December 22nd, 2023

The professor sighed and took a sip of his tepid latte. Unable to focus on inputting final grades, he swiveled away from his computer to face the window behind him.

Par for a late afternoon on the winter solstice, it was awfully dark outside. With winter drear in full force, the holiday break had officially begun. His appearance was just a formality both in function and form—he’d shown up in a burgundy sweater over a white button up, paired with olive tweed slacks and brown oxfords.

Really, had it not been for the staff Christmas party later that evening in the dean’s building, he would just as soon have spent the evening at home with a box of pizza. The party was a thorn in his side more than anything, but it made his life easier to sacrifice the occasional evening to himself for the sake of appearing social to some of his more cliquish colleagues. Time had taught him that others were more forgiving of his idiosyncrasies when he made such concessions.

For an idle moment, he wondered what she was up to. Then, he chastised himself.

Come December, with scents of roaring firewood sweeping through endless freezing nights, he and that tricky student of his had inevitably grown closer. Getting stuck in an elevator with her. Late nights in the lab, long hikes, and professional disagreements adding up to hours upon hours of conversation. She helped him grade papers, teach classes, and tutor during office hours; he helped her refine the parameters of her dissertation, secure necessary grants, and prepare her experiments.

His suspicions had been confirmed—they did, in fact, work together swimmingly; they did, in fact, have much to talk about; and they did, in fact, share a strange, ineffable spark.

But the professor’s triumph and excitement were slowly but surely becoming subsumed by fear—for the more they helped each other, the more interwoven their worlds became, the more suspicious he grew that perhaps he’d overestimated his abilities.

Indeed, it had taken him weeks to admit it to himself—it made him feel so juvenile—but it was true. Saying yes to her TA offer had been a boon; between her grading, tutoring, and research assistance, as of late he’d found himself with the coveted resource of actual free time. And of course, there she’d sit grading papers on his office couch, her hair in a messy ponytail, errant strands framing her face, her features sometimes cast in that adorable look of concentration he couldn’t help but sneak glances at. And of course those innocent glances would inevitably drift south and become less innocent, necessitating leg-crossing.

By the end of the semester, he could finally admit to himself that he waited with bated anticipation for Wednesdays, when she wore his favorite perfume of hers. How pathetic. When was the last time he’d acted like this? He’d even started—ugh—dreaming about her. What a silly thing. He’d forgotten what it was like to be at the mercy of such depraved giddiness, a flavor of foolishness he hadn’t had to endure in quite a long time. The level of distraction she posed to him was growing from pleasant daydream fodder to thought-consuming, nauseating fixation.

The fire was stoked by the inkling he was getting that his attraction was actually, to his surprise, requited. But things were moving a little fast for him, despite them not really moving at all. Having her in his class was one thing, helping her with her thesis was yet another; working directly across from her for twenty hours a week…was beginning to get to him. More and more often the nature of their conversations would drift from strictly professional or topical or humorous to personal. Their banter, unless he was reading it wrong, was beginning to veer from clean fun-poking to subtle flirtation. The more he learned about her, the more he wanted to know—and it was beginning to seem as though the vice was versa.

Of course, more than likely it was all in his head. For all he knew, they’d be terrible together. Maybe he was merely lonelier than he’d realized, pathetically glomming onto the first shard of feminine iridescence to catch his eye in years.

But it certainly felt real. And she certainly gave him those glimmers of potential reciprocation, though she sometimes acted oblivious in equal measure—which, oddly, made her even harder to resist.

Even if she did seriously reciprocate, even if she did want to pursue anything with him—a massive if—the niggling matter of timing plagued him. When would they even attempt such an arrangement? Definitely not until after her thesis defense at minimum, when she would no longer lie at the lower end of their power dynamic—which wouldn’t be until late summer of next year, and that was if she didn’t get roadblocked on her dissertation. Which many students did.

Professor Artom leaned back in his chair, lifted his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He exhaled impatiently.

Tired of daydreaming about her—rather, tired of daydreaming about all the banal, unlikely particulars of realizing his daydreams—he took the liberty of channeling his frustration into something productive. He arose, popped a Wynton Marsalis CD into his stereo, and began tidying up a bit, a thing he never seemed to find time to do.

