Office Hours — With Professor Grant

I was on academic probation, and Professor Grant's English 302 was the class standing between me and my sophomore year. He was 34, a published author, and unfairly attractive — salt-and-pepper hair, reading glasses he'd push up his nose, hands that gestured expressively when he lectured about Faulkner. Every girl in class had a crush on him, but nobody would admit it.

I showed up at his office on a Thursday afternoon, desperate. "I don't understand the essay prompt," I admitted, standing in his doorway.

He looked up from his desk and smiled. "Emma. Come in. Close the door — it gets noisy out there."

I closed the door. The office was small, lined with bookshelves, smelling of coffee and old paper. He gestured to the chair across from his desk, and I sat down, gripping my notebook like a lifeline.

For twenty minutes, he actually helped me — explaining narrative structure, showing me how to outline my thesis, being the consummate professional. Then I noticed his eyes. They kept drifting. To my lips. To the v-neck of my sweater. To the way my skirt rode up when I crossed my legs.

"Emma," he said quietly, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, "can I be honest with you?"

"Of course."

"I've been trying not to notice you all semester." He looked at me directly, his gaze intense. "It hasn't been working."

My mouth went dry. "Professor Grant..."

"Call me James. Please. When we're alone."

I didn't think. I just stood up, walked around his desk, and kissed him. He responded instantly — his hands in my hair, pulling me closer, the kiss deep and urgent. He tasted like coffee. His stubble scraped my chin. I climbed onto his lap, straddling him in his office chair, my skirt bunched around my thighs.

"This is wildly inappropriate," he murmured against my lips.

"I know," I said, grinding down against him. I could feel how hard he was through his slacks. "I don't care."

He stood, lifting me easily, and set me on the edge of his desk. Papers scattered. A mug tipped over. Neither of us noticed. His mouth was on my neck, then lower, pushing aside the neck of my sweater to kiss my collarbone. His hands slid up my thighs, pushing my skirt to my waist.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed, looking at me — my flushed cheeks, my parted lips, my chest heaving.

I reached for his belt. My fingers fumbled with the buckle, and he helped, undoing it with practiced ease. His cock sprang free — thick, veined, the tip already slick. I wrapped my hand around it, and he groaned.

"I want to taste you," I said, and slid off the desk to my knees.

I took him in my mouth right there on his office floor, surrounded by literary theory and marked-up essays. He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white, as I worked him with my tongue and lips. I took him deep, deeper than I'd ever managed before, my nose pressing against the trimmed hair at his base.

"Emma..." His voice was wrecked. "If you keep doing that, I won't last."

I pulled off with a wet pop and looked up at him. "Then don't last."

He pulled me to my feet and turned me around, bending me over his desk. My cheek pressed against a stack of ungraded papers as he pushed my skirt higher, pulled my panties aside, and positioned himself at my entrance.

"Tell me you want this," he said, his voice rough.

"I want this. Please, James."

He entered me in one smooth thrust, and I gasped. He was bigger than anyone I'd been with, and the stretch was intense. He paused, letting me adjust, one hand smoothing down my spine. "Okay?"

"More than okay."

He fucked me slowly at first, deep strokes that made me grip the far edge of the desk for leverage. The rhythm built — faster, harder — and I bit my arm to muffle my moans. Outside his door, students walked past, laughing, completely unaware of what was happening six feet away.

His hand slid between my legs, fingers finding my clit. The combination of his cock filling me and his fingers circling that sensitive spot sent me over the edge. I came with a strangled cry, my body clenching around him. He followed moments later, pulling out at the last second to spill across my lower back.

We cleaned up in silence, him handing me tissues from his desk drawer. I smoothed down my skirt. He buttoned his shirt.

"Same time next week?" I asked, only half joking.

He pushed his glasses up his nose and smiled. "For the essay, you mean."

"Of course. For the essay."

I got an A in English 302. And I learned a lot more than narrative structure.