~Elena's POV~

I'm out of my seat before he finishes roll call or before he even gets to my name.

My bag gets stuck on the chair and when I pull it, papers spill like startled birds.

I don't care. I need to get out of this room, away from those dark eyes that have seen every inch of me.

My heart is beating fast while I move to the door.

"Miss Vega."

His voice stops me at the door, smooth, controlled. Not the same voice that moaned into my skin or the breath that shook when he was between my thighs.

I freeze at the door but don't turn. "I need to drop this class."

His answer is measured, cool-professor-like. "Office hours are posted on the syllabus. We can discuss schedule conflicts then."

It's not a suggestion and we both know it.

The next two hours are torture. I sit through Thermodynamics seeing nothing but a blurry whiteboard.

All I can picture is his mouth at my neck, his hands gripping my hips, his body-God.

I press my knees together under the desk, a warm feeling spreads in my stomach.

What is wrong with me?

Every time I blink, I see the hotel room. The dim lights. His face when he said my name...my first name, right before I came.

If anyone finds out, I'm so screwed.

By the time I reach his office, I've thought through every excuse I could possibly give. Each one sounds stupid, childish or like I'm admitting everything out loud.

I knock once. "Come in." His voice again, controlled, neutral.

I push the door open. He sits behind his desk with reading glasses sitting low on his nose. He looks nothing like the man who pinned me against a hotel wall with a hunger that felt like fire.

Now he looks... put together, calm. Like none of this touches him. This version wears an iron shirt and academic authority like armor.

I close the door quietly. "I'm dropping your class."

He doesn't even look up at first. "Sit down, Elena."

"You know my name now."

My name sounds different in his mouth now. Not soft like that night, it now sharper, cleaner. Like he's wiping something away with each syllable.

"I looked at the roster after you ran out of my classroom." He removes his glasses and sets them aside like they're fragile. 

He nods toward the empty chair. "Sit."

I stay standing. I need the distance. Even if distance feels impossible.

"This is inappropriate. You're my professor. What happened was a mistake..."

"Agreed." His interruption was quick and cold.

He stands, moves around the desk. His steps are steady, quiet, controlled. Too controlled. Like if he shows even a little softness, something will break open between us.

He stops a little too close. "It was a mistake. It won't happen again. You'll stay in my class, complete the coursework, and we'll both pretend Friday night didn't exist."

"That's it? That's your solution?"

Now he moves closer, too close now. I can smell his cologne. "Do you have a better one?" he asks, with a low voice. "Should I report myself, lose my job or maybe you want me to give you special treatment so no one suspects why you're suddenly getting perfect grades?"

"I'm not asking for..."

"I know what you're asking for." His voice softens. "You want out because you're scared. Because when you look at me, you remember how you tasted on my tongue."

I feel hot even with the air conditioner. I feel it everywhere, my neck, stomach, between my legs. 

"Don't..."

"Don't what? I shouldn't acknowledge that I know exactly how you sound when you come, or remind you that your nails were in my back while you did?"

He's inches away now, his chest rises and falls faster now, he's fighting something, the same thing I am.

"We're adults, Elena and we fucked, it was good but it's over now."

My voice shakes. "Then why are you standing so close?"

He stops moving completely. I'm not."

"You are." I don't step back.

I refuse to back away. "And if it's over, why do you look like you want to bend me over your desk?"

The space between us snaps like a wire pulled too tight.

His hand is on my hip before I can breathe. His grip is firm, dragging me forward until my body hits his. He's hard, everywhere.

"Because I do," he says against my mouth.

"I've been hard since you walked into my classroom. I spent two hours lecturing about Caravaggio while imagining ripping that little sweater off you."

My heart beats so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. I should tell him to stop, pull away, my brain screams it.

Instead, I grab his shirt and kiss him.

Everything erupts, his mouth devours mine, he lifts me to his desk not bothered by the scattered papers.

His hand slides under my skirt, fingers finding wetness through my underwear. With the same certainty they had that night, like he remembers every part of me.

"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth. "You're soaked."

"I hate you."

"Good." His fingers push aside the thin fabric, sliding into me. "Hate me while I make you come again."

I bite down on his shoulder to reduce the sound of my moan. His thumb rubs my clit, circling with devastating motions.

The room blurs. My nails dig into his shoulders. The pressure builds fast, almost frightening. His thumb moves slow, cruelly precise.

I try to push his hand away, but my body betrays me.

The same hands that sketch renaissance angels are taking me apart in his university office.

I'm close, too close. I grab his wrist. "Stop. We can't..."

"We are." He adds another finger, curling them perfectly. "Come for me, Elena."

The climax hits hard, fast, shaking through every limb. I gasp into his shoulder, trembling.

When I can breathe again, he's watching me with something dark and look in his eyes. He brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting it.

