Stalked by my Professor Novel

Chapter 34 I've scrubbed my skin raw, but I still feel filthy. The bathroom mirror shows a horror movie version of myself-bloodshot eyes, hair dripping wet from my third shower since I woke up this morning, skin red and irritated from scalding water and the rough cotton washcloth. It's been days since that video call with Rooke, but I'm subjected to repeat after repeat every fucking minute I'm awake. Every time I close my eyes, I see his abs tightening. Hear his tortured moan. Feel the shameful echo of a pleasure I'm not supposed to crave.

"Fuck!" I slam my fist against the tile, biting down on my lip at the sharp pain. Better than the other sensations crawling through me, trying to get a rise out of me. I woke up an hour ago with no idea when I'd passed out. First thing I did was come in here and puke out my guts. Fuck all to do with the booze and weed I consumed again last night. It's quickly become a wind down routine that ends with me passed out-anything to stop another replay. Everything to do with the smell of cum that had been wafting off my body as I lay there, miserable and hungover.

I know it's mine-can only be mine-but it smelled like Rooke. As if he snuck in through my window in the early hours of the morning like motherfucking Nosferatu and shot his load all over me as I slept. Every morning I wake up with cum in my boxers from a wet dream I don't remember. And every morning it smells like Rooke. This can't be normal. My phone buzzes from the counter. I ignore it. Probably Rooke again, trying to sink his hooks deeper, reminding me that he owns me. The thought makes my stomach churn, and my cock twitch like the fucking traitor it is. Enough of this bullshit.

I'm not...whatever Rooke thinks I am. I was confused. Manipulated. The weed, the alcohol, his fucking mind games-that's all it was. Just have to prove what I already know. What I am. What I want. I snatch up my phone to text Haven again. She's the antidote to whatever poison Rooke injected into my veins this past weekend. If I can hold her, kiss her, fuck her, then I'll be myself again. Normal again. Then I can forget the way Rooke's voice made me feel when he called me his good boy. A knock on the bathroom door has me jerking in shock.

"Dude, come on, you've been in there for ages," Nolan whines from the hallway. "I'm gonna be late for class." I grab my stuff, avoiding Nolan's accusing stare as I head back to my room. He's the only frat brother I've seen since I got up. Guess everyone else is already on campus. Thirty minutes later, it's obvious Haven won't reply to my messages. Three texts sent, all unread. The longer she ignores me, the more my panic builds, intensifying the confusion, the shame. "Ghosting me, huh?" I mutter, scrolling through my still unanswered messaged. Shouldn't be surprised.

She's a fucking master at disappearing. She ghosted me for three fucking years, then strolled back into my life like it was nothing. "Bitch." I toss my phone to the bed, dragging my fingers through my damp hair as I pace. As I wait. As I fume. For all of five minutes. Then I pick up my phone again. Check my messages again. It bounces off the bed a second later. "Fucking Riversider piece of trash." This is good. Anger I understand. Anger has been a constant companion. It knew me long before I met Little Miss Heavenly. I tug on jeans and a hoodie, not bothering to dry my hair.

If Haven thinks she can cut me off after what we did on Saturday, after what she did, she's got a huge fucking surprise headed her way. She made a fatal mistake setting herself up just down the road from me. Ghosting someone's a lot harder if they can just huff and puff and blow your house down. Greek Row is as quiet as my own frat house. By the time I reach the sorority house, I've convinced myself that speaking to Haven is the only way to fix whatever broke inside me during that video call with Rooke. I thump a fist on the front door of GAZ. Nothing. She could be on campus.

Rooke's class starts soon. I should be there, but I won't. I try knocking again, harder this time, but the house remains silent. Fuck this. I circle around to the back, hopping over the garden gate without bothering to check if it's unlocked. The back door is locked but thankfully someone left the laundry window open. It's a tight squeeze, but I've done more than my fair share of breaking and entering in my life. The only way I ever got new shit back then was to take it from other people. The house is empty. Too quiet. Like it's holding its breath. I head for the stairs anyway.

I'll just wait in her room until she gets back. Go through her shit. See if there's anything else worth taking. "Yo, anyone home?" I call out, not expecting an answer, but I'd rather not risk walking in on a girl in a towel and getting arrested for trespassing. This way I have plausible deniability. A few of the wooden risers creak under my weight, one so loudly I nearly piss myself. I don't know why I'm expecting someone to come barreling toward me with a gun or a knife. Maybe because I had one pointed at me yesterday morning. Maybe because I had one pointed at Haven just a few days earlier.

