Chapter 39

Avery’s POV

The day of the cultural excursion arrived. While Elize and Victoria bounced off the terminal walls, displaying the kind of joy reserved for children who discovered unlimited ice cream, I felt a different excitement.

It was a dark, private current that ran beneath my Von Carter exterior. Tiffany was coming.

The university arranged this entire trip: Italy first, a week of Renaissance exposure, then on to Edinburgh for a dose of Gothic academia. It was packaged under the guise of intellectual and cultural expansion.

But the trip held no interest in architecture, art history, or stuffy lectures. It was about the fact that I would be on foreign soil with her.

She was the woman who haunted my waking hours, who slipped into my dreams, and who tested the limits of my Von Carter restraint with every glare and whisper. Airports were a necessary evil—noise, queues, and the tedious logistics of transit.

But that day, they were a prelude, a stage. The destination was not Florence or the Scottish capital.

The entire journey began and ended with her presence. I spotted her the moment she entered the terminal—her heels clicking against the marble floor, her tailored coat draped with casual elegance, her posture the kind of regal bearing that compelled every head to turn.

Ms. Rose. That was what the world saw. The respected professor. The untouchable authority figure.

But in my head, where the truth was safe, she was not Ms. Rose. She was Tiffany.

And the difference between those two names made my blood hum and my control falter. I kept my expression cool—Von Carters always did—but inside, a fierce pulse of anticipation accelerated.

The thought was exhilarating and dangerous: Enclosed in a metal tube, hurtling through the sky, where would she run from me? We boarded the plane in clusters, students chattering, tossing bags into overhead compartments.

I slid into my window seat, dreaming of sharing a Florence sunset with her, when the stewardess pointed her in my direction. Her seat. Beside mine.

Fate, I thought, a predatory smirk forming. Or, more accurate: Chaos, disguised as administrative order.

She froze when she realized the proximity, a flicker of shock crossing her face, and then her eyes found mine. That look—sharp, deliberate, and private—was a warning: Don’t you dare, Avery.

I could not help the insolent smirk that tugged at my lips. I rolled my eyes, a silent communication: Come on, Professor. You’re sitting beside me on an overnight flight over the Atlantic.

How was I supposed to stay still and silent? Her gaze narrowed into a diamond-hard accusation, but she moved, sliding into the seat with the poise of someone preparing for an unavoidable, intense battle.

She settled in, buckled her belt with a loud click, and turned her head toward me, the air between us charged. “Avery…”

Her voice was low, threaded with the irritation and restraint she reserved for me. I tilted my head, adopting a casual, innocent demeanor. “Yes, Professor? You were saying something, or just testing my attention span?”

She pressed her lips together, her mind working, as though choosing her next move in a high-stakes chess game. For a second, I saw a crack—the flicker of Tiffany instead of the Professor.

But she exhaled and leaned back, choosing the strategic safety of silence. I smiled, satisfied.

Silence was a powerful response. Silence meant she did not trust herself to speak.

That admission undone me. The engines roared, the plane angled into the sky, and the world outside shrank into a cottony expanse of clouds.

Around us, Victoria and Elize giggled about campus gossip, students swapping snacks. But at our row, there was only the low hum of tension.

I rested my elbow on the armrest between us. She shifted, a minute movement intended to avoid accidental contact.

I almost laughed at her desperation. Did she believe this tiny, professional distance could save her from me?

Her hand hovered close to mine, her elegant fingers curled loosely in her lap. I desperately wanted to touch her.

The fierce, aching desire to touch her flooded me. I knew exactly how she reacted to my touch—the way her sophisticated body tensed, the way her magnificent eyes gave her away even when her controlled voice did not.

But no. Not here. Not yet.

Not with a dozen sleeping students only a few seats away. That specific, volcanic kind of intimacy did not belong in the open, under cabin lights.

It belonged to shadows, to deep secrets, to stolen, locked-away moments. Still—I was Avery Von Carter.

Passively backing off when something I wanted was within reach was not a trait in the Von Carter profile. “Comfortable, Professor?” I asked, my voice dipped in honeyed sweetness, my eyes fixed on her profile.

Her eyes flicked toward me, a sharp jolt of irritation, then immediately away. “Perfectly, Ms. Carter.”

“Good,” I said, leaning just close enough for her to feel the brush of my breath against her ear, “because this is a long flight, Tiffany.”

Her jaw tightened. She turned her head toward the window, ending the standoff, but not before I caught it—the smallest, most devastating betrayal, the flicker of recognition, of need, in her eyes.

Tiffany was there, buried beneath the Professor’s armor. In that fleeting, dangerous moment, I knew I had successfully undone her composure.

Time passed in measured, slow fragments—snippets of in-flight announcements, the clatter of meal trays, the intermittent burst of laughter from behind us. But between the two of us, it was something else: a taut, waiting silence.

At one point, her shoulder brushed mine as she reached for a magazine, and she stiffened, as if I had burned her. I bit back a triumphant grin.

