dangerous spark, Robert." Her words were a warning, but her body was a tide, her hips swaying as she closed the gap, her perfume a blend of jasmine and sin wrapping around me like smoke. The office felt smaller, the air heavy with the weight of our unspoken desires, the desk behind her a stage for fantasies I'd played out a thousand times in my mind."I'm not afraid of fire," I said, stepping into her space, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her. "You dropped this for a reason, didn't you?" My dick was hard, pinned tight, but I knew she could sense the hunger pulsing through me. Her eyes flicked down, then back up, and I saw it—a spark in the shadows, a mirror of the flame I was chasing.She turned, her ass a magnet as she walked to the window, staring out at the darkening campus, the moonlight painting her silhouette in silver. "You're chasing something dangerous," she said, her voice low, like a secret whispered in a temple of forbidden desires. "I am eight years older than you, Robert. This—whatever you think this is—it's a line we can't cross." Her shoulders trembled, betraying her, and that age gap felt less like a wall and more like a bridge, daring me to cross it in pursuit of the flame."Eight years?" I said, my voice a growl, stepping behind her, close enough to feel the electricity crackling between us. "That's just time. It doesn't change what I see in your eyes." My hand hovered near her waist, not touching, but close enough to make the air hum. "You wrote that note for a reason. You feel it, too."She turned, her eyes locking with mine, and time froze. "Because," she whispered, her breath a warm current against my skin, "you're not the only one struggling to stay focused." Her confession was a spark, and I wanted to fan it into a blaze, to pull her against me and taste the honey of her lips. My hand twitched, itching to trace the curve of her ass, to cross that line she'd just admitted was blurring.But a knock at the door shattered the moment like glass. "Fiorella?" a man's voice called, sharp and intrusive. Professor Daniels, a smug colleague who always lingered after her classes like a vulture circling, his old, weathered face and thinning hair a pathetic contrast to her radiant beauty. I'd seen him chase her before, his clumsy advances met with her cool rejections, his sagging, ugly features no match for the flame she embodied. She stepped back, her face snapping into a mask of composure, but her eyes were a storm, wild and unmoored. "We'll continue this," she said, her voice a promise dipped in danger, before moving to open the door.I left, my heart pounding like a war drum, the note still in my pocket, its words a brand on my soul. She'd admitted it—she felt the heat, too. Eight years older, she said, but that only made the fire burn hotter. Daniels' interruption was a cold slap, a reminder of the world outside this spark-lit shadow, his futile pursuit of her a dim flicker compared to the blaze between us. Was she playing me? Was this a dance of desire or a trap I'd stumbled into blind? The jasmine-scented night swallowed me as I walked across campus, the note a weight in my pocket, urging me to keep chasing the flame that could either warm me or burn us both to ash.The next day, I slid into my seat in her class, the lecture hall buzzing with the usual chatter. But the air felt different, charged, like the calm before a storm. Mrs. Fiorella stood at the front, her silhouette a siren's call, her eyes scanning the room. When they landed on me, they lingered, a silent pulse of heat that made my dick twitch beneath my desk. My friend Jake, sprawled in the seat beside me, nudged my arm, his grin sly. "Yo, Robert, she's giving you eyes," he whispered, his voice dripping with amusement. "What's up with that?" I shrugged, playing it cool, but my blood was racing. Her gaze wasn't just professional—it was a spark, a continuation of last night's fire. I knew then I had to meet her after class, to chase that flame before it slipped through my fingers.
