extra credit
⊹ overview - pairing: professor!seungcheol x student!reader genre: college au · SMUT themes: power dynamics, secrecy, obsessive attention, quiet yearning, subtle domination cw: sexual content (MDNI), fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex, breeding kink (?), cum on body, suggestive language, emotional tension, professor-student dynamics (fictional and, most importantly, consensual)
minors do not interact!
summary: you were just a student with curiosity but he noticed more. every glance and touch pulls you into something forbidden.
from kai: i think i spent the last 10 hours trying to write this. that hugo boss pic of him destroyed whatever sanity i had left.
now playing: wRoNg - zayn malik
it’s late on a wednesday night when you find yourself still on campus. the rain had started while you were tucked away in the library, headphones in, half-reading, half-dozing. by the time you looked up, the halls were nearly empty, shadows stretching long under the fluorescent lights.
you clutch your notebook against your chest, deciding to wait it out, maybe wander until the storm softens. that’s when you notice it. his lecture hall door open, a faint yellow glow spilling into the hallway.
professor choi seungcheol.
the name alone is enough to make every head in the room snap up. there’s something about him that doesn’t feel real. the easy way he shrugs his coat off, the crisp shirts rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms, the watch that glints when he writes across the board. he speaks clearly, measured. when he leans against the desk, arms crossed, voice low and smooth, even the air seems to still.
girls whisper about him in every corner of campus. they trade stories: how someone tried to slip their number into his briefcase, how another lingered after class just a little too long. the endings are always the same: he rejects them politely, without a crack in his smile. sorry, that’s inappropriate. please focus on your studies. he makes it sound final, untouchable.
and that's exactly what makes his kindness a torment. because with you it's different. one day, you dare to raise your hand to answer a complex question, your trembling voice echoing in the silent room. and he doesn't just agree, but his eyes light up with genuine interest.
“excellent point,” he says, your name coming out as a soft note from his mouth. “a truly sharp insight.” it's always like this: a precise praise for an answer, a slight nod of approval when you debate a colleague, a smile that seems reserved just for you.
these fragments of recognition are like crumbs you avidly collect even knowing they keep you hungry. he rewards you for being exactly what he asks: a brilliant and dedicated student. and the thin line between being the best student and being just another girl who desires him dissolves more and more.
so you learn to admire from a distance. you don’t linger. you don’t dare. you sit in the middle rows and watch him command a room with ease, pretending your pulse doesn’t spike when his gaze sweeps briefly over yours.
it should stay like that.
you hesitate. you could just walk past.
instead, your knuckles tap against the frame.
“come in,” his voice calls, smooth as ever.
he’s there behind his desk, tie loosened, hair a little mussed like he’s been running his hand through it. glasses balanced low on his nose. it’s enough to steal your breath.
“still on campus?” he asks, glancing up.
“yeah,” you murmur, stepping inside. “i was studying. waiting for the rain to stop.”
he hums, leaning back in his chair. “dedicated. most students would’ve left hours ago.”
you laugh nervously, lifting your notebook. “actually, i… uh… had a question about the reading. thought maybe you’d…”
his mouth quirks. “always so studious.”
his gaze lingers as you flip open your notes and suddenly you’re hyperaware of every move. how you tuck your hair behind your ear, how your pen wobbles in your grip.
you stumble through your question, words tumbling out too fast. but he listens patiently, chin propped against his hand. when you trail off, he leans forward, voice softer now.
“you’ve got the right idea,” he says, eyes scanning over the notes angled between you. “but you’re overcomplicating it. it’s a simple cause-and-effect.”
you nod quickly, chewing your lip, scribbling down his words even though you’ll probably remember them. it’s easier to focus on the page than the steady weight of his gaze.
“do you… want me to show you?” he asks after a pause.
your head snaps up. “show me?”
he smiles, small and reassuring, like he’s done a thousand times in class when students hesitate. “the maps. i’ve got a few in my office that make this period easier to understand. visual context.” he gestures vaguely, as if what he really means lies somewhere deeper. “unless you’d rather figure it out on your own.”
“no… i mean, yes, i’d like to see.” you sound a little too eager, but he only nods, pushing himself to his feet.
you follow him out, footsteps echoing against the empty hallway. the storm outside thrums against the windows, a steady drumbeat that makes the silence between you sharper.
he unlocks his office door and nudges it open with his shoulder. the room is smaller than you imagined, lined with books and folders. he flicks on the lamp at his desk, the light warm against the dark night outside.