I make my way down the hall to Haven and Melissa's room, scanning like I'm checking for ninja assassins. Their bedroom door is ajar, but I freeze on the threshold when I see what's inside. "Haven!" She's on the floor, sprawled face-down on the carpet like she collapsed mid-crawl. For a second, I can't breathe. Can't move. Is she⁠-? Then I see her back rise with a shallow breath. Not dead. But more than just asleep. Passed out on a Tuesday morning? Guess alcoholism runs in the family. Relief crashes through me. Immediately followed by something darker.

Something that whispers how vulnerable she is right now. How I could do anything I want to her, and she wouldn't be able to stop me. I step into the room, closing the door behind me, and go to kneel beside her. The smell of alcohol and something coppery hits my nose. Hair partially covers her face, but her eyes are closed, lips parted. There's a pill bottle on the nightstand. "Needed something to take off the edge, huh?" I mutter. "Guess that's why you couldn't be bothered to answer my texts." She's limp as a rag doll, her head lolling to the side when I roll her onto her back.

I brush the hair from her face, frowning at how different she looks. No scowl. No smart-ass smirk. Almost peaceful. Almost like the Haven I knew before. My fingers trace the line of her jaw, down to her neck. Her pulse flutters beneath my touch when I wrap my fingers around her throat. "So fucking defenseless," I whisper, sliding my thumb across her bottom lip. Her mouth parts further at the pressure. "Must be nice to get high and just forget all your problems, Heavenly." I push my thumb into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. She doesn't resist, doesn't bite. Just lies there, taking it.

My breath quickens, cock stirring in my jeans. This is what I need. This-her-so I can forget everything that happened with Rooke. I slip my hand under her shirt, palm curving over the swell of her tit. She's not wearing a bra. When I squeeze, I can feel her nipple harden beneath my palm. "You like that, don't you, you slut?" I murmur, even though she can't answer. A sound escapes her lips-not a moan, not quite a whimper. Her eyelids flutter but don't open. My hand slides lower, over her belly. "I could do anything to you right now," I whisper.

"And there's not a damn thing you could do to stop me." Out in the hallway, a stair creaks loudly. "Fuck!" I hiss, jerking back like I've been electrocuted. Did I imagine it? Just a victim of my own guilty conscience? Another creak. Someone's in the house. Someone's coming up the stairs. I'm trapped. My eyes flicker back to Haven. Jesus. This...doesn't look good. My gaze darts around the room, searching for a hiding place. Under the bed? Too obvious if someone looks. The window? Even if I had enough time, I'd be scaling the walls in broad daylight. Nothing suspicious about that.

The darkness inside Melissa's partly open closet beckons. I dash across the room, slipping and wedging myself between dresses and a stack of shoe boxes. I start to pull the door closed, but the footsteps are too close. If they come inside and see the closet door move, my cover is blown. There's just enough space to peer through. Hopefully not enough to see me skulking inside. The footsteps grow louder. Heavy. Measured. Not the click of sorority girl heels. A man, then. The bedroom door opens, and I hold my breath.

Read complete version only at findnovel.net Bastian motherfucking Rooke steps into the room like he owns the place. My heart stutters, then pounds so hard I'm shocked when he doesn't turn to the closet to point me out. What the fuck is he doing here? For a second, he just stares. Then he's on his knees beside Haven, fingers at her throat, checking for a pulse. Something crosses his face. It's not relief. He scans her side of the room, eyes landing on the pill bottle. He snatches it up, studies it, sets it back down. Something in his expression changes.

When he looks back at Haven, his eyes darkening with the same predatory hunger I've seen in class. Same as Saturday morning, when I got down on my knees in front of him, a gun to my temple. His tongue darts out, teasing his bottom lip, like he's considering his options. But what fucking options? Rooke picks her up and carries her to her bed. He lowers her onto the mattress, one hand resting on her belly like he's checking her breathing. Like he's just making sure she's okay before he leaves. My chest clenches tight when he stands and heads for the door.

A wave of relief floods through me when he grabs the handle. Thank fuck. But icy adrenaline hits me a second later when he closes the door-and locks it. Jesus. What the fuck is he...? Rooke climbs onto the mattress beside Haven's prone body, leans over, and brushes hair from her face with an almost loving caress that makes every hair on my body stand on end. "What is it about you, Miss Lee," I hear him murmur, "that renders me incapable of doing the right thing?" When he pushes open her thighs, a jolt goes through me. Panic. Fear. Something...else. I should step out.

Should stop whatever's about to happen. But I don't. I take out my fucking phone, turn on the camera, and point it through the gap, framing a sliver of the bed, of Rooke, of Haven. My thumb trembles as I tap record. Staying hidden, I watch Rooke on my phone's screen, my breath shallow, my cock hardening. I need to know how far he's going to go. I need evidence. And I'm too fucking scared to move. What is it about you, Heavenly, that renders me incapable of doing the right thing?