The city buzzed around me as I walked home, but it felt like I was moving in a haze. Cars honked, distant voices called out, and the occasional bark of a dog echoed down the street; you know how it is, but none of it registered. My body was still hummed with an energy I couldn’t shake, every step a reminder of the tension coiling deep inside me.

Professor Victor Graham. His name alone sent a shiver through me.

I climbed the stairs to my apartment, my bag slung over my shoulder and my mind spinning. The air in the hallway was thick and stale, but when I opened my door and stepped inside, it felt no different. I dropped my bag by the door and kicked off my shoes; I wasn't even the one contemplating my movement.

The silence of the apartment only amplified the storm inside me.

I leaned against the wall, pressing a hand to my chest as I tried to steady my breathing. My skin was still flushed, heat radiating from my cheeks down to the hollow of my throat. My blouse clung to me in all the wrong places, and my nipples—still embarrassingly hard—attached with a sensitivity I couldn’t ignore.

“God, what is wrong with me?” I muttered to myself.

My brain was already spinning at this point.

But I knew. I knew.

My mind replayed every single moment of the lecture, every glance, every word. The way he said my name—Lily—in that deep, commanding voice. The way his dark eyes lingered on me, studying me, unraveling me. The faint curve of his lips when he smiled, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

I could feel myself spiraling, my thoughts traveling into different places I shouldn’t let them go, but I didn’t care. I was just too far gone.

I wandered into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator out of habit rather than hunger. The cool air washed over me, but it only made me more aware of how hot I was, how flushed my skin had become. I grabbed a bottle of Coca-Cola and twisted off the cap, drinking deeply as if that would cool the fire raging inside me.

It didn’t.

I closed the fridge and leaned against the counter, staring blankly at the cabinets as my thoughts consumed me. What would it feel like to have him here, standing close enough that I could feel the heat of his body? Would he touch me the way I wanted to be touched, his hands exploring the body no one had ever claimed?

The image was so vivid that I dropped the bottle, the thud jolting me back to reality. I cursed under my breath, bending to pick it up, but even that simple motion reminded me of how sensitive I was, how tightly wound every nerve in my body felt.

"I need to do something, anything, to shake this off. I needed a distraction. What the actual fuck is wrong with you, Lily?" I said to myself.

I turned on the TV, flipping aimlessly through channels, but nothing held my attention. I paced the living room, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, trying to will my body to calm down. But every step, every movement, only brought the memory of him back to the forefront of my mind.

His broad shoulders straining against his suit jacket. His hands, large and capable, brushing the edge of the podium. His voice, smooth as velvet, wrapping around me like a caress.

My thighs pressed together involuntarily, a desperate attempt to suppress the ache building between them. It didn’t help.

After a few minutes of trying to get my mind off it by watching TV, I gave up.

Shutting off the TV, I made my way to the bedroom, stripping off my blazer and tossing it onto the chair in the corner. My blouse followed, and I caught sight of myself in the mirror as I unclasped my bra. My nipples were stiff, the pale skin around them flushed pink. I bit my lip, my cheeks burning as I looked away.

Sliding out of my skirt, I climbed onto the bed, the cool sheets offering a brief reprieve against my heated skin. But even here, in the quiet sanctuary of my room, I couldn’t escape him.

I lay back, staring up at the ceiling as my fingers traced absent patterns along my stomach. I tried to think about anything else, but his image burned into my mind. The way he looked at me during the lecture, the way his lips moved as he spoke—I could see everything over and over again; I could even feel it.

My hand slowly drifted lower, brushing over the waistband of my panties, and I gasped at the sensation. The fabric was damp, a physical betrayal of everything I was feeling.

“Stop it, Lily,” I whispered, but my fingers didn’t listen.

I let my legs fall apart, my breathing shallow as my hand slipped beneath the elastic. The wet heat of my skin shocked me, and I bit down hard on my lip to keep from crying out. My fingers moved instinctively, exploring the slick folds as a wave of pleasure rippled through me.

I pulled my hand on the surface of my pussy, exploring it briefly.

In my mind, it wasn’t my hand. It was his.

His fingers, strong and confident, teasing me, guiding me. His voice, low and commanding, whispering my name as he leaned over me, his breath hot against my ear.

My back arched as I pressed harder, my thighs trembling with the effort to keep still. My other hand gripped the sheets, holding on as the tension in my body built to an unbearable peak.

I imagined him pinning me down, his weight pressing me into the mattress as his lips clamped with mine. His hands would explore every inch of me, stripping away my innocence with a touch that left no room for doubt.