"We're done here," I manage to get off the desk. My legs barely strong enough to hold me standing. "This never happens again." His expression changes suddenly.

"Agreed." I'm fixing my skirt when the door handle turns.

We both freeze.

"Professor Sandoval?" A male voice. Familiar, very familiar.

David pushes the door open, finding me and Mateo too close, the air thick with what we just did.

He looks surprised. "Elena? What are you doing here?"​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

My heart skipped.

~Elena's POV~

"I asked you a question." David steps fully into the office, his eyes jumping between Mateo and me. "What are you doing here?"

My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

Mateo moves first, putting calculated distance between us. "Miss Vega had questions about dropping my course, so I was advising her to reconsider." His voice is perfectly neutral and professional. "Is there something I can help you with, Mr...?"

"Chen. David Chen. I'm Elena's boyfriend."

"Ex-boyfriend," I found my voice, shaking but firm. My heart is still racing, "And I'm handling my own schedule, David. You need to leave."

"We need to talk..."

"No. We don't." I grab my bag, pushing past him into the hallway. "Stop following me."

He holds my arm. "Following you? Elena, I came to speak with Professor Sandoval about auditing his seminar. I had no idea you'd be here."

I pulled my arm off his hand. "Audit somewhere else."

I don't look back nor check if Mateo is watching. I just walk, faster, until I'm outside gasping for air that tastes like freedom and nothing like sex and mistakes.

The email arrives on Thursday morning.

FUNDING NOTIFICATION: Research Grant - DENIED

I read it three times to be sure and I call the department head.

"I'm sorry, Elena." Dr. Morrison sounds genuinely sorry. "The committee felt your project lacked sufficient basic information. You can reapply next quarter."

"Next quarter? Dr. Morrison, I need this funding now. My rent is due in two weeks, and I've already bought materials..."

"Perhaps you should have submitted a stronger application."

The line goes dead.

I sit in my empty apartment, the studio I can afford only because of that grant, 

What do I do now? I do the math. 

Thesis materials: 800 euros. 

Rent: 900 euros. 

Bank account: 237 euros.

I'm fucked.

My phone rings. It's an Unknown number calling.

We need to talk. My studio. Address attached. Come tonight. MS

A sane person would delete it, block him, but not me.

Instead, I'm standing outside an old building in El Raval at eight PM, the address leading me up three flights of stairs to a door marked only with a number.

I knock.

Mateo opens it immediately, like he was waiting. "Come in."

The studio is large, brick walls, huge windows, artwork stacked everywhere.

In the center: a raised stool, spotlights, a stool.

"What is this?" My voice trembled, even to me.

He closes the door behind me. "An offer."

"I'm not interested in..."

"Your grant was denied." He leans against a work table covered in charcoal and brushes. "David Chen submitted a formal complaint to the funding committee, he claimed your research was compromised by personal issues, lack of focus and emotional instability following your breakup."

The words hit like a slap. "He did what?"

"He sabotaged you Elena, professionally and completely." Mateo crosses his arms. "But I can help."

"Why would you help me?"

"Because I need something." He points to the stool. "I'm publishing a paper on anatomical accuracy in figure drawing. I need a model, someone intelligent enough to understand the work, who can hold still for hours and that I can trust to be discreet."

Understanding hits cold and sharp. "You want me to... pose nude?"

"Yes."

"Absolutely not."

"Four sessions 1,000 euros each." He names the figure like he's talking about something casual. "Cash enough to cover your rent and materials until you can reapply."

Four thousand euros. My brain buzzed, my stomach twisting. Two months of breathing room.

"This is insane, you're my professor..."

"In one elective class. Your degree is in physics. I have no influence over your actual program." He moves closer, his expression unreadable. "This is art, Elena. Academic, professional, nothing more."

"Professional." I laugh. "Like Tuesday was professional?"

"Tuesday was a mistake but this is business." His eyes hold mine. "I won't touch you, you'll pose while I draw, this is a clean transaction, we'll keep it professional."

"And if someone finds out?"

"They won't. This studio isn't connected to the university. No one knows I rent it." 

He brings out his phone, types something and shows me the screen. A contract, simply written. "Read it, take your time."

I read the terms: Four sessions, three hours each. Full nudity required. Payment upon completion of each session. Confidentiality clause. No physical contact.

My hands shake. I don't know what to say.

"I need an answer, Elena."

I think about David's stupid face, about Rebecca's moans in my bed and the eviction notice I'll get in two weeks if I don't find money.

"When's the first session?"

"Tomorrow night. Nine PM."

I sign the contract on his phone before I can overthink it and change my mind.

"Good." He saves the document, then focuses on me. "Strip, we start now."

"What? No, you said tomorrow..."

"I said the first session is tomorrow. This is a test run, free" His voice lowered. "I need to see if you can actually do this."

"I just signed your contract..."

