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Professor Nathan was that one lecturer who pulled up to campus in a matte black Lamborghini every damn Tuesday and Thursday like it was nothing.

And yeah… word around the girls’ hostel was he was packing serious heat downstairs. Nobody had proof (or at least nobody was admitting it), but the way his slacks hugged him during those 200-level anatomy lectures? Let’s just say the imagination didn’t need much help.

I swear, middle of his PowerPoint, I’d catch myself staring too long. Heart racing, thighs squeezing together under the desk, brain completely checked out.

Next thing I know I’m excusing myself to the bathroom on the third floor—the one that’s always empty—locking the stall, pulling up his latest Instagram story (shirtless gym mirror selfie, of course), and handling business like my life depended on it.

Fingers shaking, breathing all messed up, trying not to moan his name too loud in case someone walked in.

I’d come back to class ten minutes later, face hot, legs still weak, pretending I just had a stomach emergency while he kept talking about the brachial plexus like he didn’t just ruin my entire nervous system without even trying.

I hated my mom for a lot of things growing up, but dragging me to this particular university? That one I couldn’t forgive her for.

Because now I was doomed. Doomed to sit in lecture halls getting wet over a man who probably didn’t even know my name, doomed to touch myself to his smile in secret, doomed to pretend I was paying attention when all I really wanted was for him to look at me the way I looked at him.

Some days I wondered if he knew.

The way his eyes would linger just a second too long when he called my name for attendance.

Or maybe I was just delusional.

Either way… I was already too far gone.

The whole damn class went quiet for like half a second, then exploded.

“Hey four eyes.”

That deep, lazy drawl cut through the hum of sixty-something students like a knife. Heads snapped. Eyes locked on me.

I was mid-chew on the end of my pen—probably looking exactly where I shouldn’t have been looking: straight between Professor Nathan’s thighs where those charcoal slacks were doing criminal things to the outline of—

I choked. Literally. The pen dropped, clattered on the desk. My face burned so fast I swear I could feel my glasses fogging up from the inside.

Everyone laughed. Not polite giggles—full-on, head-thrown-back, “she got caught” cackles. Someone in the back even whistled. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

I scrambled to sit up straight, shoved my glasses higher on my nose like that would hide the crime scene on my face, yanked my notebook open to a random page, pretended I was taking notes on… whatever slide he was on. Brachial plexus? Pulmonary something? Who cares. My brain was offline.

Professor Nathan didn’t even flinch. He just stood there at the front, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised like he was mildly amused and mildly disappointed at the same time.

Then he said it—calm, low, voice that could probably make panties drop without trying:

“Pay attention so you don’t have to repeat this class again.”

He turned back to the projector like nothing happened. Clicked to the next slide. Continued explaining whatever miracle of human anatomy he was on, all smooth and unbothered.

The class settled. Laughter died down to whispers. But me? I was still sitting there with my heart slamming against my ribs, palms sweaty, thighs clenched so tight I might’ve pulled something.

He noticed me.

After three straight years of me repeating this stupid 200-level course.

“Take the notes to my office.”

His voice hit me like a low bass note, the way he always sounded when he wasn’t even trying to be sexy.

He said it right after class ended, eyes flicking to me for half a second while the rest of the students were already packing up and spilling out the door.

I was class head this semester—yeah, I ran for it on purpose. Not because I gave a damn about organizing group chats or collecting attendance sheets.

I did it so I’d have one more excuse to be around him. One more reason for him to say my name, look at me longer than two seconds, maybe even call me into his office for “official business.”

So when he said it, my stomach flipped so hard I almost dropped the stack of lecture notes he’d just handed over.

“O-okay… ay sir,” I stuttered, voice cracking like a teenager. The word “sir” tasted different this time. Heavy and dirty .

The only other time I wanted to call him that was in my head, late at night, imagining his fist wrapped tight in my hair, pulling my head back while he—

I swallowed hard, hugged the notes to my chest like a shield, and practically speed-walked out before my face could catch fire.

Third floor. His office. The hallway was quiet except for the echo of my own footsteps and the stupid thump-thump of my heart.

I kept picturing it the whole way up the stairs: him walking in behind me, door clicking shut, locking it without a word. Pushing me forward until my hips hit the edge of his desk. Skirt flipped up. No mercy.

By the time I got to his door, I was already breathing funny. The nameplate said “Prof. Nathan ” in neat gold letters, and just seeing it made my thighs press together.

I set the class notes down carefully, like they were fragile. Then I just… stood there. Heart racing. The thought I’d been turning over in my head for months finally screamed loud enough to listen to.

What if I left something? Something he couldn’t ignore.

My fingers moved before my brain could talk me out of it. I reached under my skirt, hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my black lace panties—the ones I’d worn today specifically because they made me feel dangerous—and slid them down my legs. Stepped out. Cool air hit me and I almost moaned.

I folded them once, twice, small and secret, then reached for the thick lecture binder on his desk.

The one he always referenced in class. I opened it to a random page—some diagram of the heart, ironic—and slipped the panties right between the sheets, tucked in like a bookmark.

I was grinning like an idiot, already imagining him finding them later. The way his eyebrows would lift. The way he might call me back in here tomorrow, voice tight, asking what the hell this was.

I was just smoothing the pages closed when—

“What are you doing?”

That voice. Deep and close. Right behind me.

I froze.

My back was to the door. My skirt was still hiked up a little from when I’d bent over the desk. Ass out, thighs bare, no panties, completely fucking exposed.