A whimper escaped me, my body shuddering as the coil of heat inside me finally snapped. The release was overwhelming, leaving me breathless and shaking.

I lay there for a long moment, my chest rising and falling as I tried to process what had just happened the whole time. My hand was still wet, my skin still tingling with the aftershocks of something I didn’t fully understand.

"What was I doing?"

"I rolled onto my side, clutching a pillow to my chest as guilt began to creep in. He is my professor, for God’s sake. This was wrong. It had to be."

But even as I told myself that, I couldn’t shake the memory of his gaze, the way it made me feel like I wasn't the only person in the room.

Deep down, I knew this wasn’t the end; it was just the beginning.

The strange thing that happened the other time had been sitting in the back of my mind since that moment. I was trying my best to always not think about it, but I couldn’t let it go, and it made me feel the exact same way every time.

The syllabus had clearly stated Professor Graham’s office hours. Every lecture was open to all students taking his course, no appointment necessary. But even at that, he was a very respected figure and considered a very strict, no-nonsense person by other students, so he was one of the least-visited professors in the school. But I had to, and this wasn’t even about class—it was for myself.

I stood in front of my mirror, brushing my hair for what felt like the hundredth time. My heart was pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. The thin sweater I wore hugged my curves just enough without being too obvious. My jeans were fitted but not tight. Casual. Harmless.

Except I didn’t feel harmless.

I felt like I was walking straight into the lion’s den, and I didn’t know if I wanted to run away or be devoured.

I grabbed my notebook off the counter and shoved it into my bag, convincing myself this was about school. Just a question or two about the lecture, I thought. Something simple, something that wouldn’t raise suspicions. I didn’t even think about what exactly I wanted to ask. The thought of being with him was overwhelming on its own.

As I walked to campus, my stomach twisted with anticipation. My legs felt shaky, and my palms were clammy. I kept imagining the moment I would see him again—the way his dark eyes would look up from his desk, how his lips would form my name.

What are you doing, Lily?

The voice in my head tried to reason with me, but it was useless. I was already here, standing outside the philosophy department office. The hallway was quiet, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound. I swallowed hard and adjusted the strap of my bag.

The door to his office was slightly ajar, and I could hear the low murmur of his voice inside. My breath caught. For a moment, I considered turning around and leaving. But then I thought of the way he had looked at me in class, the way his voice had softened when he said my name, and I couldn’t walk away.

I knocked lightly on the doorframe.

“Come in,” his voice called, deep and smooth.

I was surprised as to why he didn’t lock his door. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. He was seated at his desk, a stack of papers in front of him, pen in hand. When he looked up, his dark eyes met mine, and my stomach flipped.

“Lily,” he said, leaning back in his chair. His lips curved into a faint smile. “How may I help you?”

I froze for a moment, my mouth suddenly dry. “I—uh—I had a question about the lecture,” I managed, gripping the strap of my bag like it was an inspirational tool.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I obeyed, my legs feeling like jelly as I sank into the chair. The room felt too small, his presence overwhelming.

“What’s that?” he asked, his tone patient but curious.

I fumbled with my notebook, flipping it open to a random page. “I wanted to ask about—um—the example you gave about moral relativism. You said it was tied to a cultural context, but I wasn’t sure if…”

My voice trailed off as his eyes settled on mine. He wasn’t looking at my notebook or my hands. He was looking at me.

“I see,” he said slowly, leaning forward slightly. “You’re wondering if the cultural context undermines the concept of moral universality.”

I nodded quickly, grateful he had saved me from my own incoherence, because the question had just flown out—not that I had prepared something tangible before. I could have disgraced myself if he hadn’t.

He launched into an explanation, his voice measured and thoughtful. But I could barely concentrate. The way he leaned forward, the way his hands moved as he spoke, the way his tie rested just slightly loose against his chest—it was all too much.

My body betrayed me again. I could feel shivers through my spine. My nipples tightened beneath my sweater, my thighs clenching together as heat pooled low in my stomach. I tried to keep my expression neutral, nodding occasionally to feign understanding, because I felt that was the best thing I could do, but my mind was racing.

When he finished speaking, I managed a weak smile. “That makes a lot of sense. Thank you, Professor.”

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered on me, dark and searching. The air between us felt thick, charged with something unspoken.

“You’re very attentive in class,” he said finally, his voice softer than before.

My cheeks burned. “I—I try to be.”

The reaction my lips gave wasn’t even up to a quarter of what my pussy would say if it could talk.

A small smile tugged at his lips, but there was something in his expression I couldn’t quite read. Something that made my breath hitch.

“Do you have any other questions?” he asked, his tone almost inviting.

