My Professor's Dirty Little Secret
Don’t be late.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard, my chest pounding. Don’t be late? The text sounded demanding, controlling even, but my stomach fluttered at the thought. My lips curved into a small, mischievous smile. I typed back:
I’ll try my best… but no promises.
The texts kept coming in small bursts over the next few hours, playful, flirty, teasing without being too obvious to anyone else who might glance at my phone. I found myself laughing at his dry humor, the sharpness in his words that reminded me exactly why I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And somewhere deep down, I realized I wanted to see where this went, whatever “this” was.