting the sound of my voice.

His expression hardened when he bent down to me and his fingers closed around my chin with a grip that made my core tighten. Not painful. Possessive.

“What did I tell you about speaking out of turn?” I froze when he tilted my chin higher.

“Only speak when spoken to,” I murmured, my lashes fluttering down right before I added, “Sorry.”

His thumb brushed the edge of my jaw, holding me there like a toy he was deciding whether to play with or break.

“Good girl,” he murmured, releasing me slowly, like he was savoring the feel of letting go. His approval landed in my chest like heat and hunger.

Then he smiled—sharp, knowing.

“Now tell me, Sophie,” he said, watching my pupils dilate. “Did your thighs clench when I gave you that box… or when I told you you’d wear it for me?”

I didn’t answer his question—couldn’t. My throat felt too tight, my lips too parted, my mind too overwhelmed by the heat low in my belly. But he didn’t need words.

Adrian’s eyes dropped to my thighs, watching them press together again like he could hear the wet sound of skin against skin.

“That’s what I thought,” he said softly. “You don’t even need my touch to unravel.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

“You’ll meet me at the coffee shop a street from your apartment,” he continued. “Corner booth. Ten sharp.”

I nodded again, heart hammering.

“You’ll eat before you come and rest well tonight. I don’t want excuses.” I nodded without saying a word. He looked at me for another long moment. Then just: “Stand.”

I pushed myself to my feet, legs shaky beneath me.

“You’ll be quiet about this,” he added, tone firmer now. “To everyone. Especially your roommate.”

“Of course,” I said quickly.

I turned toward the door, still dazed, still breathless. But just as I reached for the handle—“Sophie.”

His voice stopped me cold. I turned slowly. “Yes?”

He took a step closer, expression unreadable.

“You asked something earlier,” he said softly. “But I didn’t answer.”

My lips parted, confused.

Then I remembered. The question. Half-joking. Half-terrified.

“Is it true you have a ‘red room’?” I had asked, the words slipping out like a dare. He watched me for a long beat.

Then, very calmly, very clearly, he said, “Yes. Yes, I do.”