2

I swallowed hard, throat dry as sandpaper, the second I heard the soft click of the lock. My whole body locked up—still bent over his desk.

“I was just—I—” The words came out all broken and stupid. I couldn’t finish the sentence because what the hell was I supposed to say? I was just leaving you a gift? I was just about to finger myself on your desk while thinking of you? Yeah, no.

He didn’t say anything at first.

I felt him come up behind me—close enough that I could smell that damn cologne again, close enough that the heat from his body hit my skin before he even touched me.

Then his hands were on me.

His fingers brushed the hem of my skirt, smoothing it down over my hips like he was fixing something that belonged to him.

The fabric slid back into place, covering what I’d so shamelessly shown off, but his touch lingered just a second too long on the curve of my ass—enough to make my knees buckle.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low and rough, right against the back of my neck. Then he stepped away, walked around the desk, and dropped into his leather chair like nothing insane had just happened.

He leaned back, elbows on the armrests, watching me with those dark eyes that always looked like they could see straight through clothes. One brow lifted slightly.

I was burning. Face, chest, between my legs—everything on fire. Shame hit me like a truck, but it was mixed with this sick, dizzy heat that made me want to crawl across the desk toward him instead of running.

I smoothed my skirt again—pointless, nervous habit—then spun on my heel to bolt. Door. Unlock. Escape. Get the hell out before I did something even stupider.

I forgot the panties.

Completely.

They were still tucked between the pages of his lecture notebook, black lace peeking out like a guilty little secret. And I just… left them there.

I yanked the door open—thank God he’d only locked it, not deadbolted—and practically ran down the hallway, skirt swishing, no underwear, the cool air hitting me every step like a reminder of what I’d just done. What he’d just seen.

Behind me, I swear I heard the soft creak of his chair as he leaned forward. Probably reaching for the notebook.

I didn’t look back.

But I knew—deep in my gut, the same gut that had been twisting for him for years—he’d find them.

And when he did?

I had no idea what would happen next.

But I was already soaked just thinking about it.

I stood outside the faculty building, back against the warm brick wall, legs still shaky like I’d run a marathon instead of just fleeing his office.

Every shift of my weight reminded me how wet I still was, how close I’d come to finally getting what I’d been fantasizing about for years.

I wish he had just fucked me right there. Bent over that desk. Papers everywhere. His hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t scream his name loud enough for the whole third floor to hear. God, I wanted it so bad I could taste it.

I muttered the words under my breath like a prayer nobody was supposed to answer. “I wish he had just fucked me at that point.” Talking to myself, waiting for the one person who always showed up at the worst possible time.

Honk. Honk.

Mom’s silver Honda pulled up to the curb like clockwork. Martha Hardins—queen of showing up unannounced, queen of “you’re not staying in the dorms, young lady, family first,” queen of ruining every dirty thought I’d ever had.

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my own brain, then pushed off the wall and walked over, trying to look normal.

“Good afternoon, Mom.”

“Good day, honey.” She smiled that tight, polite smile she did when she was about to drop a bomb. “I have something to tell you.”

I slid into the passenger seat, buckled up, rolled my eyes again before she even started. Probably another old guy she’d been “talking to” on that senior dating app. Another weekend of pretending I was happy for her while she paraded some gray-haired stranger around the house like it was normal.

“You might not like this,” she said, pulling away from the curb, “but my boyfriend of four years will be coming over tomorrow. Since it’s the weekend.”

I blinked. Then laughed—short, bitter. “Yh right.”

Four years? Four fucking years?

Dad had been gone barely a year before she started acting weird—late nights, hushed phone calls, sudden “girls’ trips” that didn’t involve any girls.

I’d always figured it was some fling, some rebound she was too embarrassed to admit to her own daughter. But four years? That meant she’d been hiding a whole-ass relationship while I was still crying myself to sleep over Dad’s empty side of the bed.

I stared out the window, streetlights starting to flash on, campus shrinking in the rearview. My stomach twisted—.

She kept talking, voice soft like she was breaking bad news to a child. “He’s a good man, baby. You’ll like him once you meet him. I just… wanted to keep things private until I was sure.”

Sure. Right.

I didn’t say anything. Just crossed my arms, pressed my thighs together harder, trying to ignore the ache that still hadn’t gone away. Professor Nathan’s voice still echoed in my head—“Careful”—while my mom rambled on about how “mature” this mystery man was, how he “understood” her.

All I could think was: four years of secrets.

And here I was, keeping the biggest, dirtiest one of my own.

Tomorrow he’d be in our house. Whoever he was.