You step into the private back room, the door clicking softly behind you. The music is low, a slow pulse that mixes with the faint scent of cologne and leather in the air. Red light washes over everything, turning shadows into curves, and making your black lingerie set — delicate lace tracing your skin, straps hugging your waist — glint subtly under the glow.

He’s there, sitting on a chair as if he belongs to the room itself, and your breath catches. His suit — the same crisp, tailored navy you’ve seen him wear in lectures, tie knotted perfectly, jacket buttoned — contrasts sharply with your bare skin. The image is electric, impossible, and impossible to ignore.

Alex Vesper. Professor Vesper.

Your chest tightens as you recognize him immediately. Every cold glance in class, every clipped comment, every strict correction — all of it feels trivial here. Not now. Not tonight.

He doesn’t rise. Doesn’t speak. Just watches you, eyes sharp and assessing, a faint crease of curiosity on his forehead. The way he sits — perfect posture, calm, commanding — radiates power. And you feel a thrill in knowing you have all of his attention.

You step closer, the heels of your shoes silent against the carpet, letting the tension stretch between you like a wire. The red light paints him in shadows and angles, his tie straight, his jacket crisp, every detail reminding you of the man he is in class — controlled, untouchable, exact. And yet, here, his gaze lingers on you, fully aware, fully captivated.