“make yourself comfortable,” he says, moving toward a cabinet in the corner. he pulls open a drawer, flipping through rolled maps until he finds the one he wants.
you hover near the desk, fingers brushing over the polished wood, over the stacks of neatly arranged essays. it feels too intimate, standing here where he spends his nights.
“here,” he says, unrolling a large sheet across the desk. his sleeve brushes your arm as he smooths the edges. “see? the borders shift here. people forget how quickly things changed.”
you lean closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you. he traces a line on the map with one finger, his voice low, calm, explaining.
you try to follow the geography, the dates, but it’s hard when your focus keeps slipping to the way his hand dwarfs the paper. the way his profile looks under the lamplight, strong and impossibly close.
he glances at you, catching you staring. not in a way that scolds. more curious, almost amused.
“does that make more sense?”
you nod, too quickly. “yeah. it… does.”
“good.” he says, but he doesn’t move back. instead, he stays angled toward you, leaning one hand on the desk, effectively caging you between his body and the edge of the map. his tone is still easy, still warm, but there’s something else threading beneath it now.
“you’re quieter than usual,” he observes. “am i making you nervous?”
your throat tightens. “no… i mean…”
his mouth curves slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “don’t worry. i don’t mind. you focus better when you’re quiet.”
his hand lingers near yours, fingers drumming softly against the desk. a casual rhythm, like he isn’t aware of how close he is.
“you’ve been keeping up with the material better than most,” he says, almost to himself. “sometimes i think you’re the only one actually listening in there.”
you laugh quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “maybe i’m just better at pretending.”
his eyes flick to you, sharp, amused. “hm. i don’t think so.” he leans a little closer, voice dropping in volume though the room is empty. “you don’t pretend well. i’d notice.”
your pulse skips, the words threading too fine a line between casual observation and something heavier. you focus on the map again, nodding like you’re still following his explanation.
“right here,” he continues, fingertip tracing another line across the faded paper. “this is where everything shifts. it’s subtle, but once you see it, you can’t unsee it.”
your eyes follow the curve of his finger, but your awareness is elsewhere. how close he’s standing now, the heat radiating off his body, the low timbre of his voice.
you swallow. “do you… stay this late often?”
he huffs a small laugh, rolling his sleeves higher on his forearms. “more than i should. grading, prep, answering questions like this.” his gaze slides to you again. “not that i mind.”
the way he says it... it shouldn’t mean anything. it probably doesn’t. still, your stomach twists, tight and restless.
“students don’t usually come by after hours,” he adds, tone thoughtful. “you’re the first this semester.”
“really?”
he nods once. “most prefer to email. less… personal.”
your breath catches at that word. personal.
for a moment, the only sound is the rain hammering against the window, the distant growl of thunder.
then he moves. not away, closer. he shifts behind you, reaching across the desk as if to adjust the edge of the map. the motion is innocent, practical, but his chest nearly brushes your back, his arm stretching over your shoulder. you stiffen at the proximity, every nerve alive.
“see here?” his voice is right at your ear now, lower than before, smooth as velvet.
you nod, unable to find words.
his hand rests flat on the desk beside yours, and suddenly you’re boxed in, his body a wall of warmth at your back. you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing but his closeness is anything but casual.
“most people overlook things like this,” he says, tracing a line on the map with deliberate care. “but you… you notice.”
you bite your lip. “i just… pay attention.”
"you have a different kind of focus," he says, stopping beside you again. "the kind most people lack. it's rare."
you laugh softly, hiding the tension in your throat. “maybe that makes me… weird?”
he watches you for a moment, as if weighing something invisible. his gaze isn’t harsh or imposing, just methodical.
you fiddle with your pen, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear again and he notices.
“not weird,” he corrects smoothly. “different. interesting. the kind of student who sticks in your mind.”
he moves around the desk, reaching into a neat stack of papers. “here,” he says, pulling out a folded copy of the map and holding it toward you. “thought you might like your own.”
you blink, surprised, and take it carefully. “oh… thank you, professor.” your fingers brush his briefly and you immediately pull back, heart hammering.
