TWENTY-NINE: Pick. It. Up.

After what seems like a small eternity, Harlan finally writes a whopping 72 percent on the top of Derek's paper. I'm not sure if that makes me feel cocky or incredibly nervous. It is impossible to navigate my own feelings when Harlan mostly just makes me feel like my organs are swimming freely inside of my body.

Agonizingly nervous, I hold my breath as he flips through my essay. His eyes narrow as he counts the pages, and gives it a lengthy preliminary skim. He clears his throat before speaking, and my stomach does a somersault deep in my gut.

"I assigned eight pages for this essay. What makes you think I have the time or interest to read ten?" His lips pursed ever so slightly, Harlan turns to look at me, his eyes so scrutinizing under his glasses that they practically burn a red, flaming hole in my face.

I feel my jaw unhinge, and quickly attempt to gather myself when I realize I look like a complete fool. "Please, just... I promise it's worth the read."

I stand over his shoulder as he flips to the first page and begins reading. Every mark of his pen is a slash through my nervous stomach, and every time he underlines something and writes "good," in the margins sets my heart on fire. I chew the inside of my cheek as he reads, marking as he goes, and by page three, I'm getting too antsy, so I decide to step away.

This final is everything. Not only am I a junior in a grad-level course, but this paper will determine my standing in the English Departments. Scholarships, awards, and recognitions are on the line. Plus, if it flops, what if Harlan takes away my TA position next semester?

I'm staring at his framed graduate school certificate on the wall, trying to find the damned thing super interesting for the sake of distraction when he finally opens his mouth.

I rip my gaze away from the frame as soon as I hear him inhale.

"There was a typo."

"Liar."

"It was minor. And just one. I'm not docking points." Harlan removes his glasses. He considers my form carefully, eyes narrowed. I can't tell if he finds me attractive, if he just wants to watch me be terrified, or if he finds me incredibly annoying and insufferable. Probably a mix of the three.

"And it could have been more concise."

"But..."

"Everything you wrote was good. You extended beyond the question, and I found it very insightful. But it could have been a page shorter. Your conclusion was too repetitive."

"But the point of a conclusion is t–"

"It's a 96."

I swallow thickly, feeling my brows twitch together and my neck retract in confusion. "What?"

"Ninety-six percent. I docked three points for making me read the same sentence three times."

A smile cracks onto my frozen features, and I don't even worry about the other one percent. I exhale sharply, finally feeling the relief I was hoping for.

"For real?" I puff. "And that's because it was that good, not because we..."

"It's that good." he says.

Is that a smile on his lips?

"Who did the best in the class?" I demand.

"I'm not quite done grading yet." He says, leaning back in his office chair and pondering the small stack of papers left on his desk. "But so far, you're ahead."

I try to hold back a squeal, and fail.

"Congratulations," he says.

He is smiling!

A tiny, barely-there, adorable grin tugs on the corner of his lips and lights up my insides like an ember.

"As my TA next semester, you'll be helping me grade these," he reminds me. "Come back over here. You need to learn how to do this," he says, voice low and dark, as he beckons me with two fingers.

I don't even try to hide my grin as I walk back over to his desk.

Positioning myself to stand just off of his left shoulder, I look down at the next essay that lays before him on the desk. Harlan picks up his pen, holding it in his right hand, and positions the tip at the start of the first paragraph, ready to catch every single mistake that could possibly be found.

"Read," he instructs, the word slicing from his tongue and landing pointedly in my ears.

I nod stiffly, shocked at the sudden darkness in his voice, eyes flashing towards him just before I begin to read. The moment my gaze hits the first words on the page, I twitch as I feel a large, strong hand on the back of my thigh underneath the hem of my skirt.

My breath catches on the way into my lungs.

My entire frame stiffens as I feel his hand slowly slide upward, teasing just under my buttock. Sucking my lower lip into my mouth, I chew on it nervously. His fingers trail lightly on my sensitive skin, and suddenly, I become very aware of the hallway just outside of his office, mere feet away from where I'm standing, separated only by an unlocked door. I hear a muffled voice from down the corridor outside, and soberingly remember that Harlan and I are anything but alone.

Sparks. His fingers slide over the centre of my panties, trailing along my covered sex. My eyes flutter shut and I grip the edge of his desk, bracing for the impact.

"Open your eyes," he murmurs.

I exhale, breath shuddering, and his fingers dip into my panties, pushing them aside with the smallest movement. I open my eyes, mewling softly, and keep reading.

"That's a good girl," he murmurs as he sees my gaze fall back onto the page.

I whimper, white-knuckling the desk.

Slowly, he begins to rub deliberate, torturous circles over my clit, causing my whole body to wrack with deep trembles. He smirks, and I hear him hum in approval.

"Keep working, Ms. Shaw" he orders.

Brow knitting with fear and agony and nervousness and pleasure, I keep my eyes glued to the page, not daring to look at him as he works his fingers against me, though I can feel the heat of his gaze on my skin as if it is a physical part of him.

Suddenly, Harlan drops the pen in front of me and sits back in his chair, his free hand perching on the sides of his chin and cheek, supported by his fingers, as he considers me curiously. Deliberately. From behind the desk, his other hand is working against my cunt.

"Grade," he says. "Correct it. Mark your revisions so the words sound adequate."

I try to swallow and practically choke. I move, my hand visibly trembling as it dips down to grasp the pen between shaky fingers. It fumbles in my hand, eliciting a low, dark chuckle from Harlan.

Asshole.

Come on, Eden. You can do this, I say to myself.

