CHAPTER 1: KNEEL AND TASTE, MS. WHITMORE
CLARA’S POV
I remember the exact moment I decided to stop pretending.
It was during his lecture on Foucault’s gaze, when he said the word ‘internalize’ and I felt it slide straight between my legs.
Vesper Kol stood at the podium in a charcoal shirt rolled to the elbows, tie loosened, the silver at his temples catching the projector light every time he turned.
His voice was low, sensual, the kind that made you lean forward even when you already knew the answer.
I’d been sitting front row as usual—notebook open, pen poised, but really I was cataloging the way his fingers flexed around the marker, the way his jaw tightened when someone gave a wrong answer, the way his storm-gray eyes always found me first.
I’d wanted him since the first day of h
