Ananya didn't sleep that night.
Not because she was nervous. She didn't do nerves. But the memory of Rael Valtor's stare had carved itself into her bloodstream. She could still hear his voice in her skull — low, precise, dark.
When her phone buzzed the next morning, she expected a message from her best friend. Instead, it was an email.
**From: [r.valtor@guestfaculty.univ.edu](mailto:r.valtor@guestfaculty.univ.edu)**
**Subject: Private Discussion Invitation**
> Miss Rhea,
> I would like to speak with you. Privately.
> Today, after my seminar. My office.
> Room B-409.
> Don't be late.
She stared at it for a full minute.
And then smirked.
---
The room was colder than expected when she stepped in. Books lined the walls. The windows were shut. And Rael Valtor stood at the desk, sleeves rolled, his blazer hanging on the chair behind him.
She didn't knock. Didn't ask permission. Just walked in and closed the door behind her.
"You emailed me," she said.
He didn't look up immediately. Just finished scribbling something in a leather notebook before meeting her gaze.
"I wanted to see you outside the performance."
"Classroom's not real enough for you?"
He walked toward her slowly, each step deliberate. "You don't play the way the others do. You don't seek approval."
"Because I don't need it."
"You're used to being the smartest in the room."
She tilted her head. "And you're used to being the one in control."
They were standing close now. Too close. His scent — expensive cologne, old books, danger — curled around her like a hand on her throat.
"Tell me, Ananya," he said softly. "Do you know what you're doing?"
She smiled. Wicked. Slow. "Completely."
A beat.
Then he reached out, fingers brushing her jaw.
Her breath hitched — not out of fear, but recognition.
"You shouldn't be here," he murmured.
"Then tell me to leave."
He didn't.
Instead, he kissed her.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was fire — open-mouthed, teeth clashing, her hands fisting into his shirt as his slammed against her waist.
He pulled her backward until her back hit the desk.
"Say stop," he whispered.
"Make me."
His hand slid under her shirt, fingers trailing fire across her ribs, up to the curve of her breast. She gasped into his mouth, her nails dragging down his back.
Rael lifted her, sat her on the desk, stepped between her legs.
Her hoodie was off. His shirt was half undone. Her fingers trembled on his belt.
This was wrong. Deeply. Ethically. Dangerously.
And neither of them cared.
"You're chaos," he said against her skin.
"You're addiction," she answered.
He pushed her hair aside, lips ghosting over her ear. "You don't scare easily."
"I scare myself," she breathed.
His mouth returned to hers.
Time blurred.
Somewhere between her thighs and his lips, reality bent. Morality faded. It wasn't student and professor anymore — it was predator meeting predator. A war of mouths and bodies.
When they finally broke apart, chests heaving, hair tousled, clothes a mess, he whispered, "This can't happen again."
She smiled.
"Liar."
---
Outside the room, the hallway was empty. But inside both of them, a storm had begun.
And it wouldn't be satisfied with just one taste.