His office was somewhat cramped. It was the only space available in the department when he’d first arrived at the school over a decade ago, but it was private and it was his. He at least had a sizable window with a decent view of the campus. Books and other materials lined the walls from top to bottom. Several verdant ferns lent their freshness to the space. Unique odds and ends like statuettes, gifts, and trinkets decorated spots where they could. He’d had his choice of paint color—a gray-ish blue—when the school had finally scrounged up the funds to remodel the offices a few years back.

Given the opportunity, Professor Artom gladly lost himself in the momentum of cleaning. He watered his thirsty plants. He peeled numerous sticky notes for tasks he’d completed off his bulletin board. He dusted the framed botanical illustrations that adorned his wall. He finally replaced the bulb in his mid-century brass desk lamp that had burnt out and resigned him to the awful fluorescent lights in the ceiling. Myriad rogue, half-finished beverages finally met their graves, along with stacks of obsolete papers in his chaotic workspace.

The professor was at last seeing his desk top’s wood grain for the first time in a month when he heard a knock at his open door.

For a brief second, her appearance startled him. Her black hair was flattened straight as a change of pace. Her bangs framed her face, which was lightly made up and without its usual spectacles.

The startle from the rest of her outfit was a little longer-lasting. She wore a patterned white blouse tucked into a green tartan pleated skirt hemmed midthigh, with white stockings capped by heeled Mary Janes on her feet. Yes, today she looked particularly sweet, a day on which she had no reason at all to be here. But she was, and aside from some folders in her hand, she held a wrapped gift. Because of course she would.

“Jesus. Would you go home?” he teased, repressing a smile he knew would look silly.

“Ooh, isn’t this fun,” Sofia said dryly, eyeing his clothes as she made her way inside. “You got the memo, too.”

“It’s in the water,” he said. “The government puts it in the tap every December. You take a few sips and you start walking around in green and red like a little Yule zombie.”

“You included, dad-in-Norman-Rockwell-painting.”

“Yeah, me included, Elf-in-Chief.”

“Come on, you got ‘elf’ from this look?”

“You’re just missing the ears and hat, Bezzina. Ears and hat. I know what I’m talking about.”

She grinned.

“Speaking of which,” she started, stepping towards him, “I’m just here to drop off the finals I graded. But I guess I can’t really deny the elf allegations, because this is for you.” She extended the wrapped box to him.

“Whoa,” he said, taking it and shaking it slightly. “Now that’s crazy, because this is for you.”

Professor Artom produced a gift bag from behind his desk and handed it to Sofia, whose eyes widened.

“It came in this morning. I was going to give it to you after the break, but this works out better,” he added.

“You didn’t have to,” Sofia said, head tilted.

“Neither did you.”

Frankly, at that moment she was less concerned with the gift and more concerned with his outfit, which was gift enough: it was the first time she could remember seeing him in a tie. His clothes looked outdated, but they were well-coordinated and fit him nicely. They hugged him in places his normal wardrobe didn’t—his upper arms, shoulders, chest. His thighs when seated.

“I’m too impatient and Jewish to wait for Christmas, so I’m gonna see what kind of IED you have for me here,” he said, carefully picking at the tape.

“Oh, me too. Well, half. If there’s such a thing.”

“You’re half Jewish or there’s half an IED here?”

“Jewish, through my dad. I’d never half-ass blowing you up,” she said. He chuckled.

“Damn, this is so nicely wrapped I kinda feel bad,” he said, almost to himself. “For opening it, and because I kinda just threw yours in a bag and called it a day.”

“Don’t worry, my gift-wrapping expectations for men are on the floor. Save for my boss up at the North Pole.”

“Sorry to perpetuate your stereotype.”

Sofia leaned in and inhaled, detecting a faint shadow of his fragrance. Cool, spicy, piney. It suited him.

“I’m used to it. So where are you off to that has you looking like an Oliver Twist extra?”

“The faculty party at five, which is pretty anemic for how well-endowed this place is,” the professor replied without looking up, unwrapping the paper. “Bunch of crudites, bacon scallops from Costco. That’s about it. Really is some Oliver Twist shit. Awful secret Santa type deal, too. You know, last year Dr. Romera gave me this miniature succulent with a nasty—whoa.”

