Failing on Purpose
"She's been failing his class on purpose. He knows it. She knows he knows. When he finally calls her into his office, the pretense drops."
Dr. Marcus Chen knows something is wrong.
Kira Santos is smart. He's read her other papers — sharp analysis, clear prose, insightful conclusions. She got into this grad program on merit.
So why is she failing his class?
"Miss Santos. Stay after."
She looks up from packing her bag. The other students file out, carefully not looking at her.
"Yes, Professor?"
He waits until the room is empty. Until the door closes.
"Sit."
She sits.
She's beautiful.
He's not supposed to notice. But he's noticed since the first day of class. Curves that her professional clothes can't hide. Full lips that distract him when she asks questions. Dark eyes that seem to see right through him.
She's twenty-six. He's thirty-eight. She's his student.
He shouldn't want her.
He does anyway.
"Your latest paper." He holds it up. "You submitted five paragraphs on postcolonial theory. It looks like it was written in ten minutes."
"Maybe it was."
"That's not an excuse."
"It's not meant to be."
He sets the paper down. "You're failing my class."
"I know."
"You don't seem concerned."
"I'm not."
"Why?"
She crosses her legs. Her skirt rides up. She doesn't fix it.
"Maybe I want to fail."
"Explain."
"If I fail, I have to retake the class." She tilts her head. "Another semester of office hours. Another semester of watching you lecture."
"That's not—"
"Another semester of you looking at me when you think I'm not paying attention."
He freezes.
"I'm always paying attention, Dr. Chen."
"This is inappropriate."
"Very."
"You're my student."
"For now."
"If anyone found out—"
"They won't." She uncrosses her legs. Crosses them again. "Unless you tell them."
"Miss Santos—"
"Kira." She stands. Walks toward his desk. "And I think we're past formalities, don't you?"
"We're not past anything. This conversation is over."
"Is it?" She stops at the edge of his desk. Leans against it. "Then why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you want to bend me over this desk and find out what I'm wearing under this skirt."
He should tell her to leave.
He should report this. Refer her to another advisor. End whatever this is before it destroys his career.
Instead he says: "What are you wearing under that skirt?"
She smiles.
Reaches down. Pulls the skirt up slowly, revealing thick thighs, full hips, and—
"Nothing."
His mouth goes dry.
"I stopped wearing them to your class about a month ago." She lets the skirt drop. "Just in case you ever asked."
"A month?"
"Every lecture. Every office hour. Sitting in the front row, legs crossed, wondering if today would be the day."
"The day for what?"
"The day you stop pretending you're not as hungry as I am."
He stands.
Walks around the desk. She doesn't move. Doesn't flinch.
"This could end my career."
"Yes."
"End your academic future."
"Probably."
"It's insane."
"Completely."
He stops in front of her. So close he can smell her perfume. Something warm, spicy.
"You've been failing on purpose. Just to stay in my class."
"Yes."
"Because you wanted this."
"Yes."
"And if I tell you to leave right now?"
She meets his eyes. "Then I leave. And I transfer to another advisor. And we pretend this never happened."
"And if I don't tell you to leave?"
Her smile widens. "Then you lock that door and we find out if you're everything I've been imagining."
He locks the door.
He is everything she imagined.
His hands on her hips, lifting her onto the desk. His mouth on her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. He doesn't treat her like she's fragile. He treats her like he's been wanting this as long as she has.
"You've been driving me crazy," he growls against her skin.
"Good."
"Every class. Sitting there. Looking at me."
"I know what I want." She pulls at his shirt. "I go after it."
"This is what you want? A professor twice your age?"
"You're not twice my age. And yes." She finds his belt. "This is exactly what I want."
He buries himself inside her and they both go still.
"Fuck," she breathes. "Dr. Chen—"
"Marcus." He starts to move. "If I'm inside you, you can use my first name."
"Marcus." She wraps her legs around him. "God, Marcus, don't stop."
He doesn't stop.
The desk creaks. Papers scatter. Somewhere, a pen rolls onto the floor.
He fucks her like he's been thinking about it for months. Because he has. Since the first day she walked into his class with those curves and that confidence.
"You've been failing on purpose," he says again. Still can't believe it.
"Yes." She's gasping now. "Worth it. So worth it."
"You could have just asked."
"Where's the fun in that?"
She comes first.
Hard, clenching around him, biting her hand to keep quiet. He follows a moment later, buried deep, emptying into her while the office walls feel paper-thin.
They collapse against each other, breathing hard.
"So," she says finally. "Am I still failing?"
"Definitely."
"Good." She kisses him. "Same time next week?"
It becomes a pattern.
Every Wednesday. Office hours. The door locked, the blinds drawn.
He grades her papers honestly now. She earns Bs. Sometimes As.
"You were always smart," he tells her one afternoon, his fingers tangled in her hair.
"I know."
"You could have just passed the first time."
"But then I wouldn't have had a reason to keep coming to your office."
"And now?"
She smiles. That smile that says she's three steps ahead.
"Now I have a better reason."
The semester ends.
She's officially not his student anymore. They go to dinner. Like normal people. Like a normal couple.
"This is weird," she says over pasta.
"Dating someone you seduced in my office?"
"Being in public with you. Not sneaking around."
"Do you miss the sneaking?"
"A little." Her foot finds his under the table. "The desk was fun."
"We can still use the desk."
"You're not my professor anymore."
"So?"
Her eyes darken. "So what's the excuse?"
"I don't need an excuse." He signals for the check. "I just want you on my desk again."
They don't make it to the desk.
His apartment. The hallway. Against the wall, her legs around his waist.
"Harder," she demands.
"Neighbors."
"Don't care."
Neither does he.
Months pass.
Nobody knows how they met. "At school" is technically true. They let people assume it was after she graduated.
But sometimes, late at night, she'll whisper: "I can't believe I failed your class on purpose."
"I can't believe it worked."
"I can't believe you locked that door."
"I can't believe you wore nothing under your skirt."
"For a month."
"For a month."
They laugh. Make love. Fall asleep tangled together.
A year later, he gives her a ring.
"Is this appropriate?" she teases.
"Definitely not."
"Am I passing now?"
"With flying colors."
She kisses him. Deep. Promising.
"Dr. Chen," she murmurs against his lips.
"Mrs. Chen," he corrects.
"Soon."
"Not soon enough."
She wears the ring to bed.
Nothing else.