I should have looked away.
That would have been the sensible thing. Pretend I was another student, anonymous in the lecture hall, eyes on the slides, pen scratching across my notebook. But every time I forced my gaze back to the page, it betrayed me—dragged upward, pulled like a tide to him.
Professor Zayn
There was nothing outwardly scandalous about him. He wasn't the kind of man you would call conventionally handsome; his features were too sharp, his mouth too stern. But he carried himself with a quiet certainty that made everything about him feel heightened—his voice, low and deliberate, his hands slicing the air when he spoke, even the way his eyes swept the room.
And when those eyes landed on me—just for a heartbeat, just long enough to make my chest seize—it felt like discovery.
I told myself it was nothing. Just nerves, just my imagination.
But the longer the semester stretched on, the harder it became to deny the truth simmering under my skin.
I noticed things. The way his shirtsleeves were always rolled to his forearms, revealing the tan lines on his wrists. The way his voice softened when he called on me, not indulgent but measured, as though he wanted to test the sound of my name in his mouth.
And I noticed myself—my pulse quickening during lectures, my notes dissolving into restless scribbles. Nights when I stared at my ceiling replaying every flicker of his expression, wondering what it would mean if he lingered at my desk just a second longer.
It was wrong.
Worse than wrong.
But I couldn't stop.
You'll be punished he said on my presentation day.
I gulped
His office was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made me hyperaware of every sound—my breath, the shuffle of my papers, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
I cleared my throat, forcing my voice steady.
"The mammary glands," I began, "are composed of lobules, ducts, and adipose tissue. Their primary function is—"
"Stop."
The word was soft, but it cut straight through me. My eyes darted to his, startled.
"Look at me when you speak," he said.
My stomach dropped. I had been staring at my notes like a shield, but now, caught in his gaze, every practiced sentence felt dangerous. My pulse hammered as I tried again.
"They… they are sensitive organs. Highly responsive to hormonal changes."
He leaned back slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. "Sensitive," he repeated, as though testing the taste of the word. His fingers drummed lazily against the arm of his chair, and each tap seemed to echo in my chest.
I forced myself to continue. "The glands… enlarge during puberty, and later… lactation…" My voice faltered as the syllables thickened on my tongue.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile—something sharper, unreadable. "You're nervous."
"I'm fine," I whispered. Too quickly. Too unconvincingly.
He stood then, slow and deliberate. The air in the room seemed to contract. I followed him with my eyes as he circled the desk, his footsteps quiet against the floor, until he was beside me. Too close.
"Continue," he said, his voice lower now, just behind me.
I swallowed hard, the words tangling in my throat. "The ducts carry… milk to the nipple, where—"
His hand came down—not on me, not quite—but flat against the desk, inches from my notes. I could feel the heat of him radiating, my body tilting toward it against my will.
"Where?" he pressed, his breath brushing the edge of my hair.
My knees threatened to buckle. "Where it can… be secreted."
Silence. Heavy, charged silence. Then, almost a whisper: "You sound like you don't believe your own words."
I turned my head slightly, and there he was—closer than he had ever been. His eyes searched mine, unblinking, as if peeling back the last of my defenses. My chest rose and fell too quickly; every nerve in me screamed to look away, but I didn't.
He reached for the papers, sliding them aside with slow precision until the desk was bare between us. The sound of paper scraping against wood was thunder in the silence.
"Try again," he murmured. "But this time, don't hide behind the script."
I couldn't speak. My lips parted, but nothing came. All I could register was the faint scent of him—something clean, with the bite of coffee still lingering on his breath.
His hand moved then, brushing lightly against mine on the desk. Barely a touch, yet my whole arm flared with heat. I froze.
"That's… inappropriate," I managed to stammer, though my voice trembled with something else entirely.
"Yes," he said simply. His thumb grazed my knuckle, lingering. "But you're not pulling away."
My breath hitched.
I should have. I knew I should have. But instead I stood motionless, tethered by the weight of his gaze and the gravity of that forbidden closeness.
He stepped nearer, until the line between our bodies was a whisper of space. My back pressed against the edge of the desk, trapped between wood and warmth.
"Tell me," he said, his voice low enough to tremble against my skin. "What do the glands respond to?"
The answer dissolved on my tongue. I could only feel—the nearness, the shiver rushing down my spine, the unbearable ache of wanting what I knew I couldn't have.
And still, my lips formed the words, unsteady, betraying me: "Touch. Pressure."
His eyes darkened, and for a moment the air itself seemed to fracture, holding the weight of a choice neither of us should make.
His eyes burned into mine, and I knew I should step back, break the spell, escape the heat closing in around us.
But I didn't.
When his hand slid fully over mine, firm now, claiming instead of brushing, I gasped—and that was all the permission he seemed to need. In the next breath, he was closer, his body caging me against the desk, his mouth descending toward mine.
The kiss was not gentle. It was hunger sharpened by restraint, by weeks of stolen glances and silent wanting. His lips pressed hard against mine, commanding, but I matched him, desperate, reckless, tasting the danger as much as the man.
My hands betrayed me, fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him nearer. His fingers traced the line of my jaw, then slid lower, slow, deliberate, pausing at my collarbone as though daring me to stop him. I didn't.
Every clinical word I had spoken moments before now twisted into sensation—sensitivity, pressure, response—my body living out the very definitions I had struggled to voice. His touch set nerves alight, pulling me deeper into the whirlpool of desire I had been fighting for so long.
He murmured against my mouth, voice ragged, "You shouldn't be here."
But his hands contradicted him, sliding around my waist, lifting me onto the edge of the desk in one swift motion. The papers scattered, forgotten, as his body pressed between my knees, his lips trailing from my mouth to my throat.
I tilted my head back, breathless, surrendering to the inevitability of it. The professor, the man I was never supposed to touch, was unraveling me piece by piece, and I didn't want it to stop.
For the first time, there was no room for thought. Only heat. Only him.
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