“don’t mention it.” he replies smoothly, a small smile tugging at his lips. his eyes linger on you just a second longer than necessary.
you fold the map again and tuck it into your notebook. suddenly aware of how quiet the office feels, how the storm outside presses against the windows. he leans back slightly against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely, watching you as if he’s taking note of every subtle movement. “sometimes staying a little longer… pays off.” he says, voice low, almost teasing.
you feel it then, that subtle shift in the air. the warmth closer, the way his gaze seems to weigh you, to test the space between you. it’s still polite but… something has changed. there’s a spark in his eyes now, something that hints at curiosity beyond the map, beyond the lesson.
he tilts his head slightly, as if giving you the chance to respond. “i like seeing students who go the extra mile,” he continues, tone casual. “ones who don’t leave just because it’s late. shows… determination.”
you flush, unsure if it’s pride or the way he’s studying you. noting the flush on your cheeks, the way your hands grip the notebook. “i just… wanted to understand better.” you murmur.
“of course.” he says softly, stepping a little closer under the guise of adjusting a paper on the desk.
you open your mouth to thank him again. to retreat into the safety of student-and-professor formalities, but he speaks first. his voice a low murmur that seems to vibrate right through you.
“you know,” he starts, his eyes dropping to the map between you before returning to your face, “i saw you in the library. before you came here.”
your breath hitches. “you… you did?”
he gives a single nod, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “headphones on, completely lost in your own world. you were biting the end of your pen.” he mimics the gesture subtly with his own thumb. “it’s a habit of yours, i’ve noticed. you do it in class when you’re concentrating hard.”
the admission is so intimate, so observant. he hasn’t moved an inch but he’s somehow closer than ever.
you feel the need to break the tension, to laugh it off and say something about the reading. but the words die in your throat as he straightens up.
all traces of the reassuring professor vanish. his posture changes, becomes more dominant, more… real. the casual lean is gone, replaced by a straight-backed confidence that makes the small office feel even smaller.
he lets out a soft sigh and runs a hand through his hair again, making it even more deliciously mussed. when he looks at you, his smile is different. more knowing and utterly breathtaking.
“let’s stop this.” he says, his voice losing its academic polish and gaining an honest edge.
your eyes widen. “stop… what, professor?”
“this,” he gestures between the two of you and the forgotten map. “the pretense. you’re a bright woman. you didn’t come to me just for a history lesson on a wednesday night in a storm.” he takes a purposeful step forward. “and i didn’t bring you in here just to be a good professor.”
“i brought you in here,” professor choi continues, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes, “because from the moment you tapped on that door, looking all flushed and hesitant... i knew i wouldn’t be able to focus on another damn thing until i found out if the curiosity i see in your eyes in class is just for my subject…” he pauses, his voice dropping to a low, visceral rumble, “…or if it’s for me.”
the air vanishes completely from your lungs. every piece of gossip, every campus whisper, every story of polite rejection. all of it incinerated by the sight of him. not professor choi. just seungcheol.
your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. what are you even supposed to say? 'no, of course not'?
he sees the hesitation and pure want in your eyes. it's all the answer he needs.
“that's what i thought.” he whispers, his voice dropping lower. then, he closes the distance between you.
it's not a jerky or violent movement. it's inevitable. his hand comes up and for a second you think he'll cup your cheek. but he doesn't. his fingers just trace the shape of your jaw in the air, a hair's breadth from your skin. the heat coming off his hand is a phantom touch, a promise of something more.
“the other girls...” he says, his voice low with the gravity of a historian examining a primary source, “they didn't come for the history. they came for the story they could tell about themselves. the professor they conquered.” he takes a step that closes the distance between your worlds. “but you... i see in the margins of your essays. the questions you ask that the textbooks don't answer. you don't want to conquer anything. you want to understand.”
his hand comes down, not on you but on the one white-knuckling the notebook against your chest. his fingers wrap around yours and the hardcover feels suddenly flimsy and insignificant.
he gently pries the notebook from your grip and lets it fall to the desk, forgotten amongst the parchment and papers. your personal space is gone. you are enveloped by him, by his essence. coffee, old paper and that woody cologne that now just smells like man.
he tilts his head, his lips dangerously close to your ear. and the next words aren't a whisper, they're a rough confession.
“i spent the last thirty minutes in that lecture hall just staring at the door, hoping you’d be brave enough to knock.”
your body shudders. his arm locks around your waist, pulling you flush against him. no more doubt. the desk hits your back and he steps into the space between your legs. his body a warm, solid wall.
the bridge of his nose brushes your temple. his breath is hot against your skin.
