"After Class"
The Student:
I waited.
Pretended to be lost in notes,
while every other student trickled out,
careless of the storm unfolding behind them.
My hands trembled on the desk.
Not fear.
Not shame.
Just something ancient and warm
pulling me toward her gravity.
She didn't even ask.
She closed the door behind the last goodbye
and turned.
"You stayed."
The words floated between us,
low and honeyed—
sweet with an edge I didn't yet understand.
I nodded.
Didn't trust my voice.
She walked slow.
Not toward me.
Around.
Like a panther circling a lamb
who hadn't realized the woods were never safe.
I felt her behind me before I heard her.
Her breath traced my neck.
"Do you know what you're doing, darling?"
A whisper.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
I turned, finally.
Met her gaze.
And the way she looked at me
Not like a professor.
Not like a woman bound by rules.
But like a secret I was already part of.
I told her I liked her books.
She smiled.
"You liked the underlined parts most."
I blinked.
She had seen the notations I made.
The circles, the scribbles
my desperate little heart trying to reach her through pages.
And she
she had read me.
Then came her hand.
Lifted gently
hovered near my chin.
She didn't touch me.
Not yet.
But her fingers knew how to wait,
like they'd memorized patience
and used it as a weapon.
"If I kiss you now," she said,
"you'll never leave this room the same."
I didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
"Then don't let me."
And her lips found mine.
No rush.
No fire.
Just a quiet, sensual devastation.
She kissed me like she was telling a story.
Like she'd written it already
and I was only now catching up.
Her tongue teased,
slow and soft,
like silk dragging across silk.
It wasn't hunger.
It was ownership.
My body pressed into hers
without asking for permission.
My legs weak.
My chest burning.
And her hand finally cupped my jaw like she was proud.
I don't remember how long we kissed.
Only that when it ended,
my lipstick was gone
and so was the version of me
who ever thought she was safe.