“You’re welcome.”

Professor Artom sat up, quickly freeing a bottle of cask strength Redbreast 12 from its confines. Sofia smiled. She’d listened well to his occasional musings on the spirit.

“This is too nice to take from a student.”

“I insist,” she said simply. He looked up at her.

“Then I insist you try it,” he blurted. A tiny warning light flashed in his brain as the words left his mouth. He ignored it.

“Oh, I’m not much of a drinker. Especially liquor. I’m more of a hard cider, sangria type of girl.”

“So you like sweet?” She nodded. “I mean, this one’s got a creamy, kind of chocolatey thing going on,” he said, now visibly eager. “Notes of berries, and oak—I mean, not to go full snob on you, going on about ‘notes’ and such. I just think you’d like it.”

“I know nothing about whiskey, so. Sounds good to me.”

Professor Artom arose and retrieved two old paper cups from one of his cabinets. He was thankful he’d spent the afternoon cleaning, otherwise he would’ve wasted precious minutes looking for them.

“Shame we have to drink it out of these things, but it’ll do,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. He screwed open the top of the bottle and poured two fingers’ worth in each cup, handing one to his student. Cup in hand, he stood leaning against this desk as she took a seat on the old, beat-up leather loveseat a few feet away.

Sofia thanked him, the heady, spicy sweetness from the amber liquid in her cup hitting her nose in full force, daring her to imbibe it. With one fell swig, she accepted its challenge, overwhelmed but fully enjoying the burn as it ran down her throat.

She brought her head back down to find her professor’s eyes wide as they looked down at her, a short, startled laugh escaping his lips.

“I was…gonna say we should let it breathe for a minute. Unless you’re pregaming for something more interesting than this.”

“Oops,” Sofia said with a grimace, eyes watering and mouth on fire. “Ach. I usually try to get it over with when I drink. Especially liquor.”

“This isn’t Southern Comfort, you know.”

She looked at him hesitantly. “I’ll have another, then.”

He smiled and shook his head as he poured her another dram. “Easy this time,” he murmured, handing her the cup.

The dark, gray clouds of the afternoon finally released, sending freezing droplets pelting against his office window. Sofia furrowed her brow, her eyes flicking up towards the ceiling, then to the light switches near the door. Coupled with the quiet jazz, it felt wrong somehow that this cozy moment was happening in an office lit by rows of obnoxious fluorescent lights. She arose and shut them off, leaving only the light of the desk lamp and dim orange street lamps outside.

“Why’d you shut the light?”

“I wanted to see how that lamp of yours looked,” Sofia lied, retaking her seat. “It’s nice. First time I’m seeing it on.”

Professor Artom observed her features anew in this dim, angular lighting. Again, the warning light in his mind blinked. Again, it went ignored. Nothing was really happening, after all. They weren’t doing anything. They were simply celebrating together. There was nothing in the code of conduct against this, nothing unethical. He was perfectly within his right to accept such a gift and share it. The office door was wide open. Anybody was welcome to join at any time.

Sofia swirled the cup and took a cautious whiff, unsure of how to treat it. Scents of smoky, charred wood and vanilla tingled her olfactory nerves, and she found the more prudent sip smooth, rich, and flavorful—indeed much better savored.

Her enjoyment of the drink was gilded by the sear of her professor’s gaze, felt without even looking. As she swallowed, the whiskey leaving a trail of peaty heat down her throat, she coughed a little at the strength of it. He couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Hey, don’t laugh,” she croaked. Professor Artom took a long, considered sip of his own, the protrusion of his Adam’s apple dipping as he swallowed.

“So tell me,” he said huskily. “What do you think?”

“Um…” she started, blinking rapidly. “Pretty good.”

“Just pretty good?”

Brows knit, she took another generous sip, allowing the spirit to linger on her tongue before swallowing and licking her lips.

“It’s intense. Smoky. Caramel-y. Almost kinda fruity.”

“Nice. So the real question is, are you enjoying it?”

“Mm, I’d say so. I usually don’t like whiskey, but this one’s…warming. Something I’d want on a cold day like this. Actually, I do want more, which is saying something.”

