In an instant, my blood was on fire. My entire body trembled uncontrollably, and moans spilled from my throat.

My face flushed hot as a ripe peach, and my legs began to give way beneath me. It felt too good. The desire inside me surged wildly, spiraling out of control.

I gripped the bedsheet until my knuckles turned white, struggling against the maddening, soul-shaking itch.

It was humiliating to have a man touch me there, yet somewhere beneath the shame, a forbidden thrill pulsed. I craved him to be rougher.

"N-no, please, I can't take much more," I gasped. "Don't go any deeper."

My whole body felt as if it were being squeezed and crushed.

"You're very sensitive here," he observed. "To properly treat this, I'll have to use a special method."

A special method?

Before I could even process what was happening, a soft, wet sensation pressed against me from below, gliding gently along me.

Was that his tongue?

I couldn't believe it. How could a doctor treat a patient this way? The sensation was so intense, far more overwhelming than anything his fingers had done.

My mind had gone completely numb from the overwhelming pleasure, leaving me paralyzed. I froze in place, helplessly allowing the doctor to continue his so-called treatment.

He held my hips with one hand to keep me from collapsing. "Stop, please stop," I begged. "I can't take this anymore. I don't want the treatment. Just let me go."

Yet he had no intention of stopping. If anything, he thrust his tongue deeper into me.

Tears threatened to spill from my eyes, but my body remained utterly beyond my control. I wanted to escape, but I couldn't move.

Sweat streamed across my forehead, dropping onto the bedsheet below.

I turned around, hoping to put an end to this torment. But as soon as I glanced back, a shock ran through me like lightning.

This man wasn't a doctor at all.

He was my college professor—the very same Eric Buckley who had suggested I come to the hospital for treatment!

In a flash, panic hit me, and I snapped back into control of my body.

I flipped over and curled into a ball, pulling my knees to my chest. "Mr. Buckley? What are you doing here?"

Eric licked his lips and said, "I'm helping with your treatment, sweetheart. Don't be afraid. Once your desire is released, you'll be cured."

I didn't trust him for a second. He was clearly using this as an excuse. Back on campus, I had caught him snooping through my things, and I knew his gaze had always been lecherous.

I knew he wanted me, yet what had just happened left my body humming uncontrollably.

I felt hollow inside, aching to be filled. He was my professor, and 20 years older than me.

"No, Mr. Buckley. We can't," I said, but deep down, I felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment.

Eric climbed onto the bed, inching his way toward me.

"I'm just helping you heal, sweetheart. Be a good girl and spread your legs—just one last step," he said as he reached for my ankles.

I scrambled backward, only to realize that the spot where I had been sitting was soaked through. The bedsheet was dark with evidence of my arousal.

"Look how wet you are," he murmured. "You're aching, aren't you? Don't fight it. Let me help you. Let me take care of it."

I shook my head firmly. "You're my mentor. I'm your student. We can't do this..."

Eric's eyes darkened, and the last trace of restraint snapped. He lunged forward, seizing both of my ankles and violently spreading my legs.

"Enough games," he growled. "Girls like you were born to make men feel good."

Before I could respond, he ripped my skirt away, leaving my bare thighs exposed. His sheer dominance ignited my condition all over again.

My mind screamed to be filled by him. I spread my legs wider, lost to thought and shame alike.

A savage grin spread across his face. "You like it rough, don't you, you little slut? Perfect. Today, I'll give you everything you need."

"Harder," I moaned.

Before I could react, he yanked my legs up and lunged into me.