She Used Me for a Dare… Now I Own Her Mother Chapter 372: A Substitute

Howard Sterling traversed the hallway with a calculated, purposeful step, determined not to seem like he was in retreat.

Yet a sour taste filled his mouth. The sharp tang of a rejection that had blindsided him completely.

Tisha’s words replayed in his mind, courteous yet curt, each echo intensifying the sting of embarrassment.

She hadn’t been impolite at all. She’d handled his proposition like a minor calendar clash... acknowledged, turned down, and dismissed before he’d even exited the room.

That by itself would have been bearable.

He’d faced refusals in the past. A no was merely the prelude—the phase where the woman persuaded herself of her disinterest prior to his true pursuit beginning.

He excelled at the gradual, systematic breakdown of a woman’s barriers, stripping her determination bit by bit until the refusal turned to hesitation, and the hesitation became an urgent, shattered affirmation.

He didn’t merely desire them; he yearned to disprove their self-conceptions.

But the real scorch came not from the rebuff. It stemmed from the boy.

That boy, perched in the chair as if it were his royal seat, regarding him with the calm, indifferent tolerance of one observing a mutt yapping at a drive-by vehicle.

No apprehension or awareness that he faced a man capable of ruining his scholarly path with one quick call.

’Who the fuck are you?’

The query had been eating at him ever since departing that office.

A student, sure. Yet students didn’t lounge in women professors’ offices at dusk with doors shut and legs crossed as if they ruled the premises.

Something fishy was afoot. The conviction sank into his stomach like a heavy rock.

But conviction sparked no worry. Not for Howard Sterling.

He’d encountered rivals before. Eager junior faculty with their sincere gazes and funding proposals. Guest lecturers believing a symposium meal and wine could rival months of Sterling’s calculated maneuvers.

He’d crushed them all, not via clashes, but through steadfast endurance. Via the unyielding truth that Howard Sterling never abandoned a pursuit.

And he absolutely wouldn’t abandon Tisha Wells.

A sly, secret grin spread over his features as the vision formed unwanted—Tisha under him, her poised demeanor finally cracked, her voice stripped of scholarly edge and turned to something primal, frantic, and utterly his.

"I’ll see that face soon enough," he whispered to the deserted hallway. "When you’re pleading and there’s no boy to cower behind."

The daydream propelled him along the corridor, soothing the wounded spots in his pride, until his steps halted automatically.

He stood before a familiar office door. The brass plaque gleamed under the harsh lights:

Professor Siobhan Connolly.

Sterling eyed the name briefly, like a diner scanning options with his choice already set.

Siobhan.

Fiery and Proud.

She’d sported the identical aloof facade upon his initial overture. The cutting retorts, the scornful stare, the moral outrage of a woman convinced her limits outmatched his tenacity.

That endured four months.

Now she replied to his messages promptly. Reserved her Wednesday nights unprompted. Donned the scent he’d casually praised, treating it as a directive rather than a remark.

’Just like you, Tisha,’ he mused, gripping the doorknob. ’All of you believe you’re unique. Believe you’re tougher. Believe you’re the exception who won’t yield.’

Sterling smoothed his tie. Fixed his cuffs. Tisha’s dismissal still pricked his chest like a thorn, demanding extraction.

He entered and secured the lock. The crisp snap resounded in the compact office like a final punctuation.

Siobhan Connolly bent over her desk. Auburn locks draped her features as she graded a pile of sophomore papers with the rote detachment of someone killing time till evening’s end.

Her head snapped up at the lock’s sound.

The shift was immediate, profoundly gratifying to Sterling.

The dull, vacant look evaporated, supplanted by a glow that erased years from her appearance. She let her pen fall mid-mark, forsaking the paper without hesitation.

"Howard." She rose swiftly, closing the office in three eager steps before encircling his neck with her arms. Her form molded to his with the fervent, open eagerness of someone who’d waited beyond her tolerance.

Sterling allowed her approach.

