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My name is Sophie Hale, and I went from faking orgasms for three years… to begging on my knees for a man whose face I didn’t even see. One night, a masked stranger fingered me against a club wall like he already owned my body. Days later, he was in my inbox—controlling my hands, my orgasms, my every filthy thought. Weeks later, I found out the truth: “Private Room Service” is Professor Adrian Lewis. My ruthless, terrifying, sin-in-a-black-shirt literature professor… who kept my panties, my video, and now wants the one thing I’ve never given anyone: everything. START READING HERE…. Chapter 1 - [POV Sophie] “Ahh…” The sound slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. A moan. Soft. Timed. Measured. Almost like a reflex. Not because I feel anything. Not because I want to. But because I’m supposed to. Ethan’s weight presses down on me, his chest damp against mine, thrusts mechanical like a body on autopilot. He always starts slow, like he thinks it’ll build to something—it never does. The room is dark, but I keep my eyes open, trained on the ceiling fan above us as it creaks in slow circles. I try to count the rotations. Anything to ground myself. I don’t think about Ethan. I think about my vibrator—the rose-shaped one I keep hidden in my sock drawer. I think about what it feels like when I do it. When I’m in control. When no one’s panting above me like they’re punching a clock. Ethan groans, low and tired, and shifts his weight. Missionary. Always missionary. He never even tries anything else. I know this rhythm like the back of my hand. Quarterback rhythm. Predictable. All brawn, no finesse. He used to be the golden boy of our high school—letterman jacket, cleft chin, proud parents in the bleachers. And I guess I was the smart girl who looked good enough on his arm. We’ve been dating since junior year. Back then, it felt like enough. Being wanted. Being chosen. But now? Now I lie still, staring blankly while he does his thing, already knowing I won’t come. Again. It’s been years of this. I’ve wanted to break up with him for a while now, but he’s so… familiar. His voice, his hands, even the smell of his cologne—Axe something, always a little too strong. I hate change. Always have. But tonight, I try. I cup his jaw, feeling the sweat gather there. “Babe, can you… go a little harder?” I whisper. He doesn’t respond. Just keeps moving like a freaking metronome. “What if we…” I shift under him, angle my hips, try to guide him. “Tried it from behind?” He pauses. Just for a beat. Then, with a little snort, “No. Why mess with what works?” My stomach knots. Works for who? I bite my lip, trying not to sigh. “Right. Yeah.” I try to silence the voice in my head. The one that keeps comparing him to the men in the books I secretly read under the covers. Books where the girl gets pinned to the wall, keeps coming wildly over and over again gasping his name. Where control is a weapon and surrender is earned. I tell myself to stop reading that crap. Those dark romance novels are fantasy. Fiction. Dangerous, even. But God, at least they make me feel something. I press my hand against his chest, steadying him. He grunts, annoyed. “What now?” I hesitated, before finally saying, “What if you… choked me?” He stops. Cold. “Like, not hard,” I add quickly, my voice small. “Just a little. It’s a thing. People do it, sometimes...” Silence. Then his face twists with disgust. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he says sharply, pulling out of me with a slick sound and rolling off my body like I’m contagious. I blink at him, stunned. My hands scramble for the sheets, covering my chest even though w e’ve done this a hundred times. “Ethan—” “You seriously just killed the vibe,” he says, grabbing his phone off the nightstand. “You want to be abused during sex now? Jesus, Soph.” “I didn’t say ‘abused’,” I mumble. “It’s… It’s just some kink, you know. It’s not like—” “Oh, so now you’re into freak shit?” he cuts me off, standing. “What, you want me slapping your face around next? Spit in your mouth? Should I call you a fucking whore while I’m at it?” Imagining Ethan actually doing it to me made me wet just now. Shit. “That’s not what I meant,” I whisper, shrinking into myself. My cheeks burn. “God, this is why I don’t watch porn with you,” he cuts, starting to pace. “You get these ideas in your head from TikTok or some trashy smut book you think I don’t you’re reading and suddenly I’m supposed to what—dominate you?” “I just…” I clutch the sheet tighter. “I’ve rarely come lately, Ethan. I thought maybe—” “Wow.” He whirls on me. “So this is my fault now?” “No! I didn’t—” “You’ve got issues,” he snaps. “Maybe you should think about why you’re even into that shit.” The words hit like ice water. I sit there, naked and exposed, watching him grab his boxers from the floor. His back is to me now, all rigid shoulders and wounded pride. “I’m not into anything,” I say, voice barely audible. “I’m just trying to figure out why I feel nothing.” He freezes mid-step and his voice drops to something dangerous. “Nothing?” I should backtrack. Should apologize. Should make it okay like I always do. But something snaps. “Nothing,” I repeat, louder this time. “Three years, Ethan. Last three fucking years of faking it because you never once asked if I was enjoying myself.” He turns around slowly. His face is a storm. “So you’ve been lying to me this whole time?” “Have you been lying to yourself?” I fire back, surprising us both. “Did you really think those little theatrical moans were real? That I was coming every single time in exactly two minutes like clockwork?” His jaw works. “You’re being a bitch.” “No, I’m being honest. Finally.” I stand up, still clutching the sheet. “Do you know what I think about when we have sex?” He doesn’t answer. “My grocery list. My sociology paper that’s due Monday. Whether I remembered to turn off the straightener.” My voice is gaining strength. “Literally anything except you!” “Fuck you, Sophie.” “You already did. Badly as usual.” The silence stretches between us like a chasm. He’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. Like the girl who’s been accommodating and sweet for years just sprouted fangs. “You know what?” he says, pulling on his jeans. “You’re right. This is fucked up. We’re fucked up.” “Finally, something we agree on.” He grabs his keys from my dresser, movements sharp and angry. “Don’t call me.” “Wasn’t planning on it.” The door slams so hard my picture frames rattle.