Who said Paris was the Goddess of love?

It was the first Monday of the semester. Room 106, airy and glass-encased, was already buzzing with filled seats, open notebooks, and watchful eyes when the doorknob turned tardily. An immediate and uneasy silence fell, as if time itself held its breath momentarily.

She entered with purposeful strides, yet unhurried, as if the lateness was part of a ritual. Her black skirt hugged her thighs with each step, and her white blouse was slightly unbuttoned at the neckline, not from inattention, but by design. Her eyes didn't seek excuses, they simply locked onto the professor, standing at the front of the room, with the assurance of someone anticipating something.

He lifted his gaze from the book he was engrossed in.

"Name?" he inquired, his voice low and sharp.

"Luna Andrade," she responded, with a half-smile that didn't seek forgiveness, just acknowledgment.

He didn't return the smile.

"There are rules in this discipline. Punctuality is one of them. It will impact your attendance next time."

She nodded, and as she turned to find a seat, he noticed her exposed neck, the nape partially visible under her loosely tied brown hair. She wasn't just another student. He sensed it even before she took her seat.

Luna rested her chin on her hand, her gaze locked onto him. She didn't jot down notes. She just soaked him in.

At the conclusion, he announced the first assessed task:

"An essay. Open topic. Fifteen thousand characters. But I want to feel the body in every line. No sterile dissertations. I want your surrender." He paused, then added, "With words, at least for now."

Some chuckled. Not her. She smiled, but with the slyness of someone who understood more than what was spoken.

Confidence? Temptation? Or was it that perilous blend of both?

When he began grading the essays late one night after class, he wasn't prepared for what he would discover upon opening hers.

The first line was already a jolt:

The first time I felt naked was in the presence of a man who never laid a hand on me.

He paused. Took a deep breath. Proceeded.

"It was his gaze. He saw past my words and perceived the raw emotion within them. He was an educator. The entire room faded away, leaving only him. And me, throbbing between the lines."

The essay didn't mention any names, but it was too personal to be considered generic. It spoke of restrained desire, of fingers that remain still, yet threaten. Of voices delivering lectures while the student's mind conceives orders.

I desired to respond to the queries while my mouth was otherwise engaged.

Literary, indeed. But laden with implications.

Provoked.

He amended the text with a few technical notes. There was nothing to amend. But, at the bottom of the page, he hesitated for a moment before inscribing in his own hand:

You've got talent. But you need to learn to be more... disciplined.

He scrawled his initials next to it. He wanted her to know he'd read it to the end. And that he was responding.

He distributed the corrected papers. When he handed hers over, their fingers brushed for a moment longer than necessary.

She didn't utter a thank you. She just eyed the envelope with the stapled sheets and, later, seated at the back of the room, she slid her thumb to the bottom corner of the last page. There, she found the note.

She read it. Smiled. Then she licked the corner of her lips as if she had savored something sweet and forbidden.

That night, he didn't turn in early.

He poured himself a whiskey, settled into the office chair, and revisited the essay. Each line now held a different weight — it seemed as if she had penned it just for him, like a gift, a cipher, a veiled confession. And he had reciprocated.

And that disarmed him more than any display of cleavage could.

His phone buzzed.

Notification on his academic email: "Regarding the essay — Luna Andrade."

He paused before opening it. Then, he clicked.

"Professor, I appreciate the feedback. But I'm still not quite sure what you meant by 'discipline'. Could there be a practical demonstration?"

Sincerely, Luna.

He read the text. Then he read it again. He then stared at the screen for several minutes, with the glass between his fingers and his heart beating faster than it should.

She was wearing a loosely buttoned dress shirt and a skirt that seemed too tight for a Tuesday. When he walked into the room, his eyes met hers before any other student's.

She held a pen between her lips. Not as a distraction. But as a warning.

When he invited them to read a passage from Bataille aloud, she stepped forward. She read with a steady voice, unabashed by the words:

"There is no pleasure without excess, without transgression. Eroticism is the affirmation of life even in death."

He simply gazed at her — his eyes locked with hers — and responded:

"Excellent choice, Miss Andrade. It appears you've already grasped the essence of the course."

She smiled.

But he could sense it. The tension had now taken on a life of its own. And it wasn't just him who was fueling it.

She was in the game too. Perhaps with even more bravery.

On her way out, she crossed paths with him in the hallway, alone. She paused next to him, uncomfortably close.

"Do you think I'm making headway in the subject, professor?"

He drew a deep breath.

"You are. But there's still a great deal to learn."

I enjoy learning from those who know how to teach... practically.

As if she was leaving behind a trail of gunpowder, ready to ignite.

He remained still for a few seconds.

But he knew, right then and there, that the opening line of that story had already been penned.

And that the upcoming chapters would be dangerously delightful.