Professor's Office Intern Bent Over Desk

My name is Mia, and for the last six weeks I have been drowning in the most delicious kind of torment.

Professor Elias Hart is fifty-two years old, silver at the temples, broad-shouldered, and carries himself like a man who has spent decades commanding both lecture halls and excavation sites. Every morning I arrive at his private archive room in the basement of the archaeology wing, wearing the modest sundresses I’ve started choosing specifically because they make his jaw flex. He never says anything inappropriate. He doesn’t have to. The way his storm-gray eyes linger on the curve of my throat, the slow drag of his gaze down my legs when I bend to retrieve a crate, the low timbre of his voice when he says, “Careful, Mia,” every time his large, veined hand brushes mine—those things have turned me into a soaked, aching mess by noon.

I am twenty-one. He is old enough to be my father. That fact only makes me wetter.

We work alone most days. The archive is climate-controlled, quiet, and smells of old paper, clay dust, and his expensive cologne. I catalog shards of pottery while he transcribes notes, and every accidental brush of his fingers against the small of my back feels like a deliberate promise. At night I go back to my tiny off-campus apartment, strip, and fuck myself with two fingers while imagining his silver head between my thighs. I come whispering his name like a dirty prayer.

Tonight the storm outside is raging, rain lashing the narrow basement windows. The rest of the department has gone home. It’s just us.

I’m standing on the step stool reaching for a high shelf when I feel him behind me. Not touching. Just close enough that the heat of his body radiates against my bare legs.

“Mia.”

His voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it. I turn slowly. He’s right there, six-three of solid, distinguished male, salt-and-pepper hair slightly disheveled from running his fingers through it. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a hint of silver chest hair. My nipples tighten instantly.

“I’ve tried,” he says, low and strained. “God knows I’ve tried to be professional. But every single day you walk in here in those little dresses, smelling like summer and innocence, and I want to bend you over my desk until you scream my name.”

The confession punches the air from my lungs. My pussy clenches so hard I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.