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She stands stoic for a moment, processing her next move, no doubt, and then she comes near, approaching the door with hesitant steps. I try to keep disappointment from washing over me, but it’s impossible not to feel the impending loss. Then her hand reaches out for the doorknob, and to my surprise, she flips the lock back in place.
She doesn’t move after that, as if that small act took all the courage she had. Her purse is still clutched in one hand. Her eyes are on the floor. She swallows, and I reach out to touch her chin, turning her face so she’s forced to look over at me.
“Tell me the truth. Did you like sitting on the chair, Emelia? In front of my class? At my feet?”
She looks away as if embarrassed, but I grip her chin and her gaze flits back to mine quickly. She nods only once.
I release her and move to cage her in against the door. I’m only partly concealing her view of herself in the mirror.
For a minute, I revel in the feel of heralmostpressed against me. I take in her sultry eyes and schoolgirl getup. I don’t like it. I’d strip her out of it if I could.
I want to touch her, but I can’t.
I want to kiss her, but…fuck.
I take her hand that’s holding her purse and force her fingers open. It crashes to the floor; I don’t care. I’m already taking her hand and moving it to her thigh, just below the hem of her little pleated skirt.
“I won’t touch you, pet. You’ll have to do it yourself.”
She shivers, and I barely manage to stifle the urge to step closer and pin her up against the hard metal door completely. I’m trying to figure out how to toe the line of impropriety, how to delve into murky gray waters and come out clean.
I flatten my large hand until it more than covers hers, and I pause, letting her get acclimated to the idea of this. There can be no confusion on her part about what’s about to happen.
Someone speaks just on the other side of the door, and Emelia jumps out of her skin. I fight back a smile.
I like her like this—on edge, shaky, nervous.
We don’t have much time. Eventually, management is going to get annoyed that we’re holing up in one of the bathrooms. Or worse, good sense will win out.
I see her stomach quiver as I force her hand up underneath her skirt, bunching the material to reveal her lavender silk underwear. They’re the last thing concealing her from my view, and they’re slightly askew, begging to be tugged aside completely. Instead, I lift our hands over them and dip them inside the top of her underwear, just below her navel. The delicate material teases the back of my knuckles as I direct her hand lower and she whimpers. Wet hot heat surrounds us.
“Your skin flushes so easily. It’s such a good way to see how I affect you.”
And it’s true. She looks so fragile and exposed; the blue of her veins lurks just beneath the surface of her pale skin.
“Professor Barclay,” she gasps when our hands slide even lower.
I could tell her to call me Jonathan, but I know neither of us wants that. The fact that I’m her professor is part of the reason we’re here in the first place.
I guide her middle finger up and down the center of her, then I watch as her gaze rises and she catches sight of us in the mirror. Her eyes widen but she doesn’t look away. She watches with rapt attention as I hook her middle finger with mine and press them both inside her. She lifts up on her tiptoes, no doubt overwhelmed. A low groan barrels out of me and I stay there, engulfed in her tight heat for an agonizing second before I withdraw my finger and leave hers there.
Enough, I chide myself.She has to do it herself.
“Touch yourself, Emelia.”
She does exactly as I ask, slowly building her own desire.
“More,” I insist, knowing a knock will come eventually, knowing this could end at any moment.
I tell her what to do, how much pressure to use, how deeply I want her to slide her finger inside herself. She listens to every word, as dutiful as I knew she would be.
I stare down at her hand moving in her underwear, and it’s such a tame sight—she’s still completely hidden—but it’s enough to have me desperate for her.
“Emelia!” Someone starts to pound on the door, and I quickly clasp my hand over Emelia’s mouth before she can yelp in shock. “Did you fall in the toilet or what?!” they ask.
Emelia tries to tug her hand out of her panties, but I take my other hand and move it to her wrist, keeping her in the middle of this game we’re playing. We’re not stopping. Her friends can listen if it comes to that.
I tentatively move my hand off her mouth.