“You got it. Now, uh,” he said, pointing at the bag on the couch next to her, “I didn’t get you anything nearly as nice. Your own fault for upstaging me.”

Sofia—remembering that she, too, had a gift to open—retrieved from the bag a weighty, leather-bound tome, patterns intricately inlaid across its spine and covers. In gold letters read De Materia Medica, a well-known antique compendium of herbal cures by ancient Greek physician and botanist Dioscorides. She opened up the cover looking for a note and found a date from a few days ago at the top of the page, then, inked in chicken scratch:

*Sofia,

No ctrl-F, but prettier than a PDF. Enjoy.*

And a scribble of a signature at the bottom. A fond grin graced her lips seeing her name in his harried cursive. She turned the book around in her hands reverently, savoring its weight, its scent, its binding, running her fingers over the embossed lettering. She cracked it open, the aged, tender pages rustling beneath her fingers. Detailed illustrations lurked within, along with both the original descriptions and relatively modern commentary.

The professor, though reasonably certain the gift would at least please her, found himself releasing a breath of relief. Watching her face brighten, seeing those big, brown eyes of hers sparkle, sent an almost painful surge of satisfaction through him.

“I hope you like it. You mentioned preferring hardcovers—”

“Oh, I love it! Thank you!”

It seemed as though his voice had somehow reminded her that he was right in front of her, because before he could so much as finish his sentence, she shot up and threw her arms around him.

Not much of a hugger, let alone with students, the professor was shocked into silence. As he gingerly put his arms around her, unsure of where to place them, he found himself overwhelmed by her body pressed against his, the fact that surely she could hear his racing heart…

…And the fact that his office door was still wide open. After a few seconds, loath as he was to part, he patted her on the back and they gently separated, their stares dropped to the floor, arms clumsily disentangling.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Ah, yeah. Sorry,” she said. “I just got a little excited. I really, absolutely love it.”

He cleared his throat, praying his face wasn’t betraying him.

“Don’t mention it.”

Sofia sat herself back down and held out her cup. He dutifully refilled it and continued tidying his office. The two, as they were wont to do, spun a lively thread of conversation on the book in question.

But as the clock ticked, and Sofia stared down at the bottom of her fourth cup, she found their conversation becoming a little less lively and a little more hazy. Her voice was coming out more breathy, less certain of itself; words that came to her easily became much harder to summon. Her responses had gone from spirited to slurred.

“Bit weird that he indicates all those uses for psyllium, and not one of them is as a laxative,” Professor Artom said, leafing through paperwork to throw away from his filing cabinet. “Guess they just ate wood shavings for that.”

Feeling the room tilting a little, Sofia leaned back against the sofa.

“Mmm…could go for a pencil. Ticonderoga tastes the best.”

He glanced up, unable to help but notice her goofy response. Her glassy eyes met his for a moment before they darted away, the heat in her cheeks intensifying. In contrast to her usual posture, she sat there limply, her long, dark hair falling across her face, almost as though she were trying to hide from him.

His breath quickened, rationalizations again racing through his mind, this time with goalposts inching ever forward. Obviously, students drank. His colleagues did, too; more of them drank in their offices than cared to admit. Professors and students drank together often enough that doing so, during holiday no less, wasn’t considered verboten. What they were doing was still perfectly—

No. Now he was being ridiculous. This was inexcusable. Drinking in his office with an attractive female student, the two of them completely alone on a night dark and stormy…it was asking for trouble, comically so, and he wasn’t the type of man to proudly claim it as his middle name. Succubus be damned.

“More, please?” she asked, voice small and cutting through his mental whirlwind.

“You sure?” came out of his mouth. “That stuff can sneak up on you.”

“Yeah,” she sighed dreamily. “Normally I wouldn’t, but, like. It’s soooo good.”

He froze. Goddamn it. The way she’d said “yeah”, her voice soft and sultry and sleepy, sent a shiver down his spine. She never described anything as “soooo good”, she had more words at her disposal than that. And normally, he found himself a little annoyed by the speech patterns of the Valley, but something about them coming out of her mouth tickled him in some kind of way.

