Professor of Therapy...and Bad Choices

Aaliyah locked the door with shaking hands. She told herself to say it quick, clean, like ripping tape off skin. But Paisley pressed close, smelling like sweat and vanilla lotion, eyes wild with knowing. "We can't," Aaliyah breathed, backing into the desk. Paisley reached for the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head, dropping it to the floor like it burned. Skin met skin, hard nipples brushing cotton. Aaliyah's mouth found Paisley's throat before words could form. She tried again—"this is the last time"—then her fingers slid between Paisley's thighs, slick folds parting easy. Paisley moaned against her ear, grinding down on her hand like she owned the right. Aaliyah cursed, turned them, bent the girl over the desk. Skirt yanked up. Panties dragged aside. She licked her open, tongue deep, tasting how wrong it felt and how much she craved it anyway. Paisley shoved back, begging without shame. Aaliyah stood, unzipped, slid two fingers inside while her thumb worked the swollen clit. The room filled with wet sounds and ragged breathing. "Professor," Paisley whimpered, voice cracking, thighs shaking. Aaliyah fucked her harder, knuckles brushing the desk edge, chasing that tight flutter that always broke her resolve. Paisley came gasping, clenching, coating her hand. Aaliyah didn't stop. She dragged the orgasm