The Pull That Can’t Be Ignored

Nathaniel sat in his chair long after Elena had gone, his hands braced on the desk, his breath coming in slow, deliberate pulls as if he could regulate the storm raging inside him through sheer force of will. But no matter how many times he exhaled, no matter how tightly he clenched his fists, the heat of her presence still lingered in the air, in his skin, in the space where she had stood just moments ago. He could still hear her voice, still feel the ghost of her touch against his wrist, so faint yet so devastating.

God help him, he was losing this battle.

He had been strong today, stronger than he thought possible, but every inch of restraint had been a razor against his skin, cutting deep, reminding him of just how dangerous this was becoming. And yet, for all his resistance, for all his carefully constructed control, the most damning part of it all was that he didn't want her to stop. He didn't want to turn away. He didn't want to let go.

And she knew it.

Elena Hart walked through the campus courtyard, her lips curled in a secret smile, the crisp morning air doing nothing to cool the warmth still simmering beneath her skin. She could feel him still, feel the weight of his stare even now, long after she had left his office. He had been so close to breaking, so close to losing that precious control he clung to so desperately, and the knowledge of that sent something darkly thrilling through her veins.

She wasn't blind. She had seen the way he looked at her, the way his breath hitched when she spoke, the way his body went taut the moment she stepped into his space. It was all there, written in the tightness of his jaw, in the grip of his fingers, in the tension that coiled inside him every time she so much as said his name. He wanted her. He had always wanted her. And yet, he was still trying to pretend that none of it was real.

But desire wasn't something one could bury forever.

And soon… he wouldn't be able to resist her.

---

Nathaniel avoided her all day. In the lecture hall, he barely spared her a glance, his voice remaining detached, distant, as if shutting her out was the only way to survive. But Elena wasn't deterred. No, she was patient. She watched, she waited, she let him think he was winning—until he wasn't.

That evening, as the campus lights flickered on, casting a warm glow over the cobblestone pathways, she found him again. He was in the faculty library, seated at one of the long mahogany tables, his head bowed over a book, his fingers absently rubbing at his temple as if trying to erase thoughts that wouldn't leave him alone.

She took her time approaching, her heels barely making a sound against the polished floor, her presence a whisper of something inevitable. When she reached him, she didn't speak. Not right away. Instead, she slid into the seat across from him, placing her bag on the table as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Nathaniel didn't look up immediately, but she saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers stilled on the page.

"Elena," he said at last, his voice heavy with warning.

She smiled, slow and knowing. "Professor."

He exhaled sharply, finally lifting his gaze to meet hers, and God, that look. It was fire and ice, a war between want and restraint, a battle he was barely holding together.

"You shouldn't be here," he murmured, though his voice lacked the usual sharpness.

She leaned forward slightly, just enough that the warm, soft scent of her perfume drifted toward him, just enough that the air between them thickened with something unspoken. "I think we both know that's not true."

He was unraveling. She could see it, feel it, the pull between them growing tighter with every second. And then, just when she thought he might push back again, just when she thought he might cling to the last fraying threads of his resistance—he broke.

It happened in a single breath, in a moment too small to measure but too profound to ignore.

Nathaniel reached for her.

It wasn't calculated, wasn't careful. It was instinct, pure and desperate, his fingers curling around her wrist, his grip firm but not unkind, his touch sending a shockwave of heat through her veins. Elena inhaled sharply, her pulse skittering beneath his fingertips, her body locking in place as his gaze darkened.

"What are you doing to me?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, raw, as if he hated the truth as much as he needed it.

She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her hand beneath his, her fingers grazing the inside of his palm, soft, warm, deliberate. "Nothing you don't want me to."

His breath hitched. His grip tightened for just a second before—he let go.

The loss of his touch sent a sharp pang through her, but it wasn't regret. It was victory. Because now, there was no denying it.

Nathaniel Pierce wanted her.

And soon, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from having her.