Divine Milking System

Chapter 415: 415 | Extra Credit

I grabbed Addison’s wrist.

Her violet eyes went wide. Not afraid. Surprised. Like she’d expected more debate, more noble protests, more of the self-sacrificing bullshit that got people killed in badly written fiction. Instead she got my fingers wrapped around her arm and my voice dropping into the register I used when I meant business.

"You want in? Fine. Let’s go."

Private Sanctum activated with a thought. The hospital room dissolved around us like watercolor in rain, the beige walls and medical equipment and fluorescent lights all bleeding away into formless nothing. Addison sucked in a breath as reality unmade itself, her free hand grabbing my shoulder for balance while the world rebuilt itself according to my specifications.

I could have given her the penthouse suite. The beach at sunset. The throne room with the wine and the candles and all the romantic bullshit.

Instead I gave her something better.

We materialized in a classroom.

Not a fantasy classroom from some private academy wet dream. An actual classroom. Institutional drop-tile ceiling. Fluorescent lights with one bulb flickering in the corner. Rows of wooden desks with uncomfortable plastic chairs bolted to the floor. A green chalkboard at the front covered in half-erased equations that meant nothing because I’d generated them from pure imagination. A teacher’s desk with a laptop and a coffee mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST EDUCATOR in faded letters.

The walls were covered in motivational posters. A kitten hanging from a branch with HANG IN THERE written beneath it. A stock photo of a sunrise with BELIEVE IN YOURSELF in impact font. The kind of corporate-mandated optimism that made you want to commit crimes.

Addison looked around.

Her trench coat had stayed in the hospital room because Private Sanctum didn’t transport clothing that wasn’t directly worn, which meant she was standing in the middle of a fluorescent-lit classroom wearing nothing but black lace lingerie and garter stockings and combat boots.

She started laughing.

Not the cruel laugh she used at the academy when someone failed spectacularly. Real laughter. The kind that came from somewhere genuine and couldn’t be stopped once it started. She doubled over with her hands on her thighs and her shoulders shaking and her purple-highlighted hair falling loose from the bun she’d so carefully constructed.

"A fucking classroom." She gasped for breath between words. "You built a sex dimension and you made it into a fucking classroom."

"I have layers."

She stopped laughing and looked at me. Purple highlights caught the fluorescent light. Her makeup had smeared just slightly where tears had formed at the corners of her eyes. Something in her face had changed. The mask she wore at the academy had cracked just enough to show what lived underneath.

"Okay." Her voice dropped lower. "Okay. I can work with this."

She crossed to the teacher’s desk at the front. Combat boots hit linoleum with each step. The stockings pulled across her thighs as she walked. Black lace caught the light in places where fabric strained against skin. She reached the desk and turned, bracing her palms flat against the surface. Her elbows locked. Her spine arched just enough to shift everything forward.

"So." Violet eyes found mine. "Who’s the teacher and who’s the student?"

I moved toward her.

Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. The classroom stretched between us like something physical. Twenty feet of beige and cheap furniture and posters about believing in yourself. Addison didn’t move. She stayed exactly where she was with her palms pressed to the desk and her body angled forward. Watching me close the distance with the same focus she used in combat.

I stopped in front of the desk. Close enough to smell her perfume. Dark and floral, the kind of scent that lingered in expensive department stores where salespeople followed you around. The chalk dust was purely my imagination, but the perfume was real enough, probably more expensive than my entire monthly stipend combined. She looked up at me from where she leaned against the desk. The height difference between us became obvious. Her boots added two inches, but I still had four on her.

"I think we both know the answer to that."

"Do we?" She tilted her head, and the movement changed the angle of her throat, exposed the line from jaw to collarbone and the dark collar circling it. The skull dangles matched the piercing in her navel. "Because from where I’m standing, you’re the one who needs saving. You asked for help. You’re standing here in my imaginary classroom looking at me like I’m your last chance. That makes you the student begging the teacher for an extension on an assignment you already fucked up."

"That’s one interpretation."

"What’s yours?"

"My interpretation," I said, "is that you walked through a hospital wearing nothing but a trench coat and expensive underwear because you couldn’t stop thinking about me. You spent three days thinking I was dead and the first thing you did when you found out I wasn’t was strip down to lingerie and demand access to my private dimension. That doesn’t sound like a teacher in control. That sounds like a student who failed the final and is willing to do anything for extra credit."

Addison’s eyes narrowed. Her fingers curled against the desk surface, nails scraping wood. For a moment I thought she might actually hit me again, consequences be damned.

Then she smiled.

Not the sarcastic smile she wore like armor. Something sharper. More honest. The smile of someone who’d just been challenged in a language they spoke fluently.

"Anything, huh?"

"Your words. Not mine."

She pushed off the desk and stepped into my space. The movement put her face inches from mine, close enough that I could see the slight imperfection where her black lipstick had been applied too quickly at the corner of her mouth. Her chest pressed against mine, soft pressure through thin lace, and her hands found my shoulders and gripped.

"Then teach me something, Professor Monroe."

I kissed her.

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