Warning: Slightly sexual content
The sound of a bell echoed through the corridors of the university, marking the end of another day. Rody Lamoree, a French literature professor in his mid-thirties, leaned back in his chair, watching as the last few students filtered out of his classroom. His fingers absently brushed through his auburn hair, which had grown slightly unruly as the day wore on. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing tanned forearms, and his tie hung loosely around his neck. Rody rarely looked the part of a strict teacher, but his reputation for wit and charm made up for his more relaxed demeanor.
“Merci, monsieur,” a soft voice said, breaking him from his thoughts.
Rody’s eyes flicked toward the door. Vincent Charbonneau stood by the threshold, lingering. At eighteen, Vincent was young, but he carried himself with a confidence that felt beyond his years. His black hair was neatly combed, his pale skin contrasting sharply against his dark clothing. He wasn’t like the other students. Vincent’s gaze always seemed sharper, more focused—especially when it landed on Rody. And lately, it had been landing on him a lot more.
"You're welcome, Vincent. Need something?" Rody asked, keeping his tone professional, though he couldn’t ignore the way his skin prickled under Vincent’s intense stare.
Vincent stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. The soft click of the lock sent a shiver down Rody’s spine. He straightened up in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I wanted to ask about the Baudelaire essay," Vincent began, though there was a languidness to his words that suggested the essay wasn’t his primary concern. He took a step closer, his fingers brushing over the edge of a nearby desk as if he were walking into a space more intimate than a classroom.
Rody’s brow furrowed slightly. "Baudelaire? You turned that in two weeks ago, Vincent. You got an A. It was excellent work."
Vincent’s lips curved into a small smile, and he tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Yes, I know. But I wanted to know what *you* thought of it, personally. I find your opinion... insightful."
Rody shifted uncomfortably in his chair. There was something about Vincent's tone that felt heavy, almost deliberate. "It was one of the best in the class," he said, trying to keep the conversation light, professional. "You have a real talent for understanding nuance in the text."
Vincent didn’t break eye contact, the air in the room thickening as he moved closer to Rody’s desk. His fingers grazed the wooden surface as he spoke, his voice dropping slightly. "I’ve always liked the way you explain things, monsieur."
Rody swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. This wasn’t the first time Vincent had lingered after class, but something felt different today. There was an intensity in the air, a tension that was hard to ignore. Vincent wasn’t just a student asking for help—there was something more, something far more dangerous.
"You have a way with words," Vincent continued, now standing directly in front of Rody’s desk. His eyes were locked onto Rody’s, and for a brief moment, Rody could feel the steady pulse in his neck quicken.
"Thank you," Rody replied, his voice more clipped than he intended. He glanced at the door, half-expecting it to burst open and end the strange, heated moment, but no one came. They were alone.
Too alone.
Vincent leaned against the desk, his posture casual, but the energy between them was anything but. "It must be difficult for you, being so brilliant and surrounded by so many students who don’t... understand you." His voice was soft, seductive even, and Rody felt his stomach twist.