“so show me,” professor choi demands. his voice a mix of an order and a plea, as his free hand finally tangles in your hair. not with force but with possession. “show me all that curiosity was worth it.”
that raw need in his eyes breaks you. the fear of crossing the line burns away under his touch. he’s laid himself bare and you’re not about to let him regret it.
a new courage hits your blood. you don’t just let him hold you. you lean in.
your hands come up. one presses flat against his shirt, right over his racing heart. it’s just as wild as yours. the other slides into the hair at the back of his neck. he shudders hard against you, a low groan tearing from his throat.
“this what you wanted, professor?” you whisper, your mouth a breath from his. you’re not a student anymore. you’re his equal.
hunger drowns the shock in his eyes.
so you close the last bit of space.
you kiss him.
it’s not a questioning kiss. it’s an answer. it’s a confession. it’s every stolen moment of admiration, every whispered fantasy given form. your mouth moves against his with a certainty that leaves no room for doubt. showing him with every shift of your lips that yes, the curiosity was always for him. only him.
his mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for this. tongue sliding against yours, tasting every breath you give him. you can’t keep from moaning into it, from letting him devour you until you’re dizzy.
his hands are anything but idle. one grips the edge of the desk behind you, anchoring himself as his other drags down your side, rough through the fabric of your shirt until he finds the curve of your hip. he squeezes hard, like he needs proof you’re real under his hands.
when you gasp against his lips, he doesn’t slow. he takes the opportunity, deepening the kiss, swallowing every sound you make until you’re left trembling against him.
the sharp edge of the desk digs into the back of your thighs when he nudges you up onto it. the movement is decisive, the kind that tells you he’s not asking. your notebook and the scattered papers crumple beneath you.
“fuck…” he mutters against your mouth, almost like it slips out before he can control it. his lips trail hot down your jaw, nipping at the tender skin of your neck. “you know how many times i’ve imagined you right here? spread out on my desk?” his teeth graze over your pulse point before he sucks lightly, leaving heat in his wake.
your hands clutch at his shoulders, desperate for balance. he’s everywhere. his breath, his weight, his words filling every corner of your body.
his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, dragging upward slowly, knuckles brushing over the sensitive skin of your stomach. “i shoudn’t be doing this. tell me to stop.” he says, voice low, but it doesn’t sound like a question. it sounds like a challenge.
you don’t. you can’t.
your silence is all the permission he needs.
he pulls your shirt over your head in one swift movement, discarding it carelessly onto the floor. his eyes darken at the sight of your bra, his hand immediately cupping you over the fabric, thumb circling until your back arches into him.
“fuck, look at you...” he groans, kissing across the top of your chest. his teeth catch the strap of your bra, tugging it down with his mouth, slow and filthy.
your breath hitches when he finally takes one nipple between his lips, tongue flicking and sucking until you’re gasping, grinding helplessly against his thigh pressed between your legs.
he pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, lips wet, eyes dark. his hand skims lower, dragging down your stomach, teasing the waistband of your skirt. he pauses, thumb dipping just under it, not moving further. “what do you want from me?” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, the weight of his stare making your skin burn.
your chest heaves, words tumbling out on a shaky breath. “i want you. please, professor c—”
“seungcheol,” he interrupts. “call me by my name here.”
his mouth leaves your chest reluctantly, lips dragging up until he’s at your ear again. his breath is hot, controlled, but you can feel the restraint in it.
“keep quiet,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath against your skin. “someone could still be around.”
you nod quickly but the sound that escapes you when his hand finally pops the button of your skirt betrays you. his palm presses down over the damp heat of your panties through the fabric and you clamp your teeth on your lip to keep from moaning too loud.
he notices. of course he does. his mouth brushes your jaw, voice low and rough. “that’s it. keep it in for me.”
the zipper comes down slow, torturous, and then his fingers are inside, brushing over your soaked panties. he exhales sharply, a quiet curse under his breath. “already this wet?”
you shift helplessly on the desk, thighs parting wider as he hikes your skirt up, exposing you. his knuckles trace the thin line of lace, teasing, before he curls two fingers under the fabric and pushes it aside.
the first touch of his fingers on your bare cunt makes your whole body jolt. you grab his arm on instinct, nails pressing into his sleeve as his thumb finds your clit and circles deliberately, steady pressure that has you trembling almost immediately.
