Her Favorite Professor — Bonus Chapter

Extra Credit
by Aurora North

🔥 This scene is too hot for Amazon. You earned it.

Extra Credit

The conference paper was due Monday.

Vivian had said this three times since Friday evening — once at dinner, once when I’d tried to distract her with a question about semicolons, and once this morning when I’d come out of the shower in her robe and nothing else and she’d looked at me over her reading glasses with an expression of such focused, agonized want that I’d briefly considered abandoning the entire seduction and letting her write in peace.

Briefly.

“I’ll just sit here and read,” I said, settling into the armchair in her study with a book and a mug of the terrible coffee I’d stopped complaining about. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

“I will absolutely know you’re here.” She didn’t look up from her laptop. “You’re wearing my robe and you smell like my shampoo and you’ve crossed your legs in a way that’s making the robe do things I can’t think about right now.”

“Things like what?”

“Nora.”

“I’m reading.”

“You’re not reading. You’re holding a book and looking at me.”

“Multitasking.”

She took off her glasses. Pinched the bridge of her nose. The gesture that meant she was deciding between discipline and desire, and the outcome was never certain — which was, I’d learned, exactly what made the game worth playing.

“One hour,” she said. “Give me one hour. Then you can — do whatever you’re planning to do with that robe.”

“I’m not planning anything.”

“You’re planning something. You’ve been planning something since you walked in here barefoot with wet hair and that expression. I’ve known you for over a year. I can read you.”

“Then read faster.”

I gave her forty minutes. This was generous, by my standards. I sat in the armchair and actually read — or tried to, while the sound of her typing filled the study and the late-morning light came through the window and fell across her desk and her hands and the silver ring and the small, focused crease between her eyebrows that I wanted to kiss until it smoothed.

At the forty-minute mark, I set my book down. Stood up. Walked to the desk.

Vivian’s typing slowed. She didn’t stop — she was a woman who could maintain the performance of work through a minor earthquake — but the rhythm changed. She was tracking me. Peripherally. The way she used to track me across a seminar room: without looking, with every nerve.

I came around to her side of the desk. Leaned against the edge. The robe shifted. I let it.

“You said one hour,” she said. Still typing. Still not looking.

“I rounded down.”

“That’s not how rounding works.”

“I’m not a math major.” I reached over and closed her laptop. Not forcefully — gently, the way you close a book when you’ve reached the end of a chapter. Her hands stayed poised over the keys for a moment, fingers suspended, and then she exhaled — a long, surrendering breath that I felt against my wrist.

“The paper,” she said.

“Will still be there in an hour.”

“You said you’d let me work.”

“And you said I was the best editor you’d ever had. Consider this a revision.” I took her reading glasses from her face. Folded them. Set them on the desk with the precise care she brought to everything she valued. Then I put my hand on her jaw and turned her face toward me.

Her eyes were dark. Dilated. The professional resistance was a performance and we both knew it — she wanted this, she’d wanted this since I’d walked in wearing her robe, and the forty minutes of typing had been her version of foreplay: delayed gratification elevated to an art form.

“Nora,” she said. My name in her mouth — low, warm, the way she’d said it the first time in her office a lifetime ago. “I really do need to finish—”

I kissed her.

She lasted approximately two seconds before her hands came up to grip the front of the robe and pull me into her lap. I went — straddling her desk chair, my knees on either side of her hips, the robe falling open between us. Her mouth was hungry. The forty minutes of discipline dissolved the way discipline always dissolved between us: completely, spectacularly, with the force of something that had been held and was now released.

“The desk,” I said against her mouth.

“What about it?”

“Put me on it.”

Something ignited behind her eyes. She stood — taking me with her, my legs wrapped around her waist, which shouldn’t have worked given the physics involved but did because Vivian was a woman who committed fully to everything, including the transport of her girlfriend from a desk chair to a desk surface. Papers scattered. The red pen rolled off the edge and hit the floor. She set me on the desk and stepped between my knees and the robe was open and I was naked underneath it and she looked at me — sitting on her work, bare, flushed, waiting — with an expression of such concentrated desire that I felt it as a physical sensation, heat pooling between my thighs.

“You planned this,” she said.

“I’m a very good student. I always plan ahead.”

“You’re not my student anymore.”

“No.” I pulled her closer by the collar of her shirt. “I’m the woman sitting on your conference paper wearing nothing under your bathrobe, and if you don’t touch me in the next ten seconds I’m going to start grading your work.”