He noticed her breathing deepen and slow, the rise and fall of her shapely bosom more pronounced through the thin material of her blouse. Her normally bright eyes were lidded, cast in a pleasant lack of focus. Her lips were parted slightly, arms relaxed. Her legs, no longer bound together by modest tension, had slackened under her skirt, the fabric riding up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her bare upper thighs, the dusk of her skin contrasting with her white stockings and…white-pantied mound? God, was that what he was seeing? He couldn’t help but slowly float closer to her, sensing a quiet note of her perfume and maybe just the slightest hint of her natural musk.

Bad move, he realized as he drew near; his senses were indeed correct. Lust began to rev inside him, thrumming both because and in spite of the crushing sensation that this territory was now Markedly Forbidden. The area was no longer gray, there was no more innocent pretense, this was wholly inappropriate. They needed to stop what they were doing immediately—whatever it was, exactly, they were doing. He was going to cut her off and kindly but firmly help her find a way home.

“Just a drop…” he uttered, taking her cup and pouring in one last half serving. He poured some in his own as well and closed the door, silently unleashing a string of curses at himself.

The devil on his shoulder had won that match far too handily for his liking.

“…But that’s it.”

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” she slurred. “I’m sitting here drinkin’ my gift to you. That’s so rude. I’m sorry.”

“That, I don’t mind,” he said, handing her the cup, his lips twitching into a tiny, amused smirk as his eyes gave her a once-over. “Just that…well, you don’t really drink, do you?”

She pouted. “Is it that obvious?”

He nodded. Her gaze fixed to the ground.

“…Am I embarrassing myself?”

“Nah.”

“No, really.”

He gave a small shrug. “Not yet. You have time, though.”

Her hand covered her mouth as her intoxication took further hold. “Throw me out if I act like a wino.”

“Will do.”

Sofia took another sip to chase away her fluster and closed her eyes, finding it much harder to reopen them than she remembered it being just a minute ago. Her body had grown heavy and languid, the room warm and cozy. She sank into the couch—ordinarily not a particularly comfortable one, but it was to her in the moment.

She smiled. Such a sublime moment it was. Of course, she’d never put herself in such a vulnerable position ordinarily, least of all in front of a professor, this professor. But this was a special occasion, a necessary occasion—if not now, when?

Did she have to do everything herself?

Feeling the warmth of the whiskey course through her body, Sofia found herself wishing it was the warmth of his hands instead, his knee beside her as he leaned in, his frame looming over her as they locked eyes. His breath, hot against her neck, their hips pressed together, grinding, his hands unbuttoning her shirt, revealing more of her soft, ample chest, his callused thumbs brushing against her nipples just enough to make them harden under his touch.

With an audible sigh, she let herself sink deeper into the cushions. Professor Artom spied the cup in her hand slowly tipping, precariously loose in her weakening grip. He opted to confiscate it, his fingers brushing against hers as he took it, sending a tingle up her arm.

“Cuttin’ me off?”

“Dangerously close to Wino Territory, Bezzina,” said the professor with feigned seriousness, setting the cup on his desk. “I’m not having you vandalizing my property.”

“S’not vandalism if it’s an accident,” Sofia mumbled.

“Got me there, I guess,” he said. To curb further temptation, he packed the bottle and stowed it into one of his cabinets.

Her body became more limp, her breath nearly a purr, her eyes fluttering as she tried to keep them open—realizing dimly that she was now fighting to do so. She squinted at him under curled lashes and yawned big, not noticing that her eyes hadn’t reopened, nor had her mouth quite closed.

Her head nodded forward before jerking upright, hot embarrassment coursing through her. Luckily, he seemed too distracted to notice. Though she’d come in with every intention of loosening them up, she was a bit surprised to find herself suddenly struggling so hard to stay awake. It wasn’t normally so difficult to power through her perpetual sleep deficit. Perhaps she’d underestimated the effects of the drink.

Despite the professor’s best efforts, he, too, was feeling such effects, but his heart raced in a way that had little to do with them. He watched as Sofia’s eyes closed again and he felt a strange mix of emotions wash over him. Desire, certainly, obviously, but also a deep-seated fondness, a yearning to protect.

