Page 14 of Deviant Obsession

Heat floods my cheeks. "I'm sorry, that was a dumb thing to say... I don’t mean to joke about your life’s work. I?—"

“Relax, Rhea.” He interrupts my mortified rambling, holding up a calming hand. “I understood your point completely. You never have to worry about articulating your experiences in whichever way they make sense to you.”

I can only gape at him for a moment, unsure what to say next. I’m not used to having such an open conversation about my past or interests. His gaze holds mine for a minute that stretches into eternity, and I briefly allow myself to imagine I see something dark, something hungry there, before he blinks, and it's gone.

It takes every ounce of discipline I can muster to drag my mind out of the gutter. I don’t know if it’s all that taunting from Dean and his friends at that party, or if it’s Nat’s insistence that I startletting looseand truly experiencing life before my time at college is over.

Whatever it is, I can’t seem to concentrate on anything beyond the carnal urge to launch myself over this desk and let my favorite professor ravage me.

Even worse, though… is the knowing gleam in his eye that makes me think he can see every single depraved thought that dances between my burning ears.

Chapter 6

Professor Shaw

Her teeth catchthat full bottom lip again, worrying at it until the flesh turns white. My hand twitches almost imperceptibly as I watch her across my desk, fascinated by this nervous tic that betrays so much more than she realizes. The late afternoon sunlight is sinking to a deep gold, highlighting the smattering of freckles over her cheeks, catching the slight shake in her own hands as she clutches her notes.

"Your analysis of intergenerational religious trauma is quite..." I pause, choosing my words with deliberate care, "...intimate, Rhea. I hope I can help you navigate it in a way that helps you grow."

The blush that creeps up her neck is precisely what I anticipated. I've seen it three times in class already—that telltale sign of someone caught between yearning for praise and fearing exposure. She shifts in her chair, those wide, emerald eyes darting away from mine before forcing themselves back.

Such delicious conflict.

"Thank you, Professor," she mumbles with adorable coyness. "I've done extensive research on?—"

"Indeed, you have." I cut her off, leaning back in my chair to study her more openly. "Your citations are impeccable. Butthere's something more here, isn't there? Something that goes beyond academic interest. You’ll need to tap more into that before your work will become anything worth reading."

The sun catches a loose strand of her fiery hair as she tucks it behind her ear, and for a moment I'm distracted by the way it gleams. My mind flashes back to last Monday's lecture—her doe-eyed terror at being called on, that same tendril falling forward as she launched into a passionate explanation of my own research. Even then, I could see it. The way that personal experience colored every carefully chosen word.

"I..." she starts, then stops, swallowing hard. My eyes track the movement of her throat. "I never intended for it to be so obvious."

"As someone who's spent their career studying trauma patterns, I’m afraid I’m a difficult man to hide from." I settle my hands in my lap, partly to maintain an open posture, partly to hide how my fingers clench with the ache to touch her. "But your personal history is not a weakness, Rhea. Personal connection to our research can be invaluable when we learn to harness it properly."

She nods, relief visible in the slight relaxation of her shoulders. "That's actually why I chose this topic for my thesis. I believe understanding these patterns is crucial for breaking them."

"Breaking them," I echo, letting the words hang between us. "An interesting choice of phrase. Tell me, what exactly are you hoping to break free from?"

That tempting flush deepens, spreading high across her cheekbones now. Fascinating, how quickly she responds to the slightest hint of personal inquiry. I imagine that blush spreading lower, wonder how far down it goes...

Calm the fuck down, Lloyd.

"I grew up in a very strict household…obviously," she admits, fingers playing with the corner of her notebook. "My father was–is–a minister. Everything was about sin and salvation, rules and consequences."

"And now here you are, studying the very system that shaped you." I keep my tone neutral, professional, even as I catalogue every micro-expression that crosses her face. "Attempting to understand it through an academic lens. Tell me, has that made it easier to process? Or harder to escape?"

Her sharp intake of breath tells me I've hit a nerve.

Good.

"Both, maybe?" She meets my eyes again, and there's something raw there, something that yearns for understanding. "I know the theories, the psychological implications, but sometimes knowing why you're trapped doesn't make the cage any less solid."

"Ah." I allow myself a small smile, just the barest encouragement. "Now we're getting somewhere interesting. Your proposed essay outline explores the concept of inherited guilt quite thoroughly. Perhaps we should discuss how that manifests in your own academic approach?"

She tilts her head slightly, curiosity creating an adorable crease between her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Well," I reach for her outline, making a show of consulting my notes, "your technical analysis is excellent. But there's a certain...restraint in your apparent conclusions. As if you're holding back from fully engaging with the more controversial aspects. Tell me, Rhea, what frightens you more—the possibility that you're right about these patterns, or the implications of breaking them?"

The question lands exactly as intended. I watch her pulse jump at the base of her throat and count the seconds it takes her to formulate a response. This is what I excel at. I find theprecise pressure point that makes someone question everything they thought they knew about themselves.

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