Tutoring session

John tapped his pencil on the desk, glancing at his phonr which read 7:14PM. Emily was late. She wasn’t the type to be late. The chair creaked beneath him when he shifted, the scent of old paper and wood polish doing nothing to mask the adrenaline humming through his veins. He'd chosen their usual corner—the one shielded by towering bookshelves and conveniently out of sight from the main study area—but the privacy suddenly felt oppressive rather than strategic.

Emily's footsteps made no sound when she finally appeared, her golden hair pulled into a messy ponytail that did nothing to hide the pink creeping up her neck. She clutched her notebook to her chest like a shield, her knuckles whitening around the spine. "Sorry I'm late," she mumbled to the floor. "I was... laundry."

John pushed back from the oak table slowly, giving her every chance to bolt. "Come sit," he murmured, nodding to the chair angled deliberately close to his. When she hesitated, he added, "Please," with a rawness that surprised them both.

Emily's breath hitched when their knees brushed beneath the table as she sat, her blue eyes flicking up to his for the first time. The library's chandelier caught the gold flecks in her irises—flecks he'd noticed last night when she'd ridden him to exhaustion in the photo booth, her virgin tightness milking him through her many orgasms. Now those same eyes darted away just as quickly, her teeth worrying her lower lip raw.

"You're breathtaking," John said before he could stop himself. The words hung between them like smoke, too honest to retract. He watched her pulse flutter at her throat, the same throat that had arched so beautifully when she came. "Last night was... Christ, Emily." His fingers twitched toward hers before curling into fists. "I've never felt anything like that.”

Emily's fingers traced the edge of her notebook, her voice barely above a whisper. "I wasn't lying." The words hung between them, fragile as spun glass. "About never having...done anything before." Her blue eyes lifted, wide and **** in the lamplight. "You were my first."

John's breath caught. He'd known—felt it in the way her body had clenched around him, heard it in her gasps—but hearing the confession aloud sent heat licking through his veins. "Emily—"

"It was..." She bit her lip, a flush creeping down her neck. "I didn't know it could feel like that. So many—" Her voice cracked. "I lost count of how many times you made me come." A nervous laugh escaped her. "I didn't even think that was possible."

John reached for her hand before he could stop himself. Her skin was warm, trembling slightly beneath his touch. "I've never felt anything like that either," he admitted, his thumb brushing her knuckles. "Never been with anyone as gorgeous as you."

Emily's breath hitched. Her fingers curled instinctively around his, her grip tight—almost ****. For a moment, neither moved, the air between them thick with memory and want.

Then John exhaled and pulled back slowly. "But we can't continue Emily," he said, more to himself than her. "You're my student."

Emily's laugh was soft, knowing. "You said that after the second tutoring session," she murmured. Her knee nudged his beneath the table, deliberate. "And yet..." She trailed off, her blue eyes flicking playfully.