“so sensitive,” he whispers against your temple, his lips ghosting your skin with every word. “been holding this in for a while, haven’t you?”
you bite down harder on your lip, a muffled whimper escaping despite yourself. he doesn’t give you relief. if anything, he slows down. drawing lazy circles over your clit until your hips lift off the desk in search of more.
he chuckles low, breathy, but it’s gone in an instant when he pushes a finger inside you. your jaw falls open, no sound coming out, just a sharp gasp of air as your walls clench tight around him.
he watches your face, completely focused. his thumb never leaving your clit while his finger curls inside you. “that’s it. just like that.” he mutters, voice still low, more to himself than to you.
when he adds a second finger, stretching you, the wet sound of it fills the office, obscene against the storm hammering outside. you slap a hand over your mouth, muffling the cry that wants to break free, your other hand fisting his shirt so tight you’re sure you’ll wrinkle it beyond saving.
he leans down, lips brushing your ear again, and whispers, “good girl.”
your body shudders at the quiet praise, at the rhythm of his fingers thrusting deep, curling just right. his pace builds with a precision that makes your thighs tremble, his thumb rubbing tight circles until your stomach knots, your whole body teetering on the edge.
he feels it. he must, because his pace grows more insistent, fingers moving harder, faster, the wet slap of it filling the small space. he murmurs against your skin, almost inaudible, “come for me. let me feel you.”
your walls flutter around his fingers, your body begging for release, but you force yourself to push his wrist back, breath ragged against his neck.
“wait,” your voice is barely a whisper, shaky but clear. “i don’t want to just… i want to feel you.”
he freezes for a moment, chest rising hard against yours. his eyes search your face before his jaw tightens.
he pulls his fingers from you slow. your body clenches at the loss, your slick dripping over his knuckles. he wipes it against your thigh, rough, as if to mark you.
then his hand are on your shoulder, turning you around before pressing you forward. your chest meets the cool wood of his desk. papers scatter beneath you, some sliding to the floor but you don’t care.
his body crowds behind yours, the heat of him burning through your back. he grips your hip firmly, dragging you toward the edge of the desk, until you’re arched just the way he wants.
“stay down.” he murmurs, voice rough but low, just for you. his palm presses gently between your shoulder blades, holding you there.
you whimper into the crook of your arm, muffling the sound when you feel the blunt press of his cock through his trousers against your ass. the friction is enough to make your eyes roll back.
he exhales harshly through his nose, grinding once, slow and heavy, like he’s savoring the tension. “you have no idea how long i’ve thought about this.” his hand squeezes your ass, thumb dragging down to spread you open just enough for him to see the mess between your thighs.
the sharp sound of his zipper being pulled down makes your whole body tense in anticipation.
you tilt your head just enough to catch his gaze over your shoulder, your voice wrecked but firm. “please. i need you, seungcheol.”
his expression breaks into something almost feral, restraint hanging by a thread. he strokes himself once, the wet tip of his cock dragging deliberately over your folds, coating himself in you.
“so wet i don’t even need to prep you more...” he whispers, pushing just the head in before pulling back. your body jerks with the tease, nails digging into the wood of the desk.
“don’t tease.” you hiss, barely audible, and he smirks against the nape of your neck.
then, with one steady thrust, he pushes inside. slow but unrelenting, every inch stretching you until he bottoms out. your mouth falls open in a strangled cry, muffled quickly into the crook of your arm.
“fuck,” he growls low, his forehead pressing briefly between your shoulders as if to ground himself. “so tight.”
he draws back almost all the way, then slams forward again, the desk creaking under the force. one hand stays locked on your hip, the other dragging up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back just enough.
“keep quiet,” he breathes harshly against your ear, punctuating his words with another sharp thrust. “or someone’s gonna hear who you really belong to right now.”
his thrusts start deep, each one driving the desk forward a fraction across the floor. you bite into your forearm to muffle the sounds spilling from your throat, but the way he hits that spot inside you makes it nearly impossible to stay quiet.
his grip on your hip is bruising, dragging you back into him with every snap of his hips. the wet slap of skin against skin fills the office, obscene and loud enough that your heart stutters in fear someone might hear.
his hand leaves your hair and slips over your mouth, palm covering you, his chest heavy against your back. “shhh,” he mutters, breathless, almost broken himself. “be good for me. just take it.”
your eyes flutter shut as he fucks you harder, deeper, angling his hips until you’re seeing stars. every time he pulls out, you clench around nothing, desperate. and then he’s slamming back inside, making you whimper into his hand.
the pace builds. rough, relentless. his teeth graze the curve of your shoulder, biting down just enough to make you jolt, a strangled moan caught under his palm.
“fuck, you feel unreal,” he grits out, voice cracked with the effort of holding back. “so tight around me...” his words cut off into a groan when you clench down, walls fluttering desperately around his cock.
your body trembles, slick dripping down your thighs, the messy sounds filling the room as he drives into you from behind. you can’t hold it anymore. the pressure spirals tight, unbearable.
you arch against him, nails raking over the wood of the desk. “i’m...” you try to speak, but it comes out broken, muffled under his hand. your body is screaming for release.
he feels it, the way you’re pulsing around him. and his thrusts only get rougher, harder, fucking you into the desk like he wants to tear you apart and put you back together.
the coil inside you snaps. your orgasm crashes through you in violent waves, your whole body shaking under his weight. you moan into his hand, muffled, desperate, as your walls clamp down on him so tight it nearly drags him over the edge too.
“that’s it,” he growls low against your ear, hips stuttering but never slowing. “cum for me. soak my cock.”
you collapse against the desk, body trembling, thighs shaking as the aftershocks roll through you. he keeps moving, chasing his own release, pounding into you even as you whimper from the overstimulation.
his hips slam forward once more, deep. and you can feel the way he’s trembling against you, his chest flush to your back, every muscle in his body tight with the effort of holding on.
you’re still shaking, your body sensitive from your orgasm, but you can feel it. he’s close, so close, his cock twitching inside you, his thrusts erratic.
“inside,” you whisper, voice broken and muffled into your arm. “please, inside me.”
his breath stutters, a sharp groan ripping from his chest, like your words just shattered whatever control he had left. his grip on your hip tightens almost painfully, and for a moment you think he’ll give in.
but then he pulls out, rough and sudden. fisting his cock in his hand as he spills across your lower back and the desk in hot, messy streaks.
“fuck—” he gasps, chest heaving, forehead pressed to your shoulder as his release shakes through him.
you whimper at the emptiness, at how desperately you wanted to feel him stay inside.
he laughs, breathless, brushing his lips against your ear. “you know i can’t do that,” he murmurs, voice wrecked but teasing, “not here, not now.”
his hand slides down your side, soothing, grounding after the roughness. “you’d ruin me if i did.”
the air between you is hot and heavy, the scent of sex clinging to the room. he leans back just enough to look at you, still bent over the desk, your skin marked with his fingerprints, your body trembling.
“don’t look at me like that,” he says softly, playful despite the rasp in his voice. “i barely managed to pull out as it is.”
he exhales slow, shaky, like he’s coming back to himself and the first thing he does is grab a handful of tissues from the corner of his desk. gently, almost reverent, he wipes over your skin, cleaning the mess he left behind. his touch is careful, different now. soothing where minutes ago he was all rough edges and urgency.
“sorry,” he murmurs, voice low, thumb brushing lightly over your hipbone. “shouldn’t have lost it like that.”
you shake your head, still catching your breath and he gives you a small smile before helping tug your skirt back down, smoothing the fabric as if it might erase the evidence.
he straightens his shirt next, tucking it back into his trousers, then turns to fix your hair with his fingers, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. it’s almost absurd. how soft he is now, compared to the way he just fucked you into the desk.
you’re both nearly done recomposing yourselves when
knock knock.
“professor? you still in there?”
your heart drops to your stomach. you freeze, wide-eyed, while he instantly schools his expression into calm.
“yeah,” he calls back, steady, like nothing’s wrong. “just finishing up.”
there’s a pause outside the door, then footsteps recede down the hall.
he lets out a quiet laugh, though his hand is still resting firm at your waist, grounding you. “close call.”
once everything looks presentable, he hesitates at the door, glancing back at you. his voice dips, softer. “wait a few minutes before you leave. don’t want anyone to start guessing.”
you nod, still catching your breath and he leans in to press a lingering kiss to your lips. it’s nothing like the frantic heat from before, this one is sweet.
when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “i don’t want this to just… stay here,” he admits, voice low, honest. “let me take you out. somewhere that isn’t… a desk.”
the corner of his mouth quirks, eyes crinkling as he steals another kiss, softer this time. “deal?”
you can’t help but smile, warmth curling in your chest.
“deal.”
the handle clicks, the world rushing back in as he steps out, leaving you alone in the heavy silence of the office. heart racing, lips tingling, the promise of something dangerous and thrilling lingering in the air, like the start of a secret you’re suddenly desperate to keep.
