The visiting professor's lesson was best taught alone, after hours.

My name is Dr. Isabelle Laurent. Thirty-six. Associate Professor of Comparative Literature. I teach with precision and distance. Students call me intimidating behind my back. They’re not wrong.

Professor Daniel Reyes was visiting from Madrid for the semester. Forty-one. Charismatic. Dangerous in lectures—his voice low, his ideas sharp, his eyes always finding mine across the seminar table.

We’d been circling each other for weeks. A lingering glance after class. A brush of fingers when passing books. Comments laced with double meaning. I told myself it was harmless. Intellectual flirtation.

Until the night of the guest lecture series.

The hall was packed. He spoke about desire in medieval poetry, quoting lines that felt aimed directly at me. When it ended, applause echoed off the high ceilings. People swarmed him. I slipped out the side door, heart pounding, telling myself I was going home.

I didn’t.

I waited in my office on the third floor. The building slowly emptied. At 10:42 p.m. I heard footsteps in the corridor—deliberate, unhurried.

He knocked once.

I opened the door.

He stepped inside without a word. Closed it. Locked it.

The office was dimly lit by my desk lamp and the streetlights outside the tall window. Bookshelves towered. Papers everywhere. The scent of old leather and my jasmine perfume hung in the air.

“You left early,” he said, voice rougher than in the lecture hall.

“I needed air.”

He crossed the room in three strides. Stopped inches from me.

“You needed this.”

He kissed me then—slow at first, testing. Then deeper, hungrier. His hands slid under my blouse, calloused fingertips tracing my spine. I arched into him.

I broke the kiss long enough to whisper, “The desk.”

He lifted me onto it in one smooth motion. Papers scattered. A pen clattered to the floor.

He pushed my skirt up, found the black lace garters I’d worn on a whim. His eyes darkened.

“No panties?”

“Thought you might appreciate the surprise.”

He groaned, dropped to his knees between my thighs. His mouth was on me immediately—hot, insistent. Tongue circling my clit, fingers sliding inside, curling just right. I gripped the edge of the desk, head thrown back, biting my lip to stay quiet. The building was empty, but echoes carry.

When I was trembling on the edge, he stood. Unbuckled. His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, already glistening.

He rubbed the head against me, teasing.

“Beg,” he said.

“Please, Daniel. Fuck me. Now.”

He thrust in hard. One stroke. Deep. I cried out—sharp, surprised. He didn’t stop. He fucked me with purpose—steady, relentless rhythm that made the desk creak. Books slid off shelves. My blouse was open, breasts spilling out. He bent to suck a nipple while he pounded into me.

I came first—shattering, clenching around him, nails digging into his shoulders. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep, pulsing inside me, hot and endless.

We stayed like that, breathing hard, foreheads touching.

He kissed me softly once.

“Next week,” he murmured. “My hotel room. Bring the garters.”

I smiled against his lips.

“Only if you bring the poetry.”

He left first. I stayed, thighs sticky, heart racing, surrounded by the wreckage of my office.

Some lessons are best learned after hours.