I shook my head, but I didn’t move to leave. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and electric. He shifted in his chair, his gaze flickering briefly to my hands resting on the notebook before returning to my face.

“Lily,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue like a secret.

“Yes?” My voice came off soft like a whisper.

For a moment, I thought he was going to say something else, something that would shatter the careful line between us. But instead, he leaned back, his expression unreadable.

“Keep up the good work,” he said, his voice once again professional.

I nodded, my chest tight as I gathered my things and stood. “Thank you, Professor,” I said, my voice trembling.

As I turned to leave, my foot caught the edge of the chair leg, and my notebook slipped from my hands, landing on the floor embarrassingly.

I already knew you were going to embarrass yourself, my mind spoke to me.

“Let me,” he said, rising from his chair.

Before I could stop him, he bent down to pick it up. Our hands brushed as he handed it back to me, and the contact sent a jolt through my body. My breath caught, and when I looked up, his eyes were locked on mine.

Neither of us moved.

The moment stretched endlessly, the air between us heavy with tension. My lips parted, a soft gasp escaping me as I felt the heat of his gaze travel over my face.

This triggered me more.

“Lily,” he said again, his voice low and almost hesitant.

I couldn’t respond. My heart was pounding too loudly, my body frozen under his gaze.

Finally, he straightened, breaking the spell. “Have a good day,” he said, his tone neutral but his eyes still holding that flicker of something else.

I nodded numbly and turned to leave, my legs shaky as I walked out the door.

It felt like I just escaped a haunted place.

As I stepped into the hallway, I pressed a hand to my chest, my pulse racing. The tension in that room, the way his eyes lingered on me—it wasn’t in my head. It couldn’t be.

And the worst part?

I wanted more.

(Victor's POV)

The mornings felt colder lately, though it wasn’t the weather. The chill that had settled in my life had little to do with the seasons and everything to do with Emily.

Our marriage had always been built on shared goals, mutual ambition, and the sense that we were moving forward together. But somewhere along the way, we moved from that to not having a real conversation in months.

And the intimacy? That had disappeared when she left for the capital. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and it's been six months. That was how long it had been since we’d been together, in every sense of the word.

I could still remember the last time. The last time we shared as a couple. The mechanical rhythm, the absence of passion, the way she had rolled over and gone straight to sleep afterward. Even before that? It was seventeen weeks. I know she's not to be fully blamed for it. As a career-inclined person, the hustle and bustle of her job is completely overwhelming.

When she’d announced her promotion and transfer to the capital, I had hesitated. But I knew it was a fantastic opportunity. I also knew what my support would mean to her. Supporting her career was definitely the best thing I could have done, but I hadn’t been prepared for how empty the home would feel without her.

I wasn’t prepared for how empty I would feel.

---

The lecture hall buzzed with noise as students shuffled to their seats. I stood at the podium, organizing my notes while my eyes scanned the room for her. I don't know how she had managed to successfully make me feel this way, and I hated how much I got excited, even ordinarily, by the anticipation of seeing her—how her presence seemed to light up the dreary monotony that lurks in me.

And then she walked in.

Lily Rivers.

She didn’t strut but glided; her steps were quiet, deliberate, but she still commanded my attention like no one else. Her golden hair shimmered under the fluorescent lights, and the soft sway of her hips was enough to make my breath hitch. She wore a fitted sweater that hugged her body perfectly, paired with a skirt that stopped just high enough to tease the wild imagination building up in me.

She took her usual seat in the front row, and I felt like she intentionally sat there to vet my attention. I felt the heat rise in my chest. The way she settled into her chair, crossing her legs casually, gave her an effortless confidence that set her apart.

God help me, I couldn’t stop staring.

I tried to focus on my lecture notes, forcing my gaze to the words in front of me. But all I could think about was her. The way she had leaned forward last week during office hours, her blouse just slightly undone, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone. The faint scent of her perfume that had lingered in my office long after she left.

"What exactly is wrong with you, Victor?" I said in my mind.

I’d spent years crafting a reputation—an esteemed professor, an intellectual authority. I was the man students looked up to, the man other faculty respected. And now, one look from a twenty-one-year-old girl is the one posing a threat to all these?

I glanced up again and caught her adjusting her skirt, the fabric sliding an inch higher on her thigh, showcasing her beautiful skin. My mouth went dry. What would that skin feel like under my fingers? Soft, smooth, warm? Would she gasp if I traced my hand along the inside of her thigh, teasing her, making her squirm?

I felt my cock stir at the thought, and I gritted my teeth, turning my back to the class under the guise of writing on the board.

Get a grip, Victor.

