Alphabet of Erotica Anthology

After Hours | 1

"It started with a failing grade... and ended on his desk."

Intro: Victoria Langford has always been the perfect student-disciplined, brilliant, and unshakable. But one failed grade could cost her the scholarship she's worked her whole life for. Her last hope? Professor Sebastian Callaghan, the man who holds here academic future in his hand. What starts as a desperate bargain in his office after hours spirals into something far more intoxicating, and far more dangerous than Victoria ever imagined.

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Victoria Langford

They say desperation makes you do stupid things. It makes you reckless and drives you to do things you wouldn't normally consider.

I think that's bullshit.

Desperation just strips you bare. Peels off the good-girl mask and forces you to show who you really are underneath.

And me?

I was nothing if not honest when I knocked on Professor Callaghan's door after class. Honest when I dabbed on red lipstick that was a little too bold for campus. Honest when I left the first two buttons of my blouse undone, just enough to be noticed.

I didn't plan to seduce Professor Callaghan. At least, not until I saw that ugly red mark bleeding across the top of my term paper that afternoon.

D+

My breath had caught in my throat when I saw it. Like someone had sucker punched me in the chest. A D-fucking-plus.

It was a death sentence for my GPA. A guillotine hovering over my scholarship. Over my future. Over the carefully stacked life I'd busted my ass to build.

And no-I'm not the type of girl who throws herself at a man to get ahead. I don't flirt my way through life or bat my lashes for favors. I study. I work hard. I earn what's mine.

But this time?

This time, life had chewed me up and spit me out.

My dad lost his job. I started working double shifts just to help out. And somewhere between tutoring and pulling all-nighters, I handed in a disaster of a paper.

I knew I earned it, but I couldn't afford the price of failure.

That D+ was a bullet hole in my GPA, and I wasn't going to just bleed out and accept it.

So, here I was, standing outside his office, well past sunset. The hallways were empty and the last traces of daylight were bleeding out behind the faculty windows.

I adjusted my blouse, smoothed down my skirt, and swallowed the lump in my throat before knocking on his door.

"Come in," came the deep baritone from inside.

God, his voice.

That low, worn rasp that always sounded like he'd just woken up. It made heat bloom low in my stomach.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the soft amber glow of his office. It smelled like paper and coffee, a hint of worn leather and something clean and masculine.

Books lined every wall. Stacks of paper littered his desk, along with a half-finished mug. And there he was-Professor Sebastian Callaghan. Sleeves rolled to his forearms, top button undone, tie loose. The glow from his desk lamp kissed the edges of his sharp jawline. It made him looked... unfairly good.

He didn't look up immediately. Just typed something on his laptop, then finally raised his gaze-those pale blue eyes catching the light like ice under moonlight.

"Miss Langford," he said, adjusting his thin-rimmed glasses slightly. "Office hours ended an hour ago."

"I know," I said quietly, closing the door behind me. "But I needed to talk to you. It's... about my paper."

He leaned back in his chair, slow and deliberate, tapping his pen against the desk. "I figured as much. Sit."

"Thank you," I said softly and lowered myself into the chair across from him. My fingers fidgeted in my lap, nerves flickering under my skin like electricity.

I could feel the weight of his gaze, like warm hands on my skin, tracing every inch.

I'd always known Professor Callaghan was attractive-too attractive for someone who lectured about 19th-century poetry and quoted Byron like it was foreplay.

But this was the first time we were alone. The first time I let myself notice how his lips curved when he wasn't watching, or how his forearms flexed when he turned a page.

He didn't look like he belonged in a lecture hall. More like a villain in a tux, smirking as he pulled you into trouble.

He cleared his throat, eyes never leaving mine. "Well? Speak your mind."

I hesitated only for a second. "I wanted to ask why I got a D+, Professor. I know it wasn't my best work, but... I didn't think it was that bad."

He arched a brow, slowly setting the pen down. "That's what you believe?" his voice was low, measured. "Miss Langford, your paper was sloppy. Rushed. The citations were a mess, and the thesis didn't hold. You had three weeks, and you turned in something I'd expect from a freshman scrambling to meet a midnight deadline."

His voice wasn't angry. Just matter-of-fact. But somehow, that made it sting even more.

I lowered my gaze. Shame pricked at the back of my neck. "I know. I just... I had a rough week," my voice was small. "I'm not trying to make excuses, Professor. But I was hoping you might give me a second chance. Just one. I'll rewrite it. I promise I can do better."

He leaned forward slightly, fingers steepling. "Do you know how many students beg me for extra chances? And how many I say no to? I can't possibly make an exception for you, Miss Langford. That wouldn't be fair."

"I'm not asking for special treatment," I said softly. "I just... I can't fail this class. That paper's thirty percent of my grade, Professor. If I fail, I lose my scholarship. I lose everything. That's why I'm here."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "And what exactly are you suggesting, Miss Langford?"

My pulse hammered.

Here it was. The line. The moment. The part where I could either walk away and keep what was left of my pride, or I could leap and risk everything.

And I chose the latter.

I leaned forward in my seat, my elbows resting on his desk. The movement caused the open collar of my blouse dipped low enough to give him a clear view of my cleavage. His gaze flicked downward for the briefest moment before returning to my face.

"I was hoping," I said, voice low, deliberate, "we could come to a... different kind of arrangement, Professor Callaghan."

His jaw tightened, eyes sharpening. "Miss Langford," he said, voice now like velvet dragged over steel. "Do you know what you're implying?"

"I do," I whispered, rising slowly to my feet. "I'm not naïve, Professor. I know exactly what I'm implying."

I rounded the desk, every step pounding like thunder in my ears. He didn't stop me. He stayed seated, watching me with those piercing blue eyes.

"I know there's no such thing as a free pass," I murmured, trailing my fingertips along the edge of the desk. "But maybe I can offer something else. Something you want."

His voice dropped an octave. "You're playing a dangerous game, Miss Langford."

"I'm not playing," I said, finally standing in front of him. "I'll do anything to fix my grade, Professor. However you want it."

He didn't move. But I saw the shift in his eyes. The slow, dark flicker of something unspoken crossing that invisible line we both knew too well.

Then, low and deliberate, his voice cut through the quiet.

"Lock the door."