Lessons Between My Thighs

I didn’t mean to linger
after class.
Didn’t mean to ask questions
I already knew the answers to,
just to hear your voice
say my name
like it belonged
somewhere lower
than your mouth.

I came
with a notebook,
a pencil,
my best innocent eyes
but even they betrayed me
when you leaned over
to look at my notes
and I forgot every word
but your scent.

I shouldn’t feel this.
Not here.
Not with you.
But rules were never enough
to stop a body
from blooming
in the wrong season.

Now I sit,
ankles crossed,
face polite,
while the seat beneath me
records the things
I don’t dare write down
moist confessions
pressed into cheap upholstery
and better judgment.

You pace.
You lecture.
You explain a passage
about forbidden fruit,
and I wonder if you notice
how I shake
every time you say
temptation.
Every time your tongue
wraps around
a word that could ruin us both.

I nod,
like a good girl.
But my thighs
are plotting mutiny,
and the ache between them
knows more
than any textbook ever taught.

You reach
to hand me something
a page,
a pen,
a metaphor.
And our fingers brush
for less than a breath,
but it’s enough
to undo me.

I smile.
I thank you.
I walk away
like I didn’t just
soak the chair
where I sat dreaming
of detention
I’d beg for.

If you ever sit there
after me,
you’ll feel it
the heat,
the wet imprint
of need unspoken.
And maybe you’ll understand:

Some girls don’t confess.
We study.
We fantasize.
We leave behind
evidence
on chairs we were never meant
to ruin.

And then I ruin you…
Like you did me.