"Rousseau believed man was born free but everywhere is in chains. Today we examine what chains we forge for ourselves."
Victor's voice does this thing where it wraps around you like expensive whiskey. Smooth going down, burns just right, leaves you wanting another hit.
Me? I'm leaning back, front row center, letting my skirt ride up because fuck it. If I'm going to sit through another lecture about social contracts, I'm going to make it interesting.
I got here early. Chose this desk like a sniper picks a position—direct line of sight, no escape routes, maximum damage potential.
When I cross my legs, then uncross them, I catch his eyes following the movement before they snap back to his notes.
That's right, Professor. Look at what you're too noble or too scared to touch. Same difference, really.
"Miss Valenti." My name in his mouth sounds like an accusation. "Perhaps you could illuminate Rousseau's perspective on natural liberty versus civil liberty?"
I shift in my seat, letting my knees part just enough that from where he's standing—and God, he picked that podium position deliberately, didn't he?—he can see I've forgotten about underwear today. Oops.
His jaw does this micro-clench that probably nobody else notices, but I've made a study of his tells.
"Natural liberty is what we sacrifice to enter society," I say while my pulse is doing interpretive dance in my throat. "We trade unlimited freedom for protected freedom. Though sometimes I wonder if the protection is worth what we give up."
"Fascinating interpretation. Wrong, but fascinating."
The dismissal cuts my exposed nerves.
Before I can formulate a response that won't get me expelled, Connor Mitchell manifests beside me like the universe's idea of a cosmic joke. All lacrosse shoulders and trust fund confidence.
"Mind if I sit here? Better view." His grin says he definitely doesn't mean the whiteboard.
"The view's free," I say, loud enough for Victor to hear.
Connor laughs and leans closer, bathing me in whatever Axe body spray variant rich boys think counts as cologne. I tilt toward him anyway, let my hair brush his shoulder.
Because Victor's watching, and I know exactly what men do when they think someone else might take their toy away.
"So civil liberty," Victor continues, his voice dropping into that register that makes my thighs clench, "requires the complete alienation of individual rights to the community. Mr. Mitchell, perhaps you can explain the social contract's role in this transformation?"
Connor straightens like someone just reminded him his father donates to the university. "Uh, the social contract is... it's about agreement?"
"Groundbreaking analysist, Mr. Mitchell. Try again."
I place my hand on Connor's forearm in mock comfort. Feel Victor's gaze burn into the point of contact like he's trying to set Connor on fire with his mind.
Jealous? Of course you are. Men are all territorial animals. You don't want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me either.
"It's about surrendering individual power for collective protection," I offer, my thumb tracing small circles on Connor's bicep.
"I didn't ask you, Miss Valenti. Though your eagerness to answer for others is noted." He turns back to Connor. "The social contract creates a moral and collective body. Each member becomes an indivisible part of the whole. Unlike Miss Valenti's suggestion, it's not about trading freedom—it's about transforming it."
"That's literally what I said—"
"What you said was reductive and misses Rousseau's crucial distinction between independence and freedom."
He won't even look at me now, which somehow stings worse than his glare.
"Independence is doing whatever you want. Freedom is having the power to do what you ought. A distinction that seems lost on this generation."
Oh, he wants to play generational warfare while eye-fucking me across his own classroom? Cute.
"Maybe this generation just has different ideas about what we ought to do," I say, dragging my fingers up Connor's arm.
"Ideas require thought, Miss Valenti. Not just... impulse." His eyes flick to my hand on Connor's arm like it personally offends him. "Page 247, everyone. Let's see if the text can succeed where my explanation apparently fails."
Everyone rustles through their books while Connor leans over to share his, breathing his sporty-boy breath in my ear.
"Is it just me or is Larsen being extra dickish today?"
"Must be the weather," I murmur back, but I'm watching Victor grip that podium like he's trying to give it CPR or strangle it to death.
The rest of the seminar is Victor calling on literally everyone except me. Even when I'm the only one with my hand raised like some eager elementary school tragedy.
Each dismissal makes me shift in my seat. Lean further into Connor's space until the poor boy looks like he's having a religious crisis.
Sorry, Connor. You're collateral damage.
"For Thursday, chapters twelve through fifteen," Victor announces as the hour ends. "And please, attempt actual analysis."
Everyone packs up at light speed. Connor hesitates beside me, sweet idiot that he is.
"Hey, you want to grab coffee?"
"Rain check?" I stay seated, taking my time with my notebook. "I need to ask Professor Larsen about my paper."
"Good luck with that. He seems like he wants to fail you and also maybe murder you?" Connor shakes his head. "Text me if you change your mind."
The room empties.
Finally, it's just us—me still seated like I own the place, him standing behind that podium.
"That was unprofessional," he says finally, voice so controlled it might shatter.
"Which part?" I stand slowly, smoothing my skirt down with the kind of deliberate care usually reserved for defusing bombs. "Your teaching or my learning?"
"Don't." The word comes out desperate. "Don't play games you don't understand."
"I understand perfectly." I walk toward the door. "You're a man who fucks his students while his wife fucks the help."
His hand catches my elbow before I make it.
We stand there, both breathing like we've just discovered oxygen. His cologne scrambles my brain.
Or maybe that's just the way he's looking at me. Like I'm simultaneously the best and worst thing that's ever happened to him.
There it is. The truth under all that control. You want me just like they all do.
"This has to stop," he says, but his thumb strokes the inside of my elbow, sending electricity straight to places that have no business responding to elbow touches.
"Did you like it?" The question escapes before I can stop it—breathy and needy and absolutely fucking pathetic. "Looking at my Instagram? Seeing me at that party?"
His grip tightens for just a moment, pupils dilating like I've just offered him cocaine.
"Did you think about the photos my ex sent? Did you save them before you deleted them? Did you—"
"Get out."
But the way he says it—rough and desperate and barely controlled—tells me everything I need to know.
I leave that room with my thighs slick and my heart hammering out a victory march against my ribs.
Game, set, match.