Possessive A**hole

I never thought I’d say this, but I missed school.

There. I said it.

Online classes are fine until you realize they suck the soul out of everything—including hot lecturers. And our new psychology lecturer? I’d only heard his voice through my laptop speakers. Deep. Smooth. Unfairly seductive. The kind of voice that makes you sit up straighter for no reason.

I walk into class early. Only a few people scattered around, bags slung over chairs, phones out. Class doesn’t start until ten. Five more minutes.

I set everything on my desk like I’m preparing for battle—laptop, notebook, pen perfectly aligned. I am ready.

Then people start flooding in. Noise everywhere. Laughter. Chairs scraping. Someone clears their throat.

“Attention, everyone.”

The room quiets to murmurs as the lecturer steps in.

Damn.

I was right. He’s hot. Like, criminally hot. Confident posture, sharp jaw, rolled-up sleeves like he knows exactly what he’s doing to us. The class flows easily, and for once, I feel like I belong here.

Then the door opens.

Mike walks in.

No warning. No apology. Just him.

He doesn’t even look around—just scans the room, finds me, and calmly makes people shift so he can sit next to me. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The lecturer—Mr. T—pauses. He’s definitely pissed.

“Okay,” he says tightly, “if we’re all finished rearranging the room, let’s resume. Sunshine.”

I freeze.

Sunshine?

He looks straight at me. “You were taking online classes, right?”

“Yes,” I say, suddenly shy with all the attention on me.

“Then start us off. What’s your understanding of abandonment and what it can do to someone?”

I answer. I’m good at this. I love this class.

But every time Mr. T calls me Sunshine, Mike stiffens beside me. I swear I hear a low growl. Then Mike lifts his hand.

“Don’t you think,” he says calmly, “that repeatedly calling my boyfriend ‘Sunshine’ could be interpreted as flirting?”

Silence.

Then chaos.

The class erupts—“Bias!” “Yeah!” “They’re definitely fucking!”

I want to disappear.

I’m furious.

This is the one class I shine in, and he just nuked it. Mr. T looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.

Class ends early.

I shove Mike away and storm out.

Boyfriend.

He called me his boyfriend.

For months I’ve been throwing myself at this man—jokes, looks, very obvious flirting—and suddenly when someone bats their lashes my way, he wants to claim territory?

At home, my anger has nowhere to go. I don’t even have another place to escape to. We share a room.

“I’m sleeping on the floor,” I declare.

“Sunshine,” Mike says lazily, “you seem upset. What’s wrong?”

I try to walk past him.

Big mistake.

He pulls me back effortlessly. His mouth finds my neck, slow and deliberate. Teeth scrape my collarbone. I gasp, traitorously melting. My hands curl into his shirt before I can stop myself.

I don’t protest. I don’t think.

I moan. I close my eyes.

I wake up the next morning in a rush not to miss class.

Then I look in the mirror.

Bite marks. Hickeys. Everywhere—neck, chest, collarbone.

Marking.

That asshole played me.

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