He approached her, his stomach twisted. After a few seconds’ internal debate, he gently took her chin between his thumb and index finger and lifted it up to meet his gaze. Asynchronously, her eyelids blinked open, revealing their hazy depths.

“Hey. Bedtime’s probably not the best idea right now,” he uttered softly.

He was so close she could feel the warmth radiating off his body. His expression was newly tender, his eyes private and close, lingering on her in a way that made her squirm.

“Said som’n’ ’bout grading…?” she trailed off, struggling and failing to not appear as affected as she was. He narrowed his eyes, taking a moment to parse her confused, wilted speech.

“Yyyes,” he lied. “Yes, I was just thanking you for bringing those grades over. Which you absolutely didn’t need to do, you could’ve just emailed me, so I…can’t help but think of it as a thinly-veiled ploy to pay me a visit.”

“S’not that thin,” she slurred. “I came to see Profeshor Gonzalez ’bout my ’speriment. Then a meeting with the committee. Then I took a big piss.”

“Lovely.”

“But then I hadda give you yer gift, and you just happened to be there, and you looked so…”

“So..?”

“Cute,” she said, putting emphasis on the “t”. He glanced at her legs, again drawn together tightly.

“Well,” he grunted, eyes locked to the floor, cheeks prickling. These were waters not only completely uncharted for them but turbulent; his gut churned with a vinegary mix of giddiness and embarrassment. “I get one day a year.”

“Nah, every day. Just, today’s special.”

Silence. She stared at him with a faint, beatific smile on her face. The churning in his stomach crescendoed. The prickling in his cheeks blossomed into a ruddy flush. Her smile burst into a full grin.

“Am I makin’ you uncomforble?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“C’mere, sit next to me,” she said, patting the couch cushion. He hesitated. “C’mon, Benny.”

Professor Artom winced.

“You know, my grandmother used to call me that.”

“Aww, that’s so cute!”

“I hated it.”

Sofia’s face dropped. “Why?”

He sat next to her. “It felt geriatric. Like I was a bloated, chain-smoking retiree in a bowling shirt. But you can’t just tell your bubbe not to call you something. She calls you whatever she wants to call you.”

“Mm, right.”

“So she was the only one allowed. When she went, that privilege went with her.”

“Alright, Ben.”

Even his first name felt too close to home, but he knew his qualms weren’t rational. It wasn’t as though he had his ego tied up in his titles like some of the other faculty. Outside of academic settings, he couldn’t have cared less what name came his way. Professor or Doctor were fine for current students—Prof or Doc for those with less time. “Asshole” or “prick” worked for students incensed with their final grades. Benjamin was what his mother called him; Ben was what everyone else did, including some of his other postgrads and doctoral candidates.

Why shouldn’t Sofia? He had no real reason, except that it was just different with her, just one more little thing that made it harder for him to keep their boundaries delineated.

Hearing his old nickname from her made it harder, too. It was rather a funny time to find himself remembering his grandmother, but there he was, missing her warmth, shrewdness, and brisket. His eyes lingered on the 4x6 photo on the wall by his computer of them on a beach together decades ago, probably 2001 or 2002. She stood at nearly half his height with her big smile and bug-eyed sunglasses, curls dyed black despite her advanced age, arms around the lanky waist of his gangly, young adult self.

The way she’d laughed with him, taught him, understood him. She was one of the only people who ever really had understood him, hadn’t judged him or overbore.

She’d been gone for a while, now. He missed her. Felt guilty whenever he forgot to miss her.

He glanced at Sofia again. Seeing her directly after that photo in his state gave him whiplash. His eyes trailed down to her lips, soft and open and waiting.

As one who’d largely ignored the teachings of Freud, he found himself annoyed. With decisive force, he shoved all mortifying, semi-percolated theories to the recesses of his mind.

“Well, at least you’re this kind of drunk,” he said.

“Mm?”

“As opposed to loud or violent or annoying.”

“What am I?” she breathed. He averted his gaze.

Sleepy. Sexy. Slutty.

“Silly.”

“Silly…” Sofia repeated, drawing out the word. “I think I’m more than silly, Ben.”

