The charcoal snaps between my fingers, leaving a jagged black line across the paper. I don't even remember pressing down that hard. My eyes flick to the clock 3:47 PM. Class ended thirteen minutes ago, but no one's left. Not yet.

Because he's still here.

Jerome leans against the front desk, arms crossed, watching us pack up with that unreadable half smile. His sleeves are rolled up today, revealing forearms dusted with dark hair and the faintest scars thin, white lines that look like claw marks. I shouldn't be staring. But I can't stop.

"Rach." Jack's voice jerks me back. He's hovering by my desk, backpack slung over one shoulder, glancing between me and Jessica like he's waiting for permission to leave. "You coming? We're grabbing food."

Jessica twirls a strand of hair around her finger, her eyes darting to Jerome. "Professor Laurent," she purrs, "are we free to go?"

Jerome doesn't even look at her. His gaze lands on me. "Almost."

The room goes quiet.

Then he pushes off the desk and walks slow, deliberate until he's standing over my ruined sketch. His shadow swallows the paper.

"Care to explain this, Miss Veldt?"

I swallow. "It's... abstract."

A beat. Then his fingers brush the edge of the paper, lifting it for the class to see. "No. This is careless." His voice is low, but it carries. "Distracted. Sloppy."

Jessica muffles a laugh. Jack shifts uncomfortably.

My face burns. "I'll redo it."

"You will." He drops the sketch back onto my desk. "Starting now. After everyone else leaves."

A murmur ripples through the room. Jessica's eyes widen, her lips parting in something between shock and glee. Jack frowns, glancing from me to Jerome like he's trying to piece together a puzzle.

"But—" I start.

Jerome cuts me off. "You wasted class time. Now you'll make it up." His tone leaves no room for argument. "The rest of you? Get out."

No one moves at first. Then Jessica grabs Jack's arm, tugging him toward the door. "Come on," she whispers, loud enough for me to hear. "Maybe he'll finally fail her."

The door clicks shut behind them.

And then it's just us.

The studio feels too big and too small all at once. Jerome hasn't moved. I can feel him watching me, his breath steady, his presence like a weight against my skin.

I force myself to look up.

His eyes are gold again.

Not just in the light.

Gold.

My throat goes dry. "You—you're not really keeping me here for the sketch."

A slow smile curls his lips. "No." He steps closer. "I'm keeping you here because you lied to me."

I stiffen. "About what?"

He moved behind me now, his voice lower. “You’ve been distracted, Rachel.”

He was close enough that I could feel the heat of him. Close enough to smell the faint musk of whatever cologne he wore something warm and smoky and expensive. My breath caught.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.” His tone sharpened slightly, almost scolding, but not unkind. He walked around to face me, and I hated how my thighs pressed together as if in response to something between us.

“Stand up,” he said quietly.

I hesitated.

“Now.”

My body moved before my mind could stop it.

Jerome hasn't moved. He stands over me, his shadow swallowing the half finished sketch on my desk, his eyes burning with something that isn't anger.

Gold.

I should be afraid. I am afraid. But beneath the fear, there's something else something hot and liquid pooling low in my stomach.

This is wrong.

His fingers tap against the edge of my desk, slow and deliberate. "You've been lying to me, Rachel."

My throat tightens. "I don't know what you're talking about."

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. "You're a terrible liar." He leans down, bracing his hands on either side of my chair, caging me in. His breath ghosts over my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "Tell me what you remember about the woods."

I swallow hard. "Nothing

“Liar”

The wood creaks under his grip.

"You felt it. The pull. The hunger." His breath is hot against my cheek. "Just like you feel it now."

I can't breathe. Can't think. The heat between my legs is unbearable, a throbbing ache that pulses with every word he growls into my ear.

I should run. I should scream.

But I don't. I stay.

His lips brush the shell of my ear. "You've been a very naughty girl, Rachel."

A whimper escapes me before I can stop it.

