The Professor's Office Hours

Introduction to Black Political Thought is not for the faint-hearted.

I'm Dr. Angela Shaw, thirty-nine years old, youngest full professor in Howard's Political Science department. My syllabus has made students cry. My exams have made students reconsider their majors.

I don't apologize for rigor.

But Marcus Thompson is testing mine.

He's fifty-four years old.

Came back to school after thirty years in the military. Sits in the front row, asks questions that actually make me think, turns in papers that rival my graduate students' work.

He's also six-foot-three, built like he could bench press my desk, and has a smile that makes me forget what I was lecturing about.

A problem.

"Dr. Shaw? Do you have a minute?"

It's after my Thursday seminar. The classroom is empty except for us.

"Office hours are tomorrow, Mr. Thompson."

"I know." He doesn't move from his seat. "But I have a question that can't wait."

"About the reading?"

"About you."

My heart stutters. "Excuse me?"

He stands, moves toward me. "I've been trying to focus on Fanon all semester. But you keep getting in the way."

"Mr. Thompson—"

"Marcus." He stops in front of my desk. "And I know this is inappropriate. I know you could fail me, report me, end my academic career before it starts. But I've faced enemy fire, Dr. Shaw. I'm not scared of consequences."

"What exactly are you asking?"

"I'm asking if I'm imagining things." His voice is quiet. "The way you pause when you call on me. The way your eyes find mine during lecture. The way you assigned us Audre Lorde right after we made eye contact for too long."

I'd hoped that wasn't obvious.

"You're my student."

"I'm also a grown man who knows what he wants." He braces his hands on my desk, leaning in. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't feel this, and I'll walk out that door and never mention it again."

I should tell him he's wrong.

The words don't come.

"My office," I whisper. "Five minutes. Make sure no one sees you."

I pack my things with shaking hands and walk across the quad like everything is normal. It's not normal. I've never done this—never even considered it.

But Marcus Thompson is already waiting when I unlock my door.

"Lock it," I tell him. "And close the blinds."

He does both while I try to remember how to breathe.

"Dr. Shaw—"

"Angela." I set down my bag. "If we're doing this—and I can't believe we're doing this—call me Angela."

"Angela." He says it like a prayer. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to make me forget I could lose my job over this."

He crosses the room in three strides and kisses me.

He kisses like a man, not a boy.

Sure and strong and thorough. His hands grip my waist, pull me against his body, and I feel the evidence of his want pressing against my stomach.

"Been thinking about this since September," he groans against my mouth. "The way you walk. The way you command a room. That body in those professional dresses..."

"Marcus—"

"Every damn day, Angela. Sitting in your class trying to conjugate verbs when all I want is to conjugate you."

I laugh despite everything. "That doesn't even make sense."

"I'm losing brain cells around you. Cut me some slack."

He lifts me onto my desk.

Papers scatter. My pencil cup falls. I don't care. His hands are sliding up my thighs, pushing my skirt higher.

"How long has it been?" he asks.

"Two years. Since my divorce."

"Too long." He finds the edge of my panties. "Let me fix that."

"We should—there's a couch—"

"Desk first." He drops to his knees. "I've imagined this too many times to wait."

His mouth finds me through the cotton of my panties.

I gasp, grip the edge of my desk. He mouths me through the fabric until it's soaked, until I'm begging him to move it aside.

"Please—Marcus—"

"I love hearing you beg." He finally pulls the cotton away. "Almost as much as I love hearing you lecture."

Then his tongue is on me and I can't lecture anything.

He's thorough.

Military precision applied to eating pussy—no stroke wasted, every movement deliberate. He learns my body faster than my ex learned it in fifteen years of marriage.

"Oh God—right there—"

"That's right." He slides two fingers inside, curling them. "Come for me, Professor. Show me what you've learned."

I come so hard I knock over my nameplate.

"Couch," I gasp. "Now."

He lifts me easily, carries me to the small sofa against the wall. I'm fumbling with his belt before we're even seated.

"Easy," he laughs. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I need you inside me." I finally free him, and my eyes widen. "Oh."

"Problem?"

"No." I wrap my hand around him, stroke. "Definitely not a problem."

He produces a condom from his wallet.

"Presumptuous," I tease.

"Hopeful." He rolls it on. "Very, very hopeful."

He positions me on his lap, and I sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch. We both moan when I'm fully seated.

"Christ, Angela."

"Move. Please move."

He takes over.

Gripping my hips, lifting me and dropping me, setting a rhythm that has me seeing stars. I brace my hands on his shoulders and hold on.

"So good," he groans. "So tight—"

"Harder—"

"My pleasure."

He gives me harder. The couch creaks dangerously. My voice rises in ways that would definitely be heard if anyone was in the hall.

"Marcus—I'm going to—"

"Do it. Come on my cock, Angela."

I come screaming his name, and he follows moments later, pulling me down tight as he pulses inside me.

We collapse together, breathing hard.

"Well," I manage. "That was pedagogically inappropriate."

He laughs—full and real—and kisses my forehead. "Best office hours I've ever attended."

"This can't happen again."

"Of course not."

"I mean it."

"I know." His hand traces my back. "But hypothetically... if it were to happen again... same time next week?"

It happens again.

And again. And again.

Every Thursday after seminar. Sometimes in my office. Once, memorably, in the stacks of Founders Library.

I give Marcus a B+ for the semester—he deserved an A, but I'm paranoid about accusations of favoritism.

He graduates the following spring, Summa Cum Laude.

The relationship goes public the day after his graduation.

There's talk, of course. Whispers. Some judgment. But he's not my student anymore, and the university can't touch me.

Two years later, Dr. Angela Shaw-Thompson publishes her fifth book.

It's dedicated "To Marcus, who taught me that the best education happens outside the classroom."

He calls it "corny as hell."

Then he shows me exactly how corny he finds it.

We're still learning.