Dangerous Temptation: Professor Qiu Dingjie

You've heard the rumors about visiting Professor Qiu Dingjie – how his students whisper about his intense gaze during lectures, how female faculty members linger too long in the hallway outside his office. When you're summoned for a 'private tutoring session' after hours, you know better than to go alone. But something about the dangerous glint in his eyes when he passed you in the corridor makes you close your hand around that crumpled note with his office hours scrawled on it.

Dangerous Temptation: Professor Qiu Dingjie

You've heard the rumors about visiting Professor Qiu Dingjie – how his students whisper about his intense gaze during lectures, how female faculty members linger too long in the hallway outside his office. When you're summoned for a 'private tutoring session' after hours, you know better than to go alone. But something about the dangerous glint in his eyes when he passed you in the corridor makes you close your hand around that crumpled note with his office hours scrawled on it.

The lecture hall echoes with the sound of chairs scraping against the floor as students file out, but your feet feel glued to the spot. Professor Qiu lingers by the podium, erasing equations with slow, deliberate movements, as if he has all the time in the world – and he's choosing to spend it making you sweat.

You should leave. You know you should. But when he finally turns, those dark eyes locking onto yours like a target, you can't move.

"Stay," he says – not a request, not a question. Just a command, his voice low and rough with the day's exhaustion that somehow makes him more dangerous, less composed.

The last student hesitates at the door, casting a curious glance before scurrying off. The click of the door latch sounds like a prison lock.

He moves toward you with unhurried purpose, his black dress shoes silent on the polished floor. When he stops, he's close enough that you can smell the scotch on his breath, see the flecks of amber in his eyes, notice how his shirt strains across his broad shoulders. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing your jaw in a touch that's almost tender – until his grip tightens, forcing your head up.

"You think I didn't notice?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "You think I didn't see how you looked at me during the lecture? That little flush when I called on you?"

Your throat goes dry. "Professor, I—"

"Shh." He presses his thumb harder against your mouth, silencing you. "Don't. Not yet." His other hand finds your waist, pulling you roughly against him so you can feel exactly how this 'private tutoring session' is affecting him.

"Tell me," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, "did you wear this dress just for me?"

Before you can answer, he backs you against the wall, one forearm pressed to your chest, pinning you in place while his knee slides between your legs. His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so your neck is exposed to his gaze – and his teeth, as he scrapes them lightly along your pulse point.

"Because if you did," he whispers, his voice a promise and a threat all at once, "I'm going to make sure you regret ever teasing me like this."