He lets out a dark chuckle, pleased. Naughty girls get punished.

My breath hitches. Punished. The word sends a jolt of heat straight between my legs.

He straightens, his gaze raking over me.

“Climb up.”

“What?”

His eyes narrowed. “You heard me.”

I stare at him, my heart pounding so loud I'm sure he can hear it. His expression doesn't change cool, controlled, but his eyes... his eyes are dark with hunger.

My breath hitches. "Someone could-"

"Now."

Heat bloomed in my cheeks, but I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. I stepped carefully onto the small wooden platform of the desk, the surface cool under my palms as I lifted myself up. I felt like a sculpture on display on show for him, and only him with my legs dangling over the edge.

Jerome steps between them, his hands settling on my thighs. His touch burns through the fabric of my leggings. His gaze roamed slowly, possessively, as if taking in every inch of me. I could feel myself flush under it.

"Take off your panties."

The command is soft, but it leaves no room for refusal. My fingers tremble as I hook them under the waistband of my leggings, sliding them down just enough to expose the lace beneath. I hesitate, my cheeks flaming.

Jerome's grip tightens. "Now Rachel."

I bite my lip and obey, peeling the damp lace down my legs and letting them drop to the floor. The air is cool against my bare skin, but it does nothing to calm the heat building inside me.

His nostrils flare, his gaze locked between my thighs.

He didn’t touch me. Not yet.

“Now,” he said, voice darker, rougher, “touch yourself.”

I hesitated shaking, uncertain, but aching. His eyes stayed on me, unblinking. I could see the way his jaw tensed, the way his breath slowed.

“You’ve been craving this,” he said. “Craving me. Haven’t you?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

"Touch yourself."

Oh god.

My fingers found the heat between my thighs. Just a brush, a graze, but I gasped. He leaned in, watching intently,

My breath comes in shallow gasps as I tentatively brush my fingers over my folds, already slick with arousal. His eyes follow every movement, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitch.

“Wider,” he commanded, his voice husky. “Let me see.”

I parted my legs, trembling. I spread my legs further, my pulse thundering in my ears as I circle my clit, my hips jerking at the contact.

Jerome watches, his chest rising and falling faster now. The bulge in his pants is impossible to ignore, straining against the fabric. The sight of it of him like this sends another wave of wetness between my legs.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice rough.

Then his hands are on me, pushing mine away, his fingers sliding through my slick with a groan. "So fucking wet for me."

I whimper as he teases my entrance, his thumb pressing against my clit slowly, I let out a low moan half relief, half shock at the sensation. He moved slowly, deliberately, teasing, circling, then deeper.

But when my breath began to quicken, when I felt the tight coil in my belly begin to wind, he stopped.

“No,” he said, almost gently. “You don’t get to come. Not yet.”

“Please ” I whispered, desperate.

Instead of answering, he leaned in, mouth at my breast, his tongue circling the hard peak before taking it between his lips.

"Please what?"

I can't think. Can't speak. His mouth closes over my nipple, sucking hard through the fabric, and my back arches off the desk.

His fingers push inside me, curling just right, and I gasp, my nails digging into the wood.

"You don't get to come yet," he growls against my skin, his teeth grazing my nipple. "Not until I say so."

"So fucking tight," he mutters, his thumb circling my clit as his fingers curl inside me.

"You've been thinking about this, haven't you?

About me fucking you right here, in this classroom?"

Yes. Yes. Yes.

But I can't form the words. His mouth crashes onto mine, swallowing my moans as his fingers work me ruthlessly. His other hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. His teeth graze my pulse point.

"You're mine," he snarls. "Say it."

"Yours," I whimper.

His thrusts slow, teasing, denying me the release I'm desperate for. "Not yet."

Please.

He pulls his fingers out, leaving me empty, aching. My hips chase his touch, My hips chase his touch, but he steps back, tucking his wet fingers into his mouth with a smirk.

"Class dismissed."