The corridor swallowed them in darkness, his grip on her wrist a steady pressure—not painful, not gentle, just certain. Claire's sneakers squeaked on the waxed floor, the sound too loud, and she stumbled once. He didn't slow. His shoulders cut a shape against the dim exit signs, and she followed because the alternative was standing still while someone watched from the shadows.
The janitor's closet was three doors down from his office. He shoved the door open with one hand, pulled her through with the other, and the lock clicked behind them before her eyes could adjust. Bleach climbed up her sinuses. A mop handle dug into her spine. The single bulb overhead buzzed, flickered, then steadied—casting harsh yellow across rusted shelving and a concrete floor stained with decades of chemical rings.
Marcus's hands found her waist. She couldn't see his eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses, just the glint of the bulb in the lenses, the hard line of his jaw under the beard.
"If they're watching," he said, voice rough and low, "let's give them something to watch."
Her breath caught. Not from the words—from the way his thumbs pressed into her hipbones, the heat of his palms through her jeans. He was asking something without saying it, the same way he'd waited for her to press down on his hand in the office. Claire twisted her silver ring, the metal biting into her thumb.
"You think they can see in here?"
"I think I don't care."
She believed him. That was the terrifying part. Dean Marcus Laurent, who'd made her stand in his office at midnight while he read her file, who'd told her rules applied to everyone—he didn't care if someone watched. He wanted them to watch. He wanted them to see her come apart again, this time with his name in her mouth.
His hand left her waist and found the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair. Pulling, just enough to tilt her face up. The bulb flickered again. His mouth found hers in the dark—hungry, claiming, nothing like the measured man who'd said Good like a private confirmation three hours ago.
She kissed him back with her whole body, pressing forward until her chest met his, until the shelving rattled behind her. She felt his erection through his trousers, hard against her stomach, and the knowledge that he was already this far gone made something hot and reckless bloom in her gut. Her hands found his lapels, then his shoulders, then the back of his neck—touching everywhere she'd wanted to touch since he'd almost put his hand on her shoulder and pulled back.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard against her temple. "Tell me to stop."
"No."
His thumb found her pulse, pressing into the hollow of her throat. "Then be quiet. If someone's out there, I want them to hear exactly what I do to you."
Claire's knees went weak. She grabbed the shelf behind her, knocking a bottle of disinfectant to the floor with a hollow clatter. Neither of them looked down. His hand slid from her throat to the collar of her shirt, fingers finding the first button. The bulb buzzed louder, throwing jittering shadows against the wall, and somewhere in the corridor, a door opened.
Claire went rigid, every nerve firing at once. The button under his thumb—pressed but not yet pushed through—became the axis her whole body rotated around. In the corridor, footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Not the random shuffle of a security guard making rounds. Someone who knew where they were going.
Marcus's hand didn't move. His eyes, behind the wire-rimmed glasses, locked onto hers. The bulb buzzed, a trapped fly throwing jittering shadows across his jaw, and she watched his expression harden into something she hadn't seen before. Not the dean. Not the man who'd almost touched her shoulder and pulled back. Someone more dangerous.
The footsteps stopped.
Right outside the closet door. Two feet of wood and darkness between them and whoever had watched her come apart in his office. Claire's breath came in shallow pulls through her nose. Her silver ring dug into her thumb—she was twisting it, hadn't noticed she'd started.
Marcus's thumb slid the first button free. Deliberate. Silent. The fabric parted, and cool closet air kissed her collarbone. She should have stopped him. Should have hissed a protest, pulled back, slapped his hand away. Instead she tilted her chin up, giving him access, her pulse hammering so loud she was sure whoever stood outside could hear it through the door.
His fingers found the second button. His mouth brushed her ear, breath hot and words barely sound. "Don't. Move."
Outside, a throat cleared. A soft exhale—almost a laugh, almost something else. Claire's stomach dropped. She knew that sound. Not the person, but the intent. Someone enjoying themselves. Someone who'd been waiting for exactly this.
The second button gave way. Marcus's knuckles grazed her sternum, and she bit down on her lip so hard she tasted copper. His other hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her closer, and through his trousers his erection was a hard line against her hip. He was still turned on. Even now. Because of now.
The footsteps started again—moving away. Not hurried. Not retreating. Just leaving. Like whoever was out there had seen enough, for now. Like they'd be back.
Marcus waited until the sound faded into the building's deep silence. Then his forehead dropped to hers, his breath coming hard through his nose. His thumb traced the hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse jumped. "They're gone," he said. "But they'll be back."
"Good." Claire's voice came out wrecked, a strangled whisper she barely recognized as her own. She pressed her hips forward, grinding against the hard length of him, and watched his dark eyes go black with something that looked a lot like hunger. "Let them watch."