I turned eighteen six weeks ago, and that’s when the lying stopped.
I’m not in British Lit 301 for the credits. I’m here for her.
Professor Valentina Cross. Thirty-four. The woman who owns every drop of blood in my veins.
I arrive twenty-five minutes early, claim the same seat—third row, left aisle—so I can watch her walk in. Notebook open, pen ready, like I give a damn about Byron. I’m already half-hard just from the anticipation.
The hall fills. Then the door opens and the air turns thick, electric.
She stalks in on four-inch heels that click like a metronome straight to my c**k. Charcoal pencil skirt, slit riding high enough to flash black lace stocking tops when she moves. Ivory silk blouse stretched tight across her t**s, n*****s faintly visible when the light hits right. Hair tw
