She stood in front of me in nothing but her white lace bra and a smug little smirk.
No panties.
Her jeans were in a heap on the floor beside her blouse, and she stood there with her legs just slightly apart—enough to show me everything, like she wasn’t ashamed. Like she wanted me to see how wet she was. How ready. How far gone.
I told myself again that this was wrong.
That I was the adult.
That I was the one with everything to lose.
And then she whispered, “Tell me what to do, Professor,” and my conscience shattered.
I grabbed her waist and lifted her onto the desk. She gasped as her bare skin hit the cold wood, thighs spreading automatically as I stepped between them. Her eyes were wild—lips parted, chest heaving, breasts straining against lace.
“You know what you’re doing,” I mut
