Chapter 3:Ruin Me, Professor

Zoe didn’t know how two hours had passed. It felt like twenty minutes. The coffee had gone cold ages ago, but neither of them reached for it. They’d started with the thesis, safe territory, but it had slipped away somewhere between Plath and the way Marcus’s voice got quieter when he talked about his own novel.

She’d kicked off her heels without thinking, tucking her feet under her in the chair. Her bare calf brushed his leg when she shifted. She should’ve moved it. She didn’t. The contact felt electric, stupidly intimate, like her skin was begging for more.

Marcus had moved too. Left the desk behind and taken the chair closer to hers. Their knees were inches apart now. Every time one of them leaned in, the space between them shrank.

“You really read it?” he asked, eyes on her face. “The novel. All the way through.”

“Yeah.” Zoe’s voice came out softer than she meant. “The ending… it pissed me off, actually. You built her up like she was finally going to choose herself and then you let her stay stuck. Why?”

He laughed, low and rough, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Because that’s what I did. Stayed stuck.”

The confession hung there. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. God, she wanted to touch him there. Feel the pulse under his skin.

She leaned forward to argue the point, her blouse shifting. It gapped just a little. His gaze dropped instantly — to the hollow at the base of her neck, lower, where her nipples had been hard and obvious against the silk for the last forty minutes. He looked. Really looked. She caught him and heat flooded her face, but she didn’t fix it. Let him see.

Marcus’s jaw tightened. His hands gripped the arms of his chair like he was fighting gravity.

They kept talking. About her copywriting years — writing other people’s words until she forgot her own. About how he’d drifted into papers and lectures instead of stories. The words got heavier. More honest. Every truth pulled something tighter in her chest.

Her calf was still pressed against his leg. Neither of them had moved it. The heat from his body seeped through his pants and made her ache.

“What the hell am I doing?” she thought, heart hammering. I should stop this. I should leave before I ruin everything.

But she stayed. Leaned in closer.

Marcus shifted too. His hand rested on the arm of her chair now, close enough that his fingers could brush her knee if he wanted. He did. Light at first. Just tracing a slow line along the side of her knee, up her thigh a little. Testing. Like he was still pretending it was accidental.

Zoe’s breath hitched. Her thighs clenched tighter together. “Marcus…”

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough. His eyes were dark, locked on hers. “Say it and I will.”

She didn’t say it.

His fingers kept moving, slow and deliberate, tracing higher under the hem of her skirt. The touch burned. She was shaking. Wet. So fucking wet she could feel it soaking through her panties. Shame twisted in her stomach — she was in her professor’s office, legs parting just enough for his hand, and she couldn’t make herself care.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he muttered, leaning closer. His breath brushed her cheek. “All week. That passage on page 41. The way you write when you’re not hiding. Fuck, Zoe.”

His hand slid higher. Fingers traced the inside of her thigh, slow, teasing. She whimpered — actually whimpered — when he brushed over her panties. The fabric was drenched. He felt it and groaned low in his throat, pressing firmer, rubbing slow circles right over her clit through the thin material.

“God, this is insane,” she gasped, hips twitching toward his hand before she could stop herself. “We shouldn’t— I shouldn’t—”

But her legs opened wider. Just a little. Enough.

Marcus’s control was cracking. She could see it in the way his breathing got ragged, the way his free hand gripped his own thigh like an anchor. He pushed her panties aside and touched her bare, slick heat. One finger traced her folds, spreading her wetness, teasing her entrance.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he said against her ear, voice wrecked. “All this time talking and you’re this ready for me?”

Zoe nodded frantically, biting her lip hard. Her hand grabbed his wrist, not to stop him — to hold him there. “Please. Marcus, I— fuck—”

He slid one finger inside her. Slow. Deep. The stretch made her moan, low and broken. He curled it, rubbing that spot that made her vision blur. In and out, steady, while his thumb found her clit and circled.

The pleasure hit her in waves, mixing with the shame and the terrifying want. She was grinding against his hand now, chasing it, thighs trembling. Every stroke felt like confession. Like he was pulling truths out of her body she’d never said out loud.

“Marcus— oh god—” Her head fell back. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe right. Just his fingers, his voice, the way he watched her face like she was the only thing in the world.

“You’re going to come for me,” he said, rough and certain. Another finger joined the first, stretching her, fucking her deeper. Faster. “Right here. Let me see it. Let me feel how much you need this.”

She was close. So close it hurt. The tension in her stomach coiled tighter, her whole body shaking. She grabbed his shoulder, nails digging in, hips rocking desperately against his hand.

“I’ve wanted this— wanted you— since you transferred,” she gasped, words spilling out messy. “Every seminar. Every time you looked at me like you knew. Fuck— I’m— I’m gonna—”

“Come on, Zoe. Give it to me.”

She broke. The orgasm crashed through her hard, sudden, messy. She cried out, muffling it against his neck as her pussy clenched around his fingers, pulsing, soaking his hand. Her thighs shook uncontrollably. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes from how intense it felt — not just the pleasure, but the relief of finally letting go in front of him.

Marcus didn’t stop right away. He kept stroking her through it, gentler now, drawing it out until she was whimpering, oversensitive, clinging to him.

“Fuck,” she whispered when she could speak again. Her face burned. “I can’t believe I just— on your hand. In your office.”

He pulled his fingers out slowly, but didn’t move away. His eyes were blown dark, hungry. He looked wrecked. Like touching her had cost him something.

She asked the question that had been burning in her chest the whole night. “Do you do this with all your graduate students?”

Marcus’s voice came out rough enough to scrape over her skin. “No.” He swallowed. “Never.”

Her heart squeezed. “Is that a problem?”

“It should be.” But he didn’t sound sorry. He sounded like a man who’d already decided.

The silence after that was drenched in want. They were both breathing hard. His hands gripped the arms of his chair again, white-knuckled, like he was physically stopping himself from pulling her into his lap and going further. Her thighs were still trembling, clenched tight, the aftershocks making her twitch.

She reached across the desk between them, her hand shaking, and turned over the last page of the thesis. The one still lying there like an excuse.

“I didn’t come here about the grade,” she said. Honest. Raw. Her voice cracked on the last word.

Marcus looked at her. Really looked. His control fractured right there — eyes dark, starving, completely focused on her mouth like he was two seconds from kissing her.

“I know,” he said.

The air between them felt ready to snap.