My professor,my daddy..and me is yummy pie

Lyra "The heart wants what it wants, Miss Black, regardless of consequence." Those words from yesterday's lecture echo in my mind as I sprint across campus, my soaked white blouse clinging uncomfortably to my skin making my n*****s limp. The autumn storm came out of nowhere, and now I'm ten minutes late to Dr. Wolfe's literature seminar. I burst through the heavy oak doors, water dripping from my hair onto the worn wooden floors. "Ah, Miss Black. How gracious of you to join us late." Every head turns toward me, but I only see his dark eyes, penetrating, amused, dangerous. Dr. Roman Wolfe stands at the front of the lecture hall like he owns it, which, I suppose, he does. His accent carries traces of London sophistication that makes even the most mundane words sound like poetry in the heat, gosh he is so hot I must confess. "I'm sorry, Professor. The storm…" "Caught you unprepared?" He tilts his head slightly, studying me with an intensity that makes my cheeks burn with what I can't really phantom. "Much like Ophelia, wouldn't you say? Undone by forces beyond her control." The Shakespeare reference hits like a challenge. I lift my chin, ignoring the whispers around me. "Ophelia was destroyed by the men in her life, not by nature." A slow smile spreads across his lips. "Interesting perspective. Please, take your seat." I slide into the only available chair, front row, directly in his line of sight. My hands shake as I pull out my notebook, hyperaware of his presence just feet away. "As I was saying," he continues, his voice carrying effortlessly through the room, "desire is literature's most dangerous territory. It drives every great tragedy, every forbidden love story. Who can tell me why?" Sarah's hand shoots up. "Because it makes people do irrational things?" "Partially correct." His eyes drift back to me. "Miss Black? You seem to have strong opinions about literary motivations." My mouth goes dry. "Desire reveals truth. People spend their lives hiding who they really are, but desire strips away pretense. It's... raw. Honest." "And terrifying," he adds softly, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Which is why most people run from it rather than embrace it." The way he looks at me when he says it makes my pulse race. There's something in his expression, recognition, perhaps. As if he sees straight through me and this s**t is really getting me wet,let me not lie. "For your assignment," he announces, turning to write on the blackboard, "I want you to explore your own forbidden desires. Not your surface wants, your deep, secret longings. The ones you've never admitted to anyone, perhaps not even yourself." My pen hovers over the paper as murmurs ripple through the classroom. "Professor," calls out James from the back row, "isn't that a bit... personal?" Dr. Wolfe turns back to face us, leaning against his desk with casual authority. "Great literature has always been personal, Mr. Harrison. Hemingway bled onto every page. Plath transformed her pain into poetry. If you want to write something that matters, you must be willing to expose your soul." His eyes find mine again. "Due next class. No exceptions." The next hour passes in a blur of literary analysis and heated discussions about morality in fiction. I try to focus, but I'm painfully aware of every gesture he makes, every time his voice drops into that hypnotic cadence that seems designed to unravel me. When class ends, students file out in chattering groups, but I remain frozen in my seat, staring at the blank page in my notebook. "Having trouble with the assignment already, Miss Black?" I look up to find him standing beside my desk, close enough that I catch the subtle scent of his cologne, something dark and expensive. "It's just..." I struggle for words. "How do you write about things you can't say out loud?" "You start with honesty," he says, his voice gentle but commanding. "Write as if no one will ever read it. Write the truth that terrifies you most." Something in his tone makes me bold. "And if that truth is dangerous?" He leans down slightly, bringing his face closer to mine. "The most dangerous truths are often the most beautiful, Miss Black. Don't you think?" Before I can respond, he straightens and walks away, leaving me alone with racing thoughts and trembling hands. ++++++++++ That night, I sat in my dorm room with a blank page before me, his words echoing in my mind. ‘Write the truth that terrifies you most.’ My pen moves almost without conscious thought: ‘I want to lose control. I want someone to see through all my carefully constructed walls and tear them down piece by piece. I want to surrender completely to someone who understands the darkness in me, who won't flinch from it but will embrace it. I want to be challenged, pushed, transformed by someone whose mind matches mine but whose will is stronger. I want to be undone by the one person I should stay away from.’ ‘I want to be ruined by my professor.’ I drop the pen like it's burned me, staring at the words I never meant to write. But there they are, raw, honest, terrifying. The next morning, I walk into class with the folded paper in my hand, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I place it on the growing pile of assignments on his desk, our fingers brush for just an instant. That afternoon, I'm in the library when I see him enter, a stack of papers in his hand. He settles at a table across from me, and I try to focus on my reading, but I can feel him there, working through our assignments. When I glance up an hour later, he's reading a particular paper with intense focus. Slowly, his eyes lift from the page and lock onto mine across the silent library. The corner of his mouth curves into the slightest smile, and I know, he's reading mine…