Nocticadia: A Dark Academia Gothic Romance

He refused to look at me.

Clad in dark jeans and a white button-down, Professor Bramwell stood at the front of the lecture hall, describing chemotactic behavior in Leishmania–a topic I suddenly didn’t care about–not sparing me a single glance. I would’ve been frustrated by that, if he hadn’t rubbed the back of his neck a few times, rubbed his jaw, and even loosened a button on his shirt at some point, which didn’t go unnoticed by the girl sitting in front of me. She snapped a picture of him with the caption, Yes Daddy Death, and had zoomed in on the front of his pants, to the obvious outline of a bulging hard-on.

I shifted in my seat, the impudent brat in me wanting to kick the back of hers. Hard. Not like it was her fault, though, when the man oozed sex and raw masculinity out of every pore of his body. The mere sight of him spurred visuals of sweat and muscle, moving like a well-honed machine. I flinched at that, turning away to relieve myself of the gnawing thought that had me crossing my legs.

Damn him.

As I left the lecture hall, rolling my eyes at the lineup of girls waiting to ask a million questions just to get a few moments of his attention, I caught the focused trail of his gaze that followed after me. That was how it was going to be from then on. Stolen glances and awkward silences. I hated it, this dynamic between us. It’d only been mere hours, and my skin already missed the feel of his rough hands, the soft caress of his lips.

For the rest of my day, I went through mindless motions. Muscle memory. Unpacking my laptop, taking my notes, packing it back up, heading to the next class, eating. All the while, my head was wound around Professor Bramwell and what we’d done the night before.

In a long hot shower, I pressed my forehead to the tiles and desperately tried to recreate those sensations with my own fingers. Not even the tickle of the water, the heat, or the slickness of my body could replicate the belly-curling thrill he’d stirred with his mouth. Like a hungry, starving beast that would never be full. Everything after him would be mediocre.

He was right. He had absolutely ruined me. Torn me open to my darkest secrets, which he shifted and molded to fit himself there, and sewn me back together as something else entirely.

I didn’t even recognize the pining fool I’d become. As I stared at myself in the foggy bathroom mirror, I shook my head. “What the hell are you doing?” I whispered.

I had to get over it. Over him. It was one night. A night I’d never forget.

And nothing more.