Dance Department Hottie's Forbidden Lessons

"Professor, please... don't..."

"Don't be afraid. Just once. I promise you’ll enjoy it."

In the empty office, Dean Vincent Lombardi pinned me against the door.

As I succumbed to fear, his predatory grin widened.

"Such a little minx. Let me teach you how to please a man."

With a rough grip, he yanked my waist up—

My name is Isabella Roland, a freshman at Stanford University’s dance program.

This year marked the university’s Homecoming celebration.

Thanks to my striking beauty and hourglass figure, I was chosen as the freshman ambassador to perform alongside upperclassmen.

I had trained relentlessly for this moment.

Yet on the day of the performance, disaster struck.

Someone had sabotaged my evening gown—slashing the slit from the knee to the upper thigh and tearing the neckline wider.

Wearing it onstage would guarantee a wardrobe malfunction.

But with no alternatives, I had no choice.

Staring at my reflection, my cheeks burned with humiliation.

This was beyond cruel.

Pale skin peeked through the ruined fabric like some cheap burlesque act—the kind where women get thrown onto beds and violated.

I couldn’t bear the thought.

The call for our performance came.

Every sensual move in the routine filled me with dread.

What I didn’t realize was that a pair of lecherous eyes in the front row had already noticed every desperate adjustment I made.

Finally, it was over.

My first priority was changing out of this disaster in the locker room.

But before I could reach it, Professor Victoria Lefèvre stopped me.

"Isabella, come to my office."

Clutching the torn hem, I followed her.

"Wait here. I’ll grab something," she said before leaving.

Alone in the deserted office, I jumped at a sudden voice.

"So you’re Isabella Roland."

A middle-aged man in a tailored suit stood at the door—Dean Vincent Lombardi.