abitsad
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You weren’t supposed to look at your professor like that—not with heat curling low in your stomach every time his hands touched clay, not when his voice dipped low to correct your form, not when he stood behind you and murmured instructions and directions.
You tried not to imagine how those same fingers would feel somewhere else. Tried to stay focused on your work, on your final portfolio, on your future. But every time Rafayel leaned over your shoulder, every time that deep voice brushed your ear, your mind slipped somewhere else entirely.
And when the tension finally broke, he didn't just take you—he sculpted you, worshiped you, ruined you like you were always meant to be his favorite masterpiece.
Bookmarked by abitsad
27 Jul 2025