Page 34 of Teacher's Pet

"See you, Mr. Ackerman," he says, his tone laced with sarcasm, pushing the edge just enough to be noticed.

I don’t miss the way Noah’s fingers tighten around the edge of his desk, his jaw clenching so hard I half expect it to crack.

"Close the door on your way out," Noah says, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Walker obliges, but not without a final glance in my direction. Then the door slams shut, the loud thud reverberating through the room.

And just like that, we’re alone.

Slowly, I turn my gaze to Noah, my anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

"You know I turned in that paper over the weekend," I say, my voice sharp. "There’s nothing we need to discuss."

Noah scoffs, pushing himself off his desk, stepping toward me with an air of controlled frustration. "Nothing we need to discuss?" His voice drops, amusement laced with something darker, "How about we start with what I walked in on?"

I shake my head, exhaling sharply as I reach down, grabbing my bag.

"Fuck you, Noah," I snap. "What happened here on Friday was a mistake, and you know it. At least Walker is my age-"

"You want to talk about age now?" Noah hisses, his voice sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "You didn’t seem too concerned about age while you were riding my fingers-"

"Stop talking!" I snap, my frustration boiling over. "Walker is a good guy who did a bad thing. The last thing I need is to ruin that by letting my thirty-something English teacher give me extra credit after class."

"Thirty," Noah corrects with a dry, unimpressed tone.

"Great," I scoff. "Do you even know how old I am?"

"Nineteen," he growls, his voice low. His eyes darken, his jaw tightening as he exhales slowly. "Trust me, Ana, I am very well aware of your age."

The weight of his words hangs between us, heavy, charged with an unspoken tension.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I roll my eyes at him, forcing myself to look away, to ignore the heat curling in my stomach, to pretend that his presence doesn’t make my pulse hammer against my ribs.

I need to get out of here.

Before I make another mistake.

"Great, glad we established you're a shady teacher who gets off to fucking his students-"

"Unlike you, Ana, my focus is only on one person. If you think what's happening with you has happened with another one of my students, then I hate to inform you how wrong you are. You think I like the fact I fucking loved what happened Friday?" he snaps. Standing up from behind his desk, he walks toward me. "Do you think I like the fact I wanted to tear Walker apart when I saw his hands all over you?" Watching him glare down at me, all of my courage melts away. "Do you think I like the fact I want to rip that sweater right off of you and smack your ass raw for kissing that boy in front of me?" Leaning in, his front presses against mine. "Do you think I like the fact I want to grab you and feel your thighs squeeze my waist as I devour your lips in a kiss and bend you over my desk?"

Shaky breaths rattle through my chest, my body locked in place, frozen between fear and something far more dangerous.

"I-if you love it so much, Noah," I stammer, voice barely above a whisper. "Then do it."

His expression shifts, darkening. That feral hunger overtakes his features, and for a moment, I swear the air between us crackles. My pulse slams against my ribs, but my hands move faster than my mind can process.

"You have eight minutes between classes," I murmur, the words slipping from my lips like a challenge.

Slowly, deliberately, I slide my hands beneath my sweater, tugging it up just enough to reveal the soft underside of my breasts. Then, with a measured grace, I perch on the edge of my desk, spreading my legs just enough to test him, to push him.

Noah's jaw tightens. His breathing turns ragged, his body coiled with restraint. I press my foot against his chest, forcing him back just slightly. His eyes burn into me—seething, wanting, barely containing the storm I’ve set off inside him.

He exhales sharply, adjusting his cock with a muttered curse. His frustration is palpable, a tangible thing that lingers between us like an unlit fuse.

Eight minutes.

And all he can do is watch.

---