My Mouth Before 21

I stared at my reflection in the lecture hall window long after everyone else had escaped to their normal, non-psychologically complicated lives.

My notebook was still open to a completely blank page because apparently I’d spent the entire class having an internal crisis instead of taking notes about Victorian poetry.

“I’m nothing like her,” I whispered to my ghost reflection, pressing my fingers to my chest like I could physically slow the panic building there.

But that didn’t stop the questions from multiplying like rabbits in my brain.

What the fuck had I actually witnessed in Vaughn’s office? What did it mean for me? And why couldn’t I stop thinking about the way she’d dropped to her knees like muscle memory?

My feet carried me toward Lewis’s office before my brain could talk them out of it. Heart pounding, mouth desert-dry, fingers curled into fists as I knocked on his pretentious heavy door.

“Come in.”

I stepped inside and shut the door with the kind of finality that suggested we were about to have a conversation that couldn’t be interrupted.

He was buttoning his jacket like he’d been about to leave, but his eyes met mine—calm, unreadable, giving away absolutely nothing.

Classic Lewis. Emotional Fort Knox in a perfectly tailored suit.

“Miss Hale,” he said, switching into full professor mode. “Did you need clarification on the lecture?”

I fucking hated how he could flip that switch.

Professional, detached, like he hadn’t been systematically rewiring my brain for weeks. But I caught the flicker in his gaze—the storm brewing just beneath that controlled surface.

“I need to ask you something,” I said, stepping forward because retreating was for cowards.

He nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Ask.”

“What…” I swallowed hard, trying to find words for questions I didn’t know how to ask. “What are we?”

He tilted his head like I was speaking a foreign language. “You’re my student, Sophie.”

“That’s not what I meant.” My voice cracked slightly, betraying the chaos in my chest. “You know it’s not.”

Lewis didn’t move, but something shifted in his expression. “Why are you asking that?”

“Because,” I said, breath hitching, “I saw you. With Dr. Vaughn.”

His face finally changed. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a breath that didn’t come easy. Like I’d just dropped a bomb in his perfectly controlled world.

“You saw what, exactly?”

“I heard her,” I said, pushing forward because backing down now would be admitting defeat. “I heard everything. She said you wouldn’t find another victim.”

“And you think that’s what you are?” His voice went quiet, dangerous. “A victim?”

I hesitated because honestly? I wasn’t sure anymore.

“No. But I need to understand what I’m walking into.”

He stepped around the desk and came closer, the room suddenly feeling like it had shrunk by half. “Dr. Vaughn and I had a history. That’s not exactly classified information.”

“She said—”

“I know what she said,” he cut in sharply. “She wanted more. Commitment, emotion, the whole domestic fantasy. I told her from the beginning I wasn’t capable of that. But she thought she could change me.”

I looked at him, really looked. His jaw was clenched, hands perfectly still, but his eyes were telling a different story entirely.

“So she threw a tantrum?” I asked.

“She thought her submission gave her power over me,” he said, voice dropping to that register that made my stomach flip. “And when I didn’t play the role she’d imagined, she lost control. So I ended it.”

“And me?” The question came out smaller than I’d intended. “What am I to you?”

His gaze darkened, pinning me in place. “You’re mine.”

The words hit somewhere low in my stomach, spreading heat through my entire nervous system.

“I didn’t agree to that,” I whispered, even though my body was already betraying me, responding to the possessive certainty in his voice.

“Yet you’re still mine,” he said, like my consent was a formality we’d already covered.

I stepped back, trying to create space to think. “So I’m not allowed to see anyone else? Is that how this works?”

He took a step forward, closing the distance I’d tried to create. “Is that what you want?”

I didn’t answer because the thought of anyone else touching me now felt wrong in a way I couldn’t explain.

He moved even closer, slow and deliberate, until I could feel the heat radiating off him.

“When I touch you,” he said, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, “when I tell you what to do, when you fall apart under my hands…” He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Does it feel like I’d ever let anyone else have that?”

A sound escaped my throat before I could swallow it. “No.”

He backed me up until I hit the edge of his desk, trapped between mahogany and muscle. His hands didn’t touch me, not yet, but I felt them in the space between us like electricity.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“I belong to you,” I whispered, hating how right the words felt coming out of my mouth.

His hand came up, brushing a piece of hair behind my ear with devastating gentleness. “Now there’s my lovely princess.”

That praise sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with temperature. I hated how much I needed it, craved it.

He stared at me like I was something he wanted to worship and devour all at once. The space between us buzzed with tension—my breath shaky when his controlled, but barely.

Then his one hand slid up, fingers curling around the side of my neck, not tight, just present. The weight of his touch grounded me, tethered me to this moment. His thumb stroked the underside of my jaw, tilting my face up.

“Do you still want to date someone else?” I shook my head because words had temporarily abandoned me. “Words, Sophie.”

“No, sir.”

His smirk was sharp enough to cut glass. “That’s better.”

His mouth came down on mine—hot, hungry, and consuming. There was nothing tentative about it. He kissed me like he already owned my breath, my moan, my pulse.

Like he’d waited forever for this and was done holding back.

A tenderness that laced through the urgency almost undone me, like he needed me as much as he wanted me. His other hand slid around my waist, pulling me close until our bodies aligned, heat to heat, breath to breath.

I melted against him.

His lips moved over mine, demanding and possessive, but there was care in the way he cupped my face, the way he groaned quietly when I tangled my fingers in his shirt, clutching him closer.

The kiss deepened—his tongue stroking into my mouth, claiming, exploring. I moaned, and he swallowed it like it fed something starved inside him.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice pure gravel. “No more games. No more doubts.”

“I’m still scared,” I admitted, because apparently honesty was my default setting now.

He nodded once, gaze unwavering. “Good.”

My heart flipped violently in my chest and Adrian kissed me again—slower this time. Like he wanted to memorize the shape of my mouth. Like he wasn’t just kissing my lips, but everything I was.

He broke the kiss just enough to whisper against my lips, his forehead resting on mine. “It means you understand the weight of it.”

“What if I become like her?” The question slipped out in a whisper. “What if I want more than you can give?”

He paused, and the silence stretched between us like a tightrope.

“Then we talk,” he said finally. “But don’t believe everything Lisette Vaughn says. She lost her mind the moment she realized she didn’t own me.”

“And me?” I asked again, because apparently I was a glutton for psychological punishment.

He leaned in, lips brushing mine again. “That’s a problem for another day.”