At another, I dropped my pen, leaning too close when I bent to pick it up. Her subsequent glare could have frozen molten lava.

And yet, she never once moved away to another empty seat. Not once did she shift the distance between us.

When the cabin lights dimmed for the overnight stretch, her head tilted against the seatback, exhaustion softening her edges. For the first time all day, she wasn’t the Professor.

She wasn’t the wall of distance and decorum. She was just… her.

Tiffany. The name felt dangerous and intoxicating, sweeter than any forbidden drink.

I allowed myself to look—at the vulnerable curve of her cheek, at the dark strands of hair that had escaped her bun, at the crease in her brow, as though even deep sleep could not erase her constant, professional awareness. I wanted, fiercely, to reach out, to brush that loose strand of hair back, to claim even a fraction of her stillness with my touch.

But I didn’t. Not yet.

Some things had to be taken at the right, most impactful moment. Somewhere high over the black Atlantic, when most of the cabin had quieted into the silence of sleep, her voice broke the quiet.

“Avery,” she murmured, the sound so soft, I thought I had imagined it.

I turned to her, alert. “Yes, Professor? Did you need something?”

Her eyes, lit by the reading light I left on, held mine. Tired, yes.

But also something else. Something wary, something fragile.

“Why do you insist on turning everything into a challenge between us?” she whispered, the question genuine.

I smiled, leaning closer, closing the last few inches of professional distance. “Because you rise to it, Tiffany. Every. Single.Time.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For a brief, terrifying heartbeat, I thought she would finally fight back with words.

Instead, she shook her head, a gesture of weariness, and faced forward. But I had seen it—the flicker, the tiny, honest crack in her armor.

I knew, with a certainty that burned in my chest, that no matter how many times she reminded me, or herself, that she was Professor Rose… she could never erase the fact that to me, in private, in this charged silence, she would always, eternally, be Tiffany.

The hum of the engines was hypnotic. The cabin lights reached their lowest, casting everything in a soft, ethereal blue haze.

Passengers were still, asleep or lost in the worlds of their headphones, the sounds of midnight travel swallowing all noise. And me?

I was awake, the adrenaline a constant drip. My restlessness had one source, one name.

Tiffany. The tight seat arrangement was either a cruel joke or an extraordinary gift.

Her shoulder was fused to mine. Every shift, every brush of fabric, every inhale of her perfume made my skin prickle.

She had glared at me when she first sat down, that sharp professor-glare that was a silent command: Don’t you dare, Avery.

I rolled my eyes, leaning back with a slow, insolent smirk. My own look communicated my intent: Come on, Tiffany.

We are here now. Let’s see what happens.

When she buckled in, she looked at me, her voice low but cutting through the quiet. “Avery…”

I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “Yes, Professor? I’m listening intently.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing in battle. She did not reply, and I could physically see the battle raging within her mind.

That tug-of-war between her control and the urge to surrender to the chaos I represented. Between Professor Rose and Tiffany.

And then—she snapped. Or perhaps, she gave in.

Her hand moved before I processed the intention, her body leaning toward me across the armrest. Suddenly, dangerously, her lips were on mine.

It was fast, fleeting, a brush of heat and danger. A kiss, reckless and wild, gone in the breath it arrived.

My eyes widened in shock, and by the time my brain registered what happened, she had already pulled back, straightening her posture as though a boundary-smashing kiss was a normal in-flight activity.

I groaned. The sound escaped before I could stop it—raw and full of frustrated longing.

She laughed. Soft, breathy, and dangerous.

The kind of laugh that only made my body ache more fiercely. I turned toward her, ready to throw every question, every tease, every plea at her—but she rose smoothly from her seat.

Calm. Unflustered. The movement of someone who controlled every step of her life.

She walked down the aisle, her heels making barely a sound. My eyes were locked on her figure.

She paused, and turned her head. That look.

The look that undone me. Not the Professor.

Not a warning. Not professional restraint.

It was an invitation. My pulse roared, deafening, in my ears.

She slipped into the tiny, enclosed washroom at the back of the cabin, the door closing with a soft, final click. The red ‘Occupied’ sign glowed.

I sat there, gripping the armrest, trying to draw a steady breath. My chest felt too tight for my heart.

My lips still tingled with the ghost of her touch. I could not sit there.

Not after that kiss. Not after that invitation.

I unbuckled my belt and stood, every step toward the back of the cabin feeling reckless and inevitable. The aisle felt endless, filled with strange shadows and the muffled snores of passengers.

My palms were slick with sweat by the time I reached the door. Seconds crawled by, stretching into an eternity.

Then, with a whir, the door opened. She was there.

Standing inside the tiny, dim washroom, framed by the mirror. Her reflection caught mine as I stepped inside, closing the door firmly.

She did not move. Didn’t speak.

She watched me through the glass, her breath slow, controlled, waiting. And then I moved.

I did not think. I did not ask for permission.

