Kiara Mehta never expected her final year at university to turn into a whirlwind of temptation and desire. When the dangerously charming Agastya Agarwal steps in as an intern professor, he becomes the center of every whispered conversation and stole...
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The classroom buzzed with idle conversation until the sound of Agastya’s precise footsteps silenced them. He walked in, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room with practiced authority. Without a word, he placed his notes on the desk, rolled up his sleeves, and then, in a tone that brokered no argument, said....
"I need an assistant."
A ripple of curiosity spread through the room. Students exchanged glances, intrigued by the sudden announcement.
Agastya continued, ignoring their reactions. "Someone to help with administrative work. Sorting research papers, compiling assessments, organizing coursework." Then, his gaze landed on Kiara. "Kiara Mehta, you’ll take on the role."
Kiara's eyes widened.
A hush fell over the room.
She felt multiple pairs of eyes dart toward her. Some curious, some envious. Aisha nudged her, barely hiding her excitement.
Kiara, on the other hand, felt an entirely different reaction course through her.
This had nothing to do with capability.
This was about control.
She could see it in his eyes the subtle challenge, the way he was deliberately testing her, forcing her into a position where she’d have to be around him more than she already was.
Bastard.
Kiara straightened in her seat, forcing her voice to remain neutral. "Sir, wouldn't someone else be more qualified for this?"
His lips twitched. "I wasn’t asking, Ms. Mehta. I was informing."
Aisha let out a small, almost silent "oh damn" beside her.
Kiara clenched her jaw. She knew arguing in front of the class would be pointless. It would only make her seem defensive like she cared too much. And that was the last thing she wanted.
So instead, she nodded stiffly. "Understood, sir."
Something flickered in his expression. Approval. Amusement. Victory.
She hated all three.
Later:
Kiara stood outside his office, staring at the closed door.
She knew walking in meant walking straight into trouble.
But the alternative? Acting like she was intimidated? Hell no.
So, with a deep breath, she knocked.
"Come in," came the deep, unreadable voice from inside.
She stepped in, closing the door behind her.
Agastya sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, his glasses resting on the table beside a pile of papers. His eyes lifted, locking onto hers with quiet intensity.
"Close the door," he said, his tone casual but the air in the room shifted the moment she obeyed.
She crossed her arms. "So, this whole assistant thing is it about making my life harder or just another way to make me dance to your tune?"
A slow, knowing smirk touched his lips. "You think too highly of yourself, Ms. Mehta."
She scoffed. "You assigned me a role without asking. Seems like you think pretty highly of me too, sir."
His eyes darkened at the way she dragged out the last word.
And then, before she could process it, he was standing.
Kiara barely had time to react before he was right in front of her, his presence overwhelming, his scent intoxicating.
"You really don’t know when to stop provoking me, do you?" he murmured.
She tilted her chin, meeting his gaze with defiance. "Maybe I like seeing how far I can push you."
His fingers curled around her waist, dragging her closer. "Dangerous game."
"Then stop playing," she whispered.
His restraint snapped.
His lips crashed against hers, hot and demanding, claiming her without hesitation.
Kiara moaned as he pressed her back against the desk, his hands gripping her hips, fingers digging in as though he needed to feel her, to make her understand that this wasn’t something he could control anymore.
Her hands fisted his shirt, tugging him even closer as his tongue parted her lips, deepening the kiss with raw hunger.
Agastya’s hands slid under her shirt, fingertips skimming over her skin, igniting a fire everywhere he touched.
Clothes became an afterthought.
Kiara gasped as he pulled her shirt over her head, his lips trailing down the column of her throat, his teeth grazing her pulse before pressing a kiss there, soothing the mark.
"You’re playing with fire," he rasped against her skin, his breath hot, sending shivers down her spine.
"Then burn me," she whispered.
His groan was pure sin.
His hands moved to the waistband of her jeans, tugging them down just as she worked on his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders.
For the first time, there were no words.
No hesitation.
Just heat.
Pure, undeniable heat.
His lips found hers again, desperate, possessive, as his hands roamed over her bare skin, memorizing every inch.
She arched into him, nails digging into his back as he lifted her onto the desk, settling between her legs.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her lips, his voice rough, strained.
Her response was immediate. "I won’t."
A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Didn’t think so."
And then, just like that, they surrendered.
To the tension.
To the fire.
To the one thing they both had been denying for far too long.
And this time, neither of them held back.
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