"You look rather busy, and cute." he said, his tone laced with that deep, playful allure he wielded like a blade... exact, intentional, crafted to make a woman feel like the sole focus of an intimate, elite realm.

"I’m not. Not anymore," Siobhan breathed, easing back slightly to meet his eyes with a yearning, probing stare.

"I thought you weren’t coming tonight. I was trying to bury myself in work just to stop checking the clock."

She drew back enough to scan his features, her gaze revealing a candid, ravenous openness she’d die before showing in a department gathering.

"I was tied up," Sterling replied, his palm gliding to her lower back with expert, possessive grace. "Something urgent came up. But it’s been... postponed."

He halted, his thumb drawing a languid loop over her blouse’s material.

"Which means I can give my full, undivided attention to the woman who actually deserves it."

The words struck their mark precisely.

Siobhan’s face colored, her grip tightening on his jacket as she lifted her chin toward him.

He claimed her lips. Not softly... Sterling shunned softness, especially with his pride smarting and Tisha’s brush-off still bitter on his palate. He kissed her like a parched traveler guzzling from an oasis.

Siobhan yielded at once, softening against him with the fluid familiarity of one who knew his desires by heart.

Her hands rose to tangle in his hair, her breath hitching as he intensified the kiss, his palm firming on her back to draw her tight.

They parted breathless, Siobhan’s mouth puffy, eyes hooded, a stunned, panting grin blooming on her reddened cheeks.

Sterling gazed down, the accustomed, fleeting thrill of desire easing the wound from Tisha.

It fell short. It always did. But it sufficed for now.

Siobhan gasped sharply, a fractured cry blending surprise and capitulation as Sterling’s palm landed. The smack rang out in the hushed office, solid and claiming on her skirted hip.

"Ah... Howard," she whimpered, her head tilting back as she peered at him through swirling, intoxicating warmth.

She recognized the shadowed, devouring fire in his stare... a primal force she read as ardor, blind to its drive from another’s scorn.

She knew that expression; it promised impatience tonight, and the thought buckled her legs.

"Let me... let me just pack," she panted, her words a shaky murmur.

"Yes. Do it fast," Sterling ordered, his voice sinking to a rough, gravelly timbre. He grazed her flushed cheek with his knuckles. "I’ve prepared something special for you tonight. A vintage Sancerre, that silk wrap you wanted... and a very long night where I remind you exactly who you belong to."

Siobhan nodded bashfully, a wild, thrilled buzz overtaking her as she faced her desk again.

Her hands shook on her briefcase, shoving notes and partial grades into it with careless haste, ignoring hours of labor.

Howard had called, and everything beyond his orbit vanished.

Sterling didn’t linger for completion. He exited to the hallway, his confidence firming with each hurried paper shuffle at his back.

He headed to the hall’s terminus, his heels tapping steadily till arriving at the glass-enclosed balcony overlooking the staff parking.

He rested forearms on the rail, squinting down at the glow of sodium lamps. His eyes fixed on his sleek black Audi, alone and still in its spot.

’Is Heena gone?’ he pondered, a spark of routine irritation flaring.

"But she’s a good wife," he mocked to the pane, a bitter, concealed sneer curling his mouth.

He approved of her recently; she no longer probed his plans, keeping to her role like a disciplined echo.

He glanced at his watch, surveyed the lot further, thoughts returning to his contest with Tisha. Heena formed the dull hum of his existence... steady, dependable, dismissible.

But spotting the lot’s distant edge, his stance went rigid.

Tisha exited the structure, her walk smooth and assured in the faint glow. And right after came that punk student, stepping with subdued, annoyingly commanding poise.

Yet the trio’s third member ignited a blinding surge of fury in Sterling’s sight.

Heena.

His spouse strolled smack amid them, head angled as if fitting seamlessly in their group. No mere follower; an active member.

"What the fuck is going on?" he snarled, the phrase striking the glass like venom.

He observed, frozen, as they neared a vehicle not his... an unfamiliar one.

"Why is she with Tisha?" He scrutinized their postures for betrayal signs, for proof his "good wife" had crossed into his domain.