I claimed her lips—desperate, fierce, my hunger spilling over. She gasped, but not from shock.

From answering release. Her hands gripped my waist, pulling me tighter.

My lips pressed harder, my body trembling with the force of how much I wanted this, wanted her. But Tiffany being Tiffany—she did not let me lead for long.

In one swift move, she flipped our positions, pressing me hard against the cool, metal wall. Her dominant body pinned mine, her hand cupping my jaw, fiercely commanding me as she kissed me back—deeper, hungrier, devouring my response.

A raw moan escaped my mouth, unguarded and loud. The sound filled the tiny space, and I froze, horrified, realizing that anyone just outside the door could have heard it.

She pulled back, her lips brushing mine, her voice a dangerous, silken whisper. “As much as I adore that sound coming out of your mouth, Avery…”

Her thumb traced along my cheek, tender yet commanding. “…I don’t want anyone else to hear it. Sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. The endearment stole the remainder of my breath and shattered my composure.

Before I could respond, before I could reclaim her lips, she stepped back. She was composed.

Unshaken. The Professor was back.

And she left. Just like that.

The door clicked, and I was alone in the sterile space. Alone, my chest heaving, my lips bruised and throbbing, my mind shattered into pieces.

I leaned against the wall, biting down hard on a curse. My reflection in the mirror was flushed, wide-eyed, and undone.

Damn her. Damn Tiffany Rose.

Or no—just Tiffany. The untouchable, the dangerous, the magnificent woman who kissed me fiercely at thirty-five thousand feet and then left me a wrecked mess in a plane washroom.

When I returned to my seat, she was already there. Perfectly composed, her eyes closed, her head tilted, as if she had been innocently asleep the entire time.

But I knew better. I saw it—the faint, small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

A triumphant, victorious smile she could not erase. I sat down, a slow, determined smirk curling at my own lips.

This wasn’t over. Not even remotely close.

The rest of the flight was a special kind of torture. Not because of turbulence or the drone of the engines.

It was torture because Tiffany sat beside me—calm, composed, pretending to be asleep—while I burned with the memory of the forbidden kiss. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the desperate press of her lips, the weight of her body pinning mine, the sensual ghost of her whisper sweetheart coiling around my spine.

And every time I opened my eyes, there she was. Perfect.

Untouched. Behaving as if none of it—the kiss, the invitation, the war—had happened.

I clenched my fists, biting down on a triumphant grin. Two could play this maddening game of control and chaos.

The captain’s voice crackled overhead, announcing our descent into Italy. Cabin lights brightened, passengers stirred, and seat belts clicked.

Beside me, Tiffany opened her eyes, stretching just enough to look convincing. She glanced my way, one eyebrow arching in appraisal. “You didn’t sleep at all, Avery.”

I scoffed, my voice husky. “With you sitting beside me, Professor? Impossible. I was too busy reviewing the next chapter’s reading materials.”

Her lips twitched, and she shook her head, like she wanted to scold me but did not have the energy for the battle. And that’s when I decided to push her, one final time, before we landed.

Leaning closer, my voice a whisper meant only for her, I said her name. Not Ms. Rose.

Not Professor. “Tiffany.”

The way her body stiffened was all the reward I needed. I smirked, whispering again, savoring the syllables. “Tiffany.”

She turned her head, meeting my gaze with those warning eyes. Her voice was dangerous, soft, low enough that no one else could hear.

“Avery… do not test me again.”

I grinned, my heart racing a quick, victorious rhythm. “Oh, I’m not testing you. I’m just… appreciating the acoustics of the name. It sounds beautiful, doesn’t it? Tiffany. Tiffany.”

She exhaled through her nose, the shake of her head a sign of her slipping control. “You’re impossible, Ms. Carter.”

“And you like it, Professor,” I shot back.

Her lips curved in a silent, internal smile, but instead of replying with words, she reached over, her hand moving with decisive authority. She fastened my seatbelt for me with a click.

Then she leaned in, so close her breath brushed my cheek. “You think you’ve successfully undone me, don’t you, Avery?” she whispered, her voice dangerous, silken. “But remember, Avery—I set the rules. And I am the only one who grants permission for them to be broken.”

The quiet threat sent a profound shiver down my spine. And then she leaned back, settling into her seat as though nothing consequential had happened, her expression cool, collected, and remote.

I groaned under my breath, earning myself a victorious, silent little smile from her. She knew exactly what she was doing—leaving me wrecked, breathless, again, without having to lift a single finger.

The plane touched down in Italy, the wheels screeching against the runway, a scatter of applause breaking out. I barely noticed the arrival.

Because the only thing that mattered was Tiffany. Tiffany, who had kissed me fiercely in secret.

Tiffany, who had called me sweetheart. And Tiffany, who had delivered the final reminder that she held every ounce of control, firmly, in the palm of her hand.

And I, Avery Von Carter, was going to take every risk in the world to shatter that magnificent, infuriating control. Our trip had begun.