student teacher sex: exclusive must-have scene

So this student teacher sex thing happened last semester, and I still think about it when I’m trying to fall asleep. It wasn’t planned—we’d been circling each other for weeks, those long looks across the seminar table, the way his hand brushed mine when he passed back my essay. One night I stayed late to ask about a paper, and somehow the door was closed and he was kissing me against the bookshelf, slow at first, like he was asking permission. I remember the scratch of his sweater, the smell of coffee on his breath, my own heartbeat loud in my ears. We moved to the desk, papers scattering, and he kept checking in, whispering is this okay, do you want this, which somehow made it hotter. Missionary first, his weight pressing me into the wood, then he turned me on my side, one leg hooked over his hip, and that angle—god, that angle—had me gripping the edge and biting my lip to stay quiet. It wasn’t performative or rushed. It was the kind of sex where you feel seen, where every touch has intention. Afterward we just lay there laughing nervously, and I walked home in the cold with my coat buttoned wrong.