Chapter 26:

"Between Pages And Palms"

The Student:

She said, "Stay after class."

And I did like a breath held too long.

My fingers trembled on the desk's edge,

knuckles pale beneath fluorescent confessions.

Her eyes like riddles carved in ice

read me. Undressed me.

And my thighs clenched under my skirt,

soaked in the unknown,

in thoughts I should not have.

I stammered a question,

but it wasn't the one on my lips.

Because what I wanted to ask was

Do your hands always look that dangerous

when holding a book?

She moved closer.

Her perfume wasn't flowers.

It was something darker

like secrets burning beneath silk.

Her voice dropped,

and so did my resolve.

I wanted to be her paragraph,

her whispered annotation,

the dog-eared page

she rereads at night

with the lights low

and her legs parted.

The Teacher:

I told her to stay

because I could smell her curiosity from the hallway.

She reeked of innocence in heat.

A tender puzzle waiting to be bent.

She thinks I don't see

how she watches me when I write on the board.

How her lips part when I smirk.

How her eyes trace the buttons I never fasten.

She asked me something forgettable.

But I answered with something permanent:

my gaze.

Fixed. Firm. Undeniable.

She flinched deliciously.

A girl not used to being preyed upon

by someone who speaks in Oxford diction

but hungers like a beast.

I leaned across the desk,

my palm brushing hers like a dare.

She didn't pull away.

No.

She stayed.

Wide-eyed and utterly doomed.

I wonder how she'd taste

desperate and academic.

Would she whimper when I pressed her against the shelves,

or moan into my mouth as I rewrote

every rule she thought mattered?

Because I will ruin her

elegantly.

And she'll thank me for it.