This wasn’t just inappropriate—it was dangerous. But no matter how much I told myself that, the fantasies wouldn’t stop.

The lecture began. I managed to find my rhythm, letting the words flow as I explained moral relativism. Philosophy was my sanctuary, the place where I was in control. But even here, with my voice commanding the room, I felt the pull of her presence.

She wasn’t like anyone else.

The way she gave me full concentration, looking at me with those piercing blue eyes. It wasn't just admiration; it was something deeper, something that made my skin prickle. She didn’t just listen; she devoured every word, leaning in like she was hungry for more.

I didn't even know what exactly could be going on in her mind right now, but I knew she had always enjoyed my lectures. Her response, demeanor, questions, and even how she found it comfortable to come to my office whenever she needed assistance.

And here it was again.

Her hand shot up to ask a question. I almost welcomed the distraction.

“Yes, Lily?” I said, making sure my tone was steady.

Her lips parted slightly before she spoke, and for a second, all I could think about was how they would feel against mine. Soft, warm, pliant.

“You said moral relativism undermines universal truths,” she began, her voice smooth and confident, “but doesn’t that depend on the assumption that such truths exist independently of cultural constructs? Couldn’t it be argued that moral universality is a tool of power?”

Her question was sharp, challenging, but all I could focus on was the way her tongue flicked against her bottom lip as she spoke.

“An intriguing point,” I managed, my voice tighter than I intended. “But you’re conflating the mechanisms of enforcement with the existence of the truths themselves.”

Her smile was faint, almost teasing. “Or perhaps I’m questioning the existence altogether.”

The rest of the class chuckled softly, but my focus was entirely on her. The curve of her smile, the tilt of her head, the faint flush of color on her cheeks—it was intoxicating. I couldn't just get enough of her lips; maybe when my lips met them, it'd feel better.

“Well,” I said, leaning slightly against the podium, “then it seems we’ve reached an impasse, haven’t we?”

She held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary, and I felt something shift in the air between us.

The rest of the lecture passed in a blur. I answered questions, posed theories, and engaged with the class, but my attention kept circling back to her. Just her. She crossed and uncrossed her legs once, the motion so subtle no one else noticed. But I did. And the brief glimpse of her skin made my thoughts spiral into dangerous territory.

What would she sound like if I slid my hand higher, teasing her until she whimpered? What would her breath feel like against my neck as I pulled her closer, letting her feel just how badly I wanted her?

I was losing control.

When the class ended, I gathered my notes, determined to leave earlier, but I couldn't. I still felt my dick brushing against my trousers; I just couldn't leave immediately. As the students filed out, I noticed Lily lingering in her seat.

“Lily,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “Do you need something?”

She looked up, her blue eyes wide and disarming. “I just had a quick question about the lecture,” she said, rising from her seat and making her way to the front of the room.

I swallowed hard as she approached, the soft click of her heels on the floor echoing in the half-empty hall. She stopped just a few feet from me, and the faint scent of her perfume—floral and sweet—hit me like a drug.

“What’s your question?” I asked, my tone colder than necessary as I tried to create some distance.

She asked her question.

Her words barely registered. All I could think about was the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the delicate curve of her neck, the faint blush that spread across her cheeks as she spoke.

“You raise an interesting point,” I said, my voice low and tight.

She smiled, and it made something snap inside me.

I shouldn’t have noticed the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips. I shouldn’t have let my gaze linger on the soft skin of her throat. And I definitely shouldn’t have wanted her to take another step closer, to bridge the small gap between us until I could feel the warmth of her body against mine.

But I did.

And when she shifted slightly, her arm brushing against mine, I felt the jolt like a live wire.

“Professor?” she said, her voice soft, questioning.

“Yes?”

The word came out rougher than I intended, and her lips parted slightly, her brows furrowing in confusion—or was it something else?

Just then, I could see someone standing at the door. It was Megan.

"Thank you for taking the time," Lily said, stepping back.

She moved closer to the door, and Megan gave way for her to pass. Megan just stood there, watching me pack my teaching materials together.

I let out a shaky breath, gripping the edge of the podium for support. My throbbing cock already back to its normal state.

I walked to Megan. She greeted me jokingly, like she always does, and teased me about being the best professor in the world.

She looked at me with a bit of skepticism, and I felt she was thinking about who she had just seen me with. She's a very sensitive person, even from high school; she's always been able to catch every clue, a very big overthinker, and just everything that can make someone a very great detective.

My mind was divided at this moment, more than half of it with Lily.

I wasn't sure how much longer I could resist.

And one thing for sure she always comes back to me.

Maybe she feels the same.