"Tell me you missed this," I breathe against Victor's cock, my knees already aching against his office floor, but the pain feels like penance for the weekend of silence.
His fingers tangle in my hair, and the groan that escapes him sounds like a confession extracted under the sweetest torture. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Actually, I have a pretty good idea," I tell him, taking him deeper, using my tongue in ways that make his hips buck involuntarily. "The evidence is pretty hard to ignore."
The joke lands wrong because we both know what we're not talking about—the weekend faculty retreat where he played devoted husband while I played drug mule for my psychotic ex. The silence between Thursday and today felt like drowning in slow motion, each unanswered text another weight pulling me under.
"Elisa, fuck—" His grip tightens, and I know he's close, can feel it in the way his thighs tense under my hands.
That's when we hear them. Heels on linoleum, that specific click-click-click that announces expensive shoes and bad timing. Clara's signature sound, like a designer alarm system.
"Under the desk," Victor hisses, and I'm scrambling beneath the mahogany monstrosity before my brain can process the absolute insanity of this situation.
The door opens without a knock because wives don't need permission to enter their husband's territory, apparently.
"You've been working late, darling," Clara says, and I can hear the rustle of takeout bags. "I brought Thai from that place you pretend not to love."
I'm crouched between Victor's legs, his cock literally still in my mouth, while his wife plays caring spouse. The universe has a sense of humor darker than my mother's dating history.
"That's thoughtful," Victor manages, his voice only slightly strangled. "You didn't have to come all this way."
"Well, someone has to make sure you eat actual food instead of surviving on coffee and academic pretension." The sound of containers being unpacked fills the office. "The retreat was enlightening, by the way. Did you know the Hendersons are getting divorced? Apparently, she found out about his graduate assistant. Again."
Victor's hand drops to his thigh, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm that I feel against my cheek. "That's unfortunate."
"Is it though? At least they're being honest about it instead of this elaborate performance we all do." Clara's voice carries that particular brand of exhaustion that comes from maintaining lies for decades. "Speaking of performances, you seem tense."
I choose this moment to swirl my tongue around him, because if we're going to play this insane game, I'm going to win it. Victor's fingers dig into his thigh hard enough to leave marks.
"Just grading papers," he says, and honestly, I'm impressed by his composure. "Midterms are brutal this year."
"Mmm. Still tutoring the Valenti girl?" Clara asks, and her tone shifts just enough to make my blood freeze.
"Office hours only," Victor lies while I'm literally proving otherwise with my mouth. "As per university policy."
"Good. Liv seems quite attached to her. It would be unfortunate if that friendship became... complicated." I hear her moving closer, probably examining his desk for evidence of my existence. "You know how sensitive Liv is about your previous indiscretions."
"There are no indiscretions," Victor says firmly, his cock twitching in my mouth at his own lie.
"Of course not." The sarcasm drips like honey laced with cyanide. "Just make sure it stays that way. I'd hate to have to explain another one of your educational enthusiasms to our daughter."
She moves around the desk, and suddenly I can see her shoes—Louboutins, because of course they are—inches from where I'm hidden. My jaw aches from maintaining position, but I don't dare move.
"You really do look stressed," Clara observes. "The weekend didn't help?"
"The weekend was fine," Victor says, and something in his tone makes my stomach twist.
"More than fine, I'd say," Clara laughs, this soft sound that shouldn't hurt but does. "Like old times, almost. Before we became such accomplished strangers."
She bends down then, and through the small gap between desk and floor, I watch her kiss him. Not a perfunctory peck but something deeper, possessive. A reminder that whatever I think I have with him, she has two decades and legal documentation.
Victor kisses her back. His hand stays on his thigh, fingers still against my cheek, but he kisses his wife while his cock is in my mouth, and the betrayal tastes bitter as the pre-cum on my tongue.
"I should go," Clara finally says, pulling back. "Enjoy your dinner. Try not to work too late."
"I won't," he promises, another lie to add to the collection.
The door closes with a definitive click. We wait, frozen in this obscene tableau, until her heels fade down the hallway. Only then do I emerge from under the desk, my knees screaming, my jaw aching, my dignity somewhere on the floor with the dust bunnies.
"You fucked her this weekend," I say, not a question but an accusation delivered with all the venom I can muster.
"She's my wife," Victor says, like that explains anything, like that makes it better instead of infinitely worse.
"Your wife who you haven't touched in years. Your wife who fucks the yoga instructor. Your wife who you suddenly decided to rediscover while I was—" I stop, because explaining my weekend would require admitting to crimes we don't have time to unpack.
"Elisa, it's complicated—"
"No, it's not. You fucked her. After everything we've done, after Thursday, after making me feel like—" The words choke in my throat. "I don't share."
The absurdity of the statement hangs between us. I just hid under his desk while he kissed his wife, but somehow I'm drawing boundaries about exclusivity.
"You don't share?" Victor laughs, but it's harsh, angry. "You're nineteen years old. You're my student. You don't get to make demands about my marriage."
"Your disaster of a marriage, you mean. The one you use as an excuse for everything while simultaneously maintaining it for appearances."
"You knew what this was," he says, tucking himself back into his pants with movements so clinical they hurt to watch. "You knew I was married. You pursued this anyway."
"I pursued this because you wanted to be pursued. Because you looked at me like I was worth destroying everything for." I grab my bag, needing to leave before I either cry or commit assault with a philosophy textbook. "But I guess I'm just another Katherine, another Rebecca. Another girl stupid enough to think she's different."
"Elisa—"
"Eat your Thai food, Professor. Enjoy the taste of your wife's kiss mixed with whatever I left behind." I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. "Next time you want your cock sucked while lying to your wife, find another student. I hear there's always a new crop of daddy issues enrolling each semester."
I leave him there with his takeout and his marriage and his cock that was just in my mouth while his wife played concerned spouse. The hallway feels too bright, too normal for what just happened.
My phone buzzes. Probably Victor, already crafting excuses or apologies or commands to return. I don't check. Some messages are better left unread, like suicide notes from relationships that were dead on arrival.
I storm out, but we both know I'll be back Thursday, ready to pretend this changes anything when it changes everything.