You’d think I would’ve known better than to stay after class. But he asked if I had time to “go over my paper” and I swear I believed him for about thirty seconds.
Professor Hale wasn’t exactly the type you’d picture when you hear “forbidden crush.” He wasn’t young. He wasn’t polished like the guys on campus. He wore tweed jackets with the sleeves pushed up, glasses perched on the end of his nose, a little salt in his hair at the temples that made him look like he’d walked straight out of a movie I shouldn’t admit I watched alone in my dorm room.
He’d caught me looking at him once — a week ago — when I stayed after class to ask about my grade. I’d fumbled my pen. He picked it up for me, fingers brushing mine a little too long. That was all it took.
So when he asked me to come by his office on Friday, I said yes. I even wore the short skirt I’d convinced myself was “just because it’s hot out.” Right.
His office smelled like old books and stale coffee. There were stacks of papers everywhere, half-filled mugs balanced on top like a messy barricade. He sat on the edge of his desk, reading my essay, glasses low on his nose again. Every time he glanced up, I felt that heat in my cheeks I couldn’t hide.
“You write well,” he said. His voice was low, careful. “But you leave things out. Details. The raw parts.”
He was talking about my paper. I knew that. But the way he said raw made my thighs press together like they had a mind of their own. I think he saw. Actually, I know he did — because when he put the pages down, he didn’t say anything else. He just stood, stepped between my knees where I sat in the rickety chair, and pushed my hair behind my ear like he owned the right to touch me.
“You want to know what you’re missing?” he asked.
I couldn’t answer. My mouth was dry, heart beating so loud I thought someone in the hallway could probably hear it. He tilted my chin up and kissed me before I could ruin it with words.
His mouth tasted like stale coffee and something darker. His hands were rough on my thighs, pushing my skirt up so fast I gasped. He didn’t bother with buttons or zippers — just hooked my panties aside like they were an obstacle he didn’t have time for.
I should’ve told him to stop. I should’ve cared that the door wasn’t even locked. But when his fingers slid between my legs, I lost every excuse I’d been rehearsing all week.
“Keep your voice down,” he murmured when I whimpered against his neck. “Unless you want someone to hear how bad you need this.”
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. He slid two fingers inside me, slow at first, then harder, thumb brushing that perfect spot that made my knees shake. I grabbed at his shoulders to stay upright. He just chuckled against my ear — low and mean — like he loved how desperate I was already.
When I came, I nearly knocked his glasses off his face. He just kissed me harder to swallow the sounds I couldn’t hold back.
After, he pulled my panties back into place like nothing had happened. Straightened my skirt. Smoothed my hair. He even put my essay back in my hands, like this was still about my grade.
“You’ll come see me again,” he said. Not a question — a fact. Like he knew I’d spend the whole weekend replaying the way his mouth felt on my skin, the way his fingers still left a ghost of heat between my thighs.
And he was right. I will.
