The next few days were pure torture. I sat in his lecture hall every morning, legs crossed tight, trying not to squirm in my seat. Mr. Kane—Ethan—stood at the front like nothing had happened, explaining sonnets in that deep, calm voice. But his eyes kept finding me. Every time they did, my p***y throbbed. I knew I was soaked. Again.
At night, the messages started innocent.
Ethan: Your essay paragraph on page 3. Expand the part about hidden longing. Make it breathe.
Me: Like this? “She wanted him so badly her body ached even when he wasn’t there. Every look, every word, felt like fingers on her skin.”
His reply took a minute.
Ethan: Exactly like that. f**k, Lara. You’re dangerous.
From there, the floodgates opened.
It was past midnight when my phone buzzed again. I was already in bed
