It started with a look.
A glance across the classroom. Casual. Almost bored. But he felt it.
She was watching him.
Callum stood at the front, chalk in hand, explaining the day's lesson with forced calm. His mouth moved automatically—equations, terms, meaningless numbers—but inside, he was chaos. The board swam in front of him. His skin prickled with awareness.
She knew.
And now everything had changed.
Lara sat in the second row, chin resting on her palm, eyes locked on him with unsettling focus. She twirled a pen between her fingers—not taking notes, not even pretending. She didn't have to. Her gaze said it all.
He adjusted his tie. Cleared his throat. Tried to breathe.
"Can anyone tell me what the coefficient is in this equation?" he asked, eyes darting toward the far wall—anywhere but her.
A few hands went up. Not hers. Lara just smiled lazily, like she was in on a joke only he didn't get. A slow, knowing curve of her lips that made his stomach clench.
Then she stretched.
Arms above her head. Back arching slightly. Shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin—taunting, deliberate.
His throat dried.
"Mr. Hayes?" someone called.
He blinked. "Yes. Right. Uh—go ahead, Damien."
He barely heard the student's answer. His attention was fractured. Splintered. Every time Lara shifted in her seat, crossed her legs, ran her fingers over the desk edge—he saw it. Felt it.
She was toying with him.
And worse…
It was working.
After class, as the students filed out, Lara moved slowly. Too slowly. Everyone else was already halfway to lunch when she finally stood. She walked past his desk—brushed against it.
And let her fingers graze the back of his hand.
Barely a touch.
But it burned.
His breath caught. He didn't look at her. Couldn't.
Her voice was soft.
"Nice lesson, Mr. Hayes."
Then she was gone.
Leaving him gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
He sank into his chair.
And realized with horror…
He was hard again.
And she knew it.
That was it.
He stood abruptly, ignoring the stiffness in his body and the heat in his cheeks. This had gone far enough. He was a teacher—not a toy, not a game board for whatever twisted thrill Lara got from pushing him this far.
He marched to his desk drawer, yanked it open, and pulled out the student file folder. His hands shook as he flipped it open, found her profile, and ripped out the necessary forms.
He would start the transfer. Today.
No more games. No more brushes under desks. No more watching her cross lines he should've shut down weeks ago.
He shoved the folder under his arm and strode down the corridor toward the guardian services office, every step fueled by a bitter cocktail of rage and humiliation. If anyone asked, he would say it was a scheduling conflict. A mismatch in curriculum. Anything.
But this? This was survival.
He reached the Guardian Services Office and knocked once before stepping inside. Mr. Gilbert, one of the school's guidance officers, looked up from his desk with a warm, professional smile.
"Mr. Hayes, everything alright?"
"I need to process a student transfer," he said, not bothering to sit. He laid the folder on Gilbert's desk. "Lara Evans."
Gilbert's brows rose slightly. "That's a bit sudden. We're close to the end of the term. What's the reason?"
"She's not responding well to my class structure," he said, voice even, rehearsed. "I think she'd be better placed under someone else—someone with a different approach. It's becoming a mismatch in learning style."
Gilbert nodded slowly, flipping through the file. "She's bright, but… intense, isn't she? I heard boys are fighting over her." He chuckled.
"Exactly. It's disruptive."
Gilbert considered it, then gave a short nod. "Alright. We can have her moved by early next week. Maybe sooner. I'll draft the recommendation now and send the guardian contact notice by this afternoon."
Hayes finally exhaled.
"Thank you."
Gilbert offered a reassuring look. "We look out for our teachers too, you know. If something's affecting your ability to do your job, we take it seriously."
He nodded again, quieter this time. "I appreciate that."
He left the office moments later, hands a little steadier. But his heart… not so much.
But by the time he reached home, the satisfaction was back. He had done the right thing. He had drawn a line.
For once, he felt like an adult again. A professional. The responsible man he knew he was. He loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and set to cooking his favorite steak—medium rare, seasoned the way he liked it. He even cracked open one of the imported beers he'd been saving. A small celebration for doing what needed to be done.
He sank into his couch, took a long drink, and let himself feel victorious.
Until the doorbell rang.
He frowned. Not expecting anyone.
He approached the door cautiously, glancing through the peephole.
A man stood there. Plain clothes. Neutral face.
"What is it?" he called through the door.
"Delivery," the man answered.
He hesitated, then unlocked the door.
The man handed him a small box, gave a polite nod—and vanished down the corridor without another word.
Hayes shut the door. Brows furrowed.
He set the box down on the kitchen counter, opened the lid—and froze.
Inside was a red lace panty.
And a note.
Hope you enjoy it, Mr. Hayes.
The scent hit him next. Subtle. Familiar. That perfume. His stomach dropped.
His cock twitched.
"No—" he muttered, stepping back like the box might burn him.
But the handwriting… the smell… it was her. Lara.
How the fuck does she even know where I live?
A wave of nausea hit him. Or was it heat? His body didn't know what to do. He was hard again, and that realization made his gut twist. He wasn't turned on—he was angry. He was violated. But his cock didn't care.
"This is bad," he whispered.
He grabbed the box and shoved it deep into the kitchen trash can, slamming the lid closed like it might seal the problem away. But he couldn't stop pacing. His brain spun, throwing questions, panic, disgust at the walls of his skull.
Five minutes passed.
He stared at the trash.
No. I have to check it again.
He told himself it was about evidence. Proof. Something to take to Gilbert. Or the principal. Or the police.
He opened the trash bin slowly. Lifted the box again.
Inside, the panty sat neatly, provocatively. Lace and wickedness.
He picked it up with trembling fingers. Held it.
It was used.
He could tell.
His breath stuttered. His fingers curled around the soft fabric. And before he could stop himself—before logic could kick in—he brought it closer.
And inhaled.
Deep.
His cock throbbed violently in his pants.
"Fuck—"
He jerked back, horrified, disgusted with himself. The lace fell from his fingers. He shoved the box back into the trash like it had infected him.
Then stumbled away, panting.
What the hell was happening to him?
This wasn't normal.
This couldn't be normal.
His body didn't react like this. Not to students. Not to anyone. Not this fast, this intense. It had to be something else. Some kind of trick. A setup.
A drug maybe?
He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard. "She did something," he muttered. "She had to have. Something on her fingers. Her skin. The perfume—fuck, what was that scent?"
It was insane. But so was all of this.
How else could he explain the way his body wanted despite everything he knew, despite everything he stood for? He was a man of control, discipline. He didn't just fall apart because a teenage girl flirted with him—
Unless she'd done something to him.
It has to be her.
His fists clenched.
It wasn't his fault.
It was hers.