My Mouth Before 2

“He didn’t make you come again, did he?”

Cleo’s voice rang through the apartment like a morning fire alarm—loud, unapologetic, and entirely too on-point for 8:42 a.m. I sat on the kitchen counter in an oversized shirt, nursing my coffee like it was the only stable relationship I had left.

“I heard your stupid rose the whole night,” she added with a smirk, grabbing the oat milk from the fridge.

My cheeks flamed. “Can you not say that like you’re announcing it to the entire floor?”

“Girl, please.” Cleo flipped her curls over her shoulder and leaned against the fridge in nothing but a sports bra and satin boxers. “You think anyone on this floor isn’t already using a vibrator named after a flower? Or a fruit? Get with the times.”

Cleo Rossi had been my roommate since freshman year, which felt like decades ago even though it was only three. We couldn’t be more opposite.

She was a fire—loud, reckless, stunning. Long, dark curls always piled messily on her head, winged liner so sharp it could stab someone, and a wardrobe consisting mostly of crop tops and dangerous confidence.

She wore pleasure like perfume.

Cleo was also getting regularly railed by Ayden Chase, the six-foot-four basketball captain with thighs like carved oak and the attention span of a golden-retriever. They had a situationship built on post-practice visits and broken condoms.

Meanwhile, I had Ethan. Or… maybe didn’t anymore.

I sighed and stared into my coffee. “We got into a fight last night.”

“Shocking.” Cleo raised a brow. “What about this time? Let me guess. You tried to spice things up and he cockblocked you.”

I looked up slowly.

“Oh my god, did he?” she gasped, eyes sparkling. “What’d you do, ask him to pull your hair? Use his words? God forbid.”

“I asked him to choke me,” I mumbled into my cup.

Cleo dropped her oat milk dramatically. “Yes, bitch! You go, girl!” Then narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Did he at least try?”

“No,” I said, voice small. “He freaked out. Rolled off. Said I’m sick and into a freak shit and needed therapy.”

“Oh, please. Princess Ethan?” Cleo snorted so hard it echoed. “That man probably thinks fingering is second base. What did he say exactly?”

I exhaled through my nose. “He said—and I quote—‘You want to be abused during sex now?’”

Cleo slammed the milk on the counter like it personally offended her. “That’s rich, coming from a man who considers foreplay turning off the lights. His dick’s got the personality of a soggy breadstick.”

Despite myself, I laughed. A little too hard. Then suddenly, I almost cried.

Because even though the sex was garbage, Ethan had been my comfort zone. The one consistent thing in a life full of weight I wasn’t ready to carry.

“I don’t know…” I rubbed my hand over my face. “It wasn’t even about the choking. I just wanted something… more. Not even crazy. Just to feel something.”

“Soph. It’s not you.” Cleo didn’t flinch. “Ethan’s ego is bigger than his dick, and somehow still less useful. You deserve someone who listens. Who makes you feel seen. Not… serviced.”

I choked on a laugh. “You’re the worst.”

“No, babe. I’m honest.” She grinned. “And I’m glad you’re not with that stupid shit anymore. He was the human equivalent of saltless fries.”

The truth clung to my ribs. I’d never dated anyone before Ethan. Never had the time. While other girls went to dances and fumbled through high school romance, I was packing lunches and signing school slips for my sisters.

My dad worked twelve-hour shifts at a steel plant—came home coated in soot and silence. It was always me who filled the gaps.

So when Ethan wanted me, it felt… safe. Predictable. Like a role I could play without breaking character. But now that I’d grown into my own mind—into my own body—I realized safety wasn’t the same as satisfaction.

“Come on,” Cleo said, already dressed up and grabbing her keys. “Class in ten. Let’s go get distracted by literature and academic repression.”

I grabbed my bag and followed her out, the morning sun sharp against my tired thoughts. The walk was brisk, leaves crunching underfoot, but my head lagged behind, still stuck in the fog of last night.

As we approached the lecture hall, the buzz of students grew louder, the usual chaos of campus life kicking in, Cleo leaned in, whispering, “Did you hear the rumors?”

“What rumors?”

“Our new professor. Apparently he’s, like, hotty hot. But also terrifying. Ayden said he made someone cry in a grad seminar last semester just by correcting their syntax.”

“Sounds fun,” I muttered, already mentally preparing for academic torture.

But the moment he walked in, I felt it.

The entire room held its breath. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even Jessica, who never shuts up about her weekend hookups, went silent. It wasn’t just his looks—though fuck, those were undeniable.

It was something deeper. Predatory, almost.

He moved like a serpent. Sharp black button-down that probably cost more than my textbooks, perfectly tailored slacks that screamed ‘I have my shit together in ways you can’t even imagine,’ and eyes so cold they could freeze your GPA mid-semester.

No smile. No friendly professor bullshit. Just pure, undiluted control.

He dropped his briefcase—leather, expensive, the kind that makes a statement when it hits the desk. Adjusted his cuffs like he was preparing for surgery.

Then he stared at us. Not looked. Stared. Like we were specimens under a microscope.

“Literature,” he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey but cutting like a blade, “is the science of manipulation. I am Professor Adrian Lewis. Let’s begin.”

My heart did this weird stutter-step thing.

He was older—late thirties, maybe early forties. But not in that pathetic way where professors try too hard to relate to students. This was different. Confident. Magnetic in the most dangerous possible way.

Stern jawline, dark hair with silver threading through the temples like he’d earned every strand through sheer intellectual dominance. Eyes that didn’t just see you—they dissected you, catalogued your weaknesses, strip you bare.

He didn’t scan the room like normal professors do. He dissected it. Each glance was surgical, precise, calculating.

Fifteen minutes into his opening lecture about power dynamics in Victorian novels, my phone buzzed against my thigh. I shouldn’t have looked. Every functioning brain cell screamed don’t do it. But my hand moved anyway, muscle memory overriding common sense.

A DM from someone I didn’t know. Private profile. Generic name. One photo that made my stomach drop into my shoes.

Ethan. His tongue halfway down some brunette’s throat in what looked like the hallway outside Delta Phi.

The caption: “Is this your boyfriend? I’m sorry but I thought you should know.”

I gasped. Too loud. Way too fucking loud. Heads swiveled and Professor Lewis’s granite eyes locked onto me with laser precision.

“If something is more important than my lecture, please, share with the class.”

My breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat. “I’m sorry—”

“Then show it by leaving quietly. And don’t return until you’re capable of basic attention.”

Dead silence. Even the air conditioning seemed to hold its breath.

Cleo’s hand found mine under the desk, squeezing hard. But the damage was done. Professor Lewis had already moved on, dismissed me like I was nothing.

After class, Cleo cornered me by the stairwell. “You okay?”

I just showed her the photo.

Her jaw went rigid. “Fuck him. We’re going out tonight.”