I clear my throat, feeling a coat of sweat beginning to form on my forehead, the back of my neck. I begin, or try to begin, to read in earnest. To focus. But with every roll of Harlan's rough fingers, I realize that the sentence my eyes have just glossed over hasn't been retained. I rack my brain, desperate to concentrate, but I'm fighting a losing battle.

I catch a typo in line four. Okay, not off to a great start, but it’s good for me. I slice through the misspelled word, but the line I draw looks more like a wave. I curse my uncontrollably trembling fingers, and I can practically feel Harlan smirking at me.

"Good" he mutters, and plunges two fingers into my pussy.

I gasp and drop the pen, my knees buckling violently underneath me, threatening to give way at any moment.

His fingers are coated in my wetness in an instant. He widens them inside of me, stretching me out and eliciting a deep and tortured moan from my throat.

"Pick it up," he instructs. I whimper, knees bending as I push down against his hand.

"Pick. It. Up," Harlan orders.

I can tell from the tone of his voice that he wouldn't ask a third time.

I snatch up the pen, fumbling with it again, nearly knocking it to the floor this time. I wrap my fingers tightly around it as Harlan’s fingers thrust upwards into my pussy, my hot, wet walls squeezing and fluttering around them.

My brain is screaming, and I want to give into the dizziness and chaos. But a deep, warning thrust from Harlan reminds me to keep grading.

I whimper again, leaning further against the table to try and find a position that makes it easier to stay standing. I'm shocked that I haven't yet collapsed altogether. I clench my teeth, continuing to make my best effort in proofreading.

But Harlan is picking up the pace, his fingers curled deep inside of me. And one sudden burst of warmth in my lower belly tells me that he'd found exactly the right spot.

I gasp, perching forward on the table-top, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, desperate that someone could walk by and see me through the thin albeit tall windows on the sides of Harlan's office door.

My fingernails dig into the desk, audibly scraping against the mahogany. I pulse my hips slightly, finding rhythm against Harlan's fingers as they continue to fuck me closer to my orgasm. I hum in agony as I continue reading, making marks here and there, mostly reading for typos, unable to fully immerse myself in the reading like he wants me to. Using my brain when he has me like this, fingers plunging into my dripping cunt, waves of dark desire rolling off of him, is impossible.

"Harlan," I whimper, my voice small and pitiful.

He says nothing, but he begins working faster, indicating that he is heeding my warning, driving me further and further to my release. Finger-fucking me harder.

"Fuck," I squeak, voice a broken whisper.

"You like this, don't you?" he asks me darkly. "You like getting finger-fucked by your professor, don't you."

It isn't a question.

"Hmmm," I breathe, chest heaving.

He shushes me, voice gentle, but somehow condescending. And I hate how much I love it. "You don't want them all to hear you, do you? You don't want them to know what a little slut you are."

I whimper, throwing my head back.

"Oh, yes you are," he murmurs, unleashing a burst of lust deep inside of my chest.

I clench the pen in my hand.

"Fuck, Harlan, baby," I mewl weakly, dropping my head forward again, internally regretting the use of a pet-name as soon as I say it. Harlan wouldn't approve of that sort of thing. But even if it bothers him, he seems to allow it just this once.

Heat is spreading throughout my entire centre, and my pussy clenches and flitters. Harlan keeps working, inching me towards release.

I'm so close.

Overwhelming warmth blooms against my chest and neck, breaking me out into a disgraceful rash of flushed, heated skin. I'm just seconds away from my orgasm when I see her. In horror, I watch a professor walk straight by Harlan's office through the window. I hold my breath in my throat as I watch her move by, her attention buried into the screen of her phone. She doesn't look. Doesn't see me. She just keeps walking. And I don't stop. Can't stop. Even if she had seen me, in a moment like this, I can't be sure that I would have had the strength.

"Oh my god," are the last sad little words off of my shameful lips as he brings me to my peak.

My knees buckle violently, causing both my legs to shake as I cum. I hear the slurping of my own wetness against his fingers as I work to hold back my scream, catching it in my throat and swallowing it down, deep, as I revel in the unbelievable, hot pleasure.

Squeezing the pen in my hand, it snaps under the tension of my fingers, and I pay it no mind. I just pulse my hips, riding out my pleasure, eyes clamped shut, upper body hovering above the desk. I begin to stumble down from my high, hips rolling, rolling, slowly, until I'm finally spent.

I exhale, a burst of air finally releasing from my lungs as my eyes flutter open. I swallow and choke, coughing, trying to catch my breath as I stare down at the mess before me.

Spilled, angry, red ink stains my right palm, like blood. I look at whatever poor student's essay I'd been attempting to grade, watching the redness bleed onto the paper, right in the middle of the sea of words.

I gather myself for several seconds, levelling my breath, smoothing down my hair with the hand that isn't ink-stained. I can feel the thin layer of sweat on my face, and can feel my face throbbing with blood. I probably look like I've just run a half-marathon.

I hear the powdery sound of fingers snatching up tissues. He cleans himself up before softly dabbing the insides of my thighs. My eyes flutter shut all over again as I buzz underneath his touch, turning around and balancing myself on the edge of the desk, gripping the wood on either side of me.

"You did well," he murmurs, snaking his hand to wrap softly around my thigh.

I can't even look at him. I feel so shameful. So dirty.

And I love it.

I would have hopped on his lap and ridden him right there if I could have.

"You'll come to my house tonight," he instructs me. Finally, I turn to face him, my expression one of disbelief. "And we'll finish this then."