She touched me.

Her hand slid between my thighs and found me already wet — embarrassingly, unambiguously wet, the result of forty minutes of watching her type while wearing nothing — and the sound she made at the contact was somewhere between reverence and greed. Her fingers moved through the slickness, exploring, pressing, finding the places she’d memorized and working them with the precision that was uniquely, devastatingly hers.

“You’re so—” She pressed her forehead to mine. Her breath was ragged. “Nora. You’re so ready. How long have you been—”

“Since the shower. Since I put on your robe and it smelled like you and I decided the conference paper could wait.”

“That was an hour ago.”

“I know. I’ve been very patient. I deserve extra credit.”

She laughed — the real laugh, the one that broke open her whole face — and slid two fingers inside me, and the laugh turned into a groan that matched mine, and I fell back across the desk with her hand between my legs and her mouth on my throat and the conference paper crumpling beneath my shoulder blades.

She fucked me on her desk with the morning light coming through the window and her books on their shelves and the framed photo of us at my graduation watching from the corner of the desk. She fucked me slowly at first — the way she read, the way she taught, the way she did everything that mattered: with total, focused, overwhelming attention. Her fingers curled inside me and her thumb worked my clit and her mouth moved from my throat to my breast to my ear, where she said things that would have gotten her fired if she’d still been my professor and that made me come so hard the desk moved three inches across the floor.

“Again,” she said, before I’d finished shaking.

“Vivian — I can’t—”

“You can. You always can. I’ve been taking notes, remember?” She added a third finger. Pressed deeper. Found the angle that made thought impossible and stayed there, relentless, precise, and I arched off the desk and knocked her pen cup off the edge and heard it clatter on the floor and didn’t care because she was right, I could, I always could with her, and the second orgasm hit like a continuation of the first — a wave that had never fully receded, just rebuilt and broke again, harder.

I lay on the desk. Breathing. Staring at the ceiling. Vivian’s conference paper was irreparably crumpled beneath my lower back. Her red pen was somewhere under the bookshelf. Her glasses were on the floor.

She leaned over me. Hair falling around our faces. Smiling — the private smile, the one that existed only in moments like this, the one I’d earned and kept earning.

“My paper,” she said.

“Is better now. I edited it. Physically.”

“You sat on it.”

“Same thing.”

I pulled her down onto me and kissed her and tasted the laughter and the want and the specific, irreplaceable joy of being loved by a woman who would always choose the person over the paper, even when the paper was due on Monday.

“Your turn,” I said.

“I need to—”

“Your turn.”

I pulled her onto the desk. She came — protesting, laughing, her shirt half-unbuttoned from where I’d been working at it — and I reversed our positions and knelt on the floor between her legs and looked up at her from an angle that had a very specific meaning in the private vocabulary of our relationship.

“You cannot be serious,” she said. But her hand was already in my hair.

“I’m extremely serious. Consider this peer review.” I undid her trousers. Pulled them down. She lifted her hips to help, which was all the consent I needed. “The methodology is rigorous. The findings will be conclusive. And the abstract—” I pressed my mouth to her inner thigh. “The abstract is: Dr. Vivian Hale, when properly motivated, is capable of making sounds that invalidate her entire professional reputation.”

“I hate you,” she said, in the tone of voice that meant the opposite.

I put my mouth on her and proved my thesis.

She came with my name in her mouth and both hands in my hair and her back arched across the desk she’d graded a thousand papers on, and the sound she made — the sound I’d been studying for over a year, the sound that undid me every time — echoed off the bookshelves and the walls and the ceiling of the room where she’d built her career and her solitude and the life that was now, irrevocably and joyfully, ours.

Afterward: the floor. Her study floor, her back against the bookshelf, my head in her lap, both of us half-dressed and entirely wrecked. Austen appeared in the doorway, surveyed the wreckage with feline contempt, and departed.

“The paper,” Vivian said.

“Needs reprinting.”

“And my pen.”

“Is under the bookshelf. Where it belongs. It’s doing field research.”

She tipped her head back against the shelf. Laughed at the ceiling. “I’m going to cite you as a source of disruption in my acknowledgments.”

“Cite me as a source of inspiration. It’s more accurate.”

She looked down at me. Her hand in my hair, her silver ring catching the light, her expression the one I’d loved since the first day — the look of a woman who was reading something she couldn’t put down.

“Extra credit,” she said. “Earned.”

I grinned up at her from her lap and thought: A-plus.

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