"Then prove you can handle it." He picks up a piece of charcoal, nods toward the stool. "Clothes off, Elena. Let's see what I'm paying for."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

~Elena's POV~

My sweater hits the floor first. I don't look at him, I can't. If I see his face, I'll lose my composure. 

So I focus on taking my clothes off, my fingers tremble as I push the last button of my jeans, I step out of them and I unhook my bra with my hands still shaking.

The studio is warm, but goosebumps rise across my skin anyway.

"Underwear too."

Mateo's voice comes from somewhere behind me. But I feel him before I see him, his presence in the studio, precise, controlled. I hear charcoal scratching the paper, he's already drawing.

I take my underwear down, step out of them, and I'm completely naked in my professor's studio. 

"Sit on the stool in the stage."

I climb the two steps, the wooden stool pressing under me. The spotlight is bright, exposing. I cross my arms over my breasts, dying of shame.

"Drop your arms."

"Mateo..."

"Professor Sandoval." His tone is sharp. "In this studio, you call me Professor. And you follow instructions. Arms down."

Something about the command meant business. I lower my arms.

"Good. Chin up. Shoulders back."

I adjust. 

He draws, the charcoal moving faster now.

"Part your knees a little."

I refused to obey.

"Elena, this is anatomy, I need to see bone structure, muscle definition, shadow and light so part your knees."

I do, the air touches places that haven't been exposed since Friday night. Since him.

Twenty minutes pass, my legs ache, arms start to burn from holding still. He moves around me like a predator with a purpose, but without touching me. He barely breathes, barely blinks.

"Can I move?"

"No."

"My back is..."

"Then we'll try a different pose." He drops his charcoal and comes closer. "Stand up, raise your arms above your head."

I stand, raise my arms. He's close now, he looks at me as if he's studying me. 

"Higher, stretch." His hand moving near my ribcage but not touching. "I need to see how the muscles look."

I stretch higher. His eyes track the movement of my body like he's memorizing equations.

"Turn slowly." He takes a deep breath.

"Something wrong, Professor?"

"Your posture." His voice sounds strained. "Your back curves here." His finger runs down my back, the first time he's touched me since I stripped. "Do you feel that?"

Of course I feel everything. "Yes."

"And here." His hand rests on my lower back. "Lean your hips a bit  forward."

I adjust. His hand stays, burning through my skin.

"Mateo..."

"Professor." He ignores the warning in my tone. 

"This doesn't feel professional."

"It's not." His other hand comes to my hip. "But I need accurate measurements for the study so turn around."

I turn facing him. We're inches apart.

"Measurements, is that what this is?"

"Yes." But his hands are still on my hips, thumbs drawing small circles on my skin. "I need to document proportions. Hip to waist ratio, thigh circumference."

"Then document it."

His fingers run down my thigh, one hand feels professional. The other... doesn't. It's on my inner thigh, too close.

"Professor Sandoval," I hold his shoulder to steady myself. "What are you checking?"

He looks into my eyes, dark and dangerous. "The exact line between being professional and this."

"This?"

He drops to his knees.

My breath stops. He's eye-level with the part of me that's been aching since I walked into his studio. His hands grip my thighs, his hand stroking that sensitive inner skin.

"Tell me to stop, Elena."

I should. I absolutely should. "Measure whatever you need to measure."

"This wasn't part of the deal, we said no contact."

"I know."

"We agreed no contact."

"I know."

"I'm going to taste you now." He parts me slightly. "And you're going to let me, aren't you?"

"Yes."

His tongue licks me, slow and deliberate. Like he's enjoying something valuable.

I grab his hair, my legs trembling. He moans against me, and the feeling almost overwhelms me. With my teeth pressed so tight against my lips. 

He works me with devastating skill, tongue and lips. When he slides two fingers inside, curling them perfectly, I stop caring about contracts or consequences.

"Look at me."

I look down. His eyes lock with mine while his mouth destroys me.

"Come for me, Elena."

I do, I shout his name, not Professor, just Mateo...while his tongue works, my body betrays me in the best way.

When I can stand again, he rises. His mouth is wet. His hands are shaking.

He reaches for his wallet, pulls out cash. Counts out 1,000 euros, places it on the work table.

"Session complete. Tomorrow night, Nine PM."

"That wasn't the session. You said tonight was free..."

"Consider it payment for professionalism, I'm generous." His voice is cold now. "Get dressed."

The studio is silent. The charcoal rests on the table. The spotlight burns down on me. Naked, alone, though not really. Not after what just passed.

I'm pulling on my jeans when his phone rings.

He looks at the screen, his face goes pale.

"What is it?"

"Campus security. They've requested footage from the art building." He looks at me, and I see fear behind the lust. "Tuesday afternoon. My office."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I feel exposed, not just physically, but in ways I can't explain.