The campus was nearly silent at night, its halls dim except for the flicker of fluorescent lights and the glow from a single office tucked deep in the literature building. Clara's heels clicked nervously against the linoleum as she approached the door with the brass plaque: Professor Marlowe.
She wasn't supposed to be here. Office hours ended at six, but she had emailed him, desperate, claiming she needed clarification on her thesis outline. In truth, it wasn't academic confusion that had kept her awake at night, it was him. The way his voice lingered in her head after lectures, smooth and deliberate. The way his sleeves rolled back to reveal forearms dusted with dark hair as he wrote notes on the board. The way his eyes, sharp and unreadable, seemed to catch hers a second too long.
Her pulse skipped as she knocked lightly.
"Come in," came his deep, steady voice.
The door opened to reveal him exactly as she had imagined he would be after hours, tie loosened, top button undone, glasses perched low on his nose. Papers were scattered across the oak desk, and behind him, books lined every wall in messy stacks.
"Clara," he said, as though he had been expecting her. "You're here awfully late."
She stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of leather and ink, a room that felt more like a confessional than an office. "I didn't mean to disturb you, Professor. I just… needed help."
One corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite stern. "Help," he repeated, leaning back in his chair. "And what exactly do you need help with?"
Her throat went dry. She held out her notebook, but her hands trembled, and he noticed. He took it from her, fingers brushing hers, just a fleeting touch, but it sent a spark darting down her spine.
He flipped through her notes, then looked up, his gaze lingering. "Clara, your outline is fine. This wasn't the real reason you came tonight, was it?"
Her lips parted. "I… I don't know what you mean."
But she did. He did too. The silence stretched, heavy with something unspoken, until he rose from his chair, walking around the desk. He moved slowly, deliberately, until he was standing close enough that she could feel his breath fan across her cheek.
"You've been distracted in class," he murmured. "Eyes on me instead of your work. Do you think I don't notice?"
Her chest tightened, shame and heat swirling together. "I'm sorry."
He reached out, tilting her chin up with one finger so she was forced to meet his eyes. "Don't apologize. Just tell me, what exactly do you want from me?"
Her heart thundered. The words fell out before she could stop them. "You."
The confession hung in the air, raw and dangerous. He exhaled slowly, like a man restraining himself. "Do you have any idea what you're asking for, Clara?"
Her answer was a whisper. "Yes."
That broke him. His hand slid from her chin to her jaw, pulling her mouth up to his. The kiss was rough, claiming, tasting of whiskey and restraint undone. Her back hit the edge of his desk as his body pressed hers down against the wood, papers scattering around them like fallen leaves.
She gasped when his hands moved, tracing her waist, slipping beneath the hem of her blouse, his touch scorching bare skin. "You shouldn't be here," he murmured against her neck, lips brushing, biting, sucking.
"Then tell me to leave," she whispered, arching into him.
He didn't. Instead, he groaned, undoing her buttons one by one, each movement agonizingly slow, like he was savoring the sin of it. By the time her blouse slid off her shoulders, she was trembling with anticipation.
His mouth traveled lower, down the line of her throat, lingering at the swell of her chest before dipping lower still. The desk creaked beneath them as his hands explored, as his control snapped inch by inch.
Every touch was deliberate, every brush of lips against skin a lesson in restraint slipping into indulgence. Clara felt like she was unraveling, coming undone in the very space where she'd once scribbled lecture notes, now lost in the heat of the man she had only dared to fantasize about.
When he finally pulled back, breath ragged, eyes dark with hunger, he whispered, "This never leaves this office."
Clara smiled through her own panting breaths. "Then I'll just have to keep coming back for… office hours."
And when his mouth crashed against hers again, she knew she'd found a new kind of education, one far more dangerous, and far more delicious, than anything printed in her books.
But Professor Marlowe wasn't finished teaching her.
He lifted her onto the desk with a firm grip, parting her thighs as though she belonged there, spread open among his scattered papers. She shivered when the cool air brushed the bare strip of skin revealed beneath her skirt. His hands gripped her hips, possessive, anchoring her against the hard wood as his lips ravaged hers, his tongue coaxing hers into a heated rhythm.
The kiss deepened, hungry, and when his hand slid higher over her thigh, past the lace edge of her stocking, her breath caught in her throat. "Professor…" she whispered, her voice breaking.
His lips curved against her ear. "Call me Daniel." The intimacy of the name made her body jolt with need.
Daniel's fingers stroked over the damp silk between her legs, teasing but not yet giving in. His control was maddening, every touch calculated to keep her begging. She arched against him, desperate, and he chuckled darkly, savoring her helpless need.
"Do you know how many nights I've imagined this?" he murmured, dragging her panties aside and brushing his fingertips against her slick heat. "You, coming to me after hours, pretending it was about essays and outlines. You thought I didn't notice the way you looked at me in class?"
Her nails dug into his shoulders, her head tipping back as he stroked her slowly, deliberately, making her tremble with every press of his hand. "I couldn't stop thinking about you," she confessed, voice breaking with need.
His mouth caught hers again, swallowing her confession, then trailed hot kisses down her neck until he buried his face between her breasts, inhaling like a man starved. He nipped at her skin, leaving marks only they would know, the kind that would burn every time she looked in the mirror.
When he finally slid lower, sinking to his knees before her, Clara's gasp filled the room. A professor, on his knees, in the darkened office where she had once timidly taken notes. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her open as his lips pressed against her inner thigh, moving achingly slow.
"Daniel…" Her plea was breathless, urgent.
He glanced up, eyes burning with something that made her thighs quake. "Patience. Lessons are meant to be savored."
And then his mouth closed over her, hot and relentless. Clara's cry echoed against the bookshelves as she tangled her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, every lick and flick of his tongue unraveling her further. The taste of her, the sounds she made, the way her body arched off the desk, he consumed it like a man starving.
When she finally shattered against him, biting her lip to muffle her scream, he didn't stop. He rode her through every wave, holding her down as if to remind her who had taken her apart.
And when she collapsed back against the desk, trembling, he rose, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with unrestrained hunger.
"This," he whispered, his voice rough, "is only the beginning."
Clara, breathless and wrecked, smiled through her haze. "Then I'll never miss another… office hour."