His breath hitched. She was clearly aroused now, eagerly, drunkenly anticipating action, though clearly still fighting strong waves of drowsiness. Alas, there were many forces conspiring against her: the comfort of the couch, the darkness, the music, the rain hammering steadily against the window pane, the warmth of the liquor and his body next to hers.

Only inches away, wanting terribly to kiss her but frozen by nerves and scruple, he watched her with almost entertained curiosity as she battled against her own drunkenness. Her eyes rolled before fluttering closed; her head slowly fell back before righting herself with a jerk.

A sensation that he shouldn’t be seeing her like this overwhelmed him. But despite his best intentions, the pressure he felt sitting there, staring down at her, was becoming unbearable. Frankly, he was hard now, absurdly so, his cock pulsing visibly through his trousers. His hand, of the shoulder helmed by the less moral of two entities, brushed against it, goading him. He let out a strained breath.

Maybe he couldn’t touch her, but touching himself wasn’t—

No, it was still incredibly perverted. Reprehensible. Downright repugnant.

But if she wouldn’t see it, wouldn’t be subjected to it, wouldn’t even remember it, then—

No, it didn’t matter what she wouldn’t see! He grit his teeth, decisively moving his hand to the couch’s armrest.

But he stared at her. And stared. And stared. And his cock was really beginning to hurt now, starting to look ridiculous in his pants, and his hand had somehow meandered back to his inner thigh and goddamn it, he was about to explode, hand or no hand. He gripped himself through the wool of his trousers, thumb and index finger working his head, finally bringing relief to the pressure built up inside.

The professor’s eyes, now shy with shame behind his glasses, hesitantly beheld the rounded curves of her form. She seemed so soft, so unguarded, so unaware—not quite asleep, certainly not awake, but suspended in mist. There was such a peculiar beauty about it that he couldn’t help but find alluring.

Then her arm, slow and deliberate, began to move. Her fingers slid between her thighs.

His gaze of rueful lust turned to one of shock. Now, he thought, now she was making a fool of herself. But obviously, so was he, so he figured the two canceled each other out in a weird, twisted way. And they always did have a lot in common, so he supposed it wasn’t so bad for them if they made fools out of themselves together. If they could share just this one, singular foolish moment, maybe things could stay sane between them.

Locked in a trance, he leaned close to her as he stroked, trying to stay silent as he inhaled her now potent scent, feeling the heat of her body, watching her strong thighs tremble as her fingers pressed and massaged her underwear, now visibly damp, eliciting sounds of soft wetness.

“Christ,” he exhaled, stroking faster. Sofia’s thumb dug into her pubic arch, fingers entering herself, beckoning, pleading between her lips, before she suddenly stopped. Her body seized, trembling, eyes squeezed, before releasing a strained, throaty moan and collapsing against him.

This took him so off-guard it unraveled him completely. Completely beyond his control, his muscles stiffened, rigid with helpless pleasure, before he rounded the corner and shot after shot freewheeled into that wonderful release himself.

He fell back against the sofa, his aftershocks ecstatic. His ears rang. Both of his heads pulsed. And with each ragged sigh, as hot waves of lusty fog began to dissipate, sobriety dawned. He looked down at the crotch of his pants.

Great. Now his interpersonal mess was physical, too.

A knock sounded at the door. Professor Artom froze. Sofia didn’t, merely continued lazily circling her lips through her panties like some sort of horny automaton. The professor arose carefully, opening his door slightly to reveal one of his graduate students peering anxiously through the crack.

“Hey, Doc, sorry to disturb you, but I couldn’t find Professor Blake anywhere. Is he around?”

“Oh, hey, Elliott,” Professor Artom mumbled from behind the door, his voice deep and faraway. “Tom…left for the day, I think. He’s got a cruise leaving New York tomorrow.”

“Damn. You think he’d respond to an email?”

“Is it that urgent?”

Eliott nodded. The professor shrugged. Over the soft jazz still playing, he realized Sofia still breathed heavily behind him, prompting a speedy response.

“Knowing him, he doesn’t have a suitcase yet. Tell you what, I’ll give you his cell. If he gives you a hard time, you can sic him on me.”

“Based. Thanks.”

“…Sure,” he said unsurely. “Just one second.”

He closed the door, beelined to the cell phone on his desk and back, and opened the door a sliver as he scrolled for the number.

“Uh huh…great,” Eliott said, punching it in. “Thanks again!”

“No problem. Have a great holiday.”

Professor Artom closed the door behind him and leaned against it with a sigh, burying his face in his hand. Filthy, abject guilt stormed his soul. He was at least thankful to all holy entities that Elliott hadn’t seemed to pick up on Sofia’s presence, or scent, or heavy, salacious breaths, or the alcohol on his. Or worse, tried to enter.

He looked back at her, hit with a sobering shockwave seeing her still idly tracing circles through her panties. His eyes avoided hers, afraid to meet her gaze and confront the guilt reflecting back at him. The mere thought made him wince. His soft spot for her had caved in, replaced by a cavernous void filled with remorse. In that brief, despondent moment, his logical mind sparking back to life, the angel on his shoulder better equipped, he took a step back and reassessed.

He had just masturbated alongside a drunken student/TA/candidate. Beyond inexcusable in triplicate, it was potentially criminal. They couldn’t go on like this. There had to be a better way, a healthier way to handle whatever was happening between them. A way through which they could continue without destroying their professional relationship nor impeding their work.

Such a problem required an expert solution: resist all distracting stimuli for the foreseeable future.

Still somewhat reeling, Professor Artom retrieved two bottles of water from his cabinet. He opened one and lightly jostled Sofia’s shoulder, handing it to her.

“Huh? Whazzis?”

“Water,” he said coolly, opening his own. “You wanna wake up sweating and puking?”

“No,” she whispered. She took a few gulps.

“You should finish that. I have more in the cabinet if you need,” he clipped, fetching his keys.

“You’re leaving me?”

“Staff party, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“So I’m locking the door behind me. Feel free to leave whenever you’re ready. If you feel your lunch coming back up, the trash is by you. If you need anything else, I’ll give you my cell number.”

“Aw, what a sweetie,” she murmured, spying him scrawling it on a notepad. “How’re you not married?”

His heart lodged in his throat. He looked up at her and sighed heavily.

“You have got to stop sounding like my grandmother.”

Sofia giggled. He shut off the music, left the notepad and straightened himself out a bit—sipping water, adjusting his tie, running a comb through his hair. He looked down. As for the mess in his pants, he’d address it in the restroom. For the moment, he donned his overcoat.

“Enjoy the party, bubbelah,” she said, tone annoyingly dulcet, pulling her legs onto the sofa and reclining.

He stopped, feeling a tug to scrap the party and the plan altogether and spend the night with her.

No. Resist all distracting stimuli for the foreseeable future.

To his relief, he turned on his heel and left.

Sofia sighed, her pleasant buzz now an unwelcome guest clouding her thoughts. Left alone in this room for the first time, accompanied by the rain pattering and her own swimming insecurities, she laid there trying to understand what exactly had just happened. No, she wasn’t a femme fatale or anything, but didn’t this sort of thing usually work on men? Even smart men? Even good men?

She’d done everything. She’d looked adorable, provided alcohol, laid there just drunk enough to draw him in, and sure, she’d gotten silly, dozed off a bit, but he’d seemed to not mind, seemed to want her. There was no longer any sliver of doubt in her mind that this was the case.

Yet despite his heavy breathing, overwhelming arousal, and palpable tension, he still hadn’t made a move—on her. The only real move he’d made was on himself. A beautiful sight in itself, but preposterous given her proximity. Was he too respectable, too nice to allow himself to take her, yet so desperately, pathetically horny for her he chose to take care of himself mere inches away?

Was that what she had to be satisfied with?

She unsteadily arose from the sofa, peering at the small collation of his personal photos on the wall. There were a few with whom she presumed to be the grandmother he’d mentioned. The matriarch stood with smiling grace beside a much younger version of the man she must’ve called Benny. Surely she’d helped raise the man right, raised him to be a gentleman. Raised him to frustrate those who sought to frustrate him.

An uneasy mix of kinship and resentment churned within Sofia as she stared at this strange, curly-headed woman. She turned away and tidied herself up with a new resolve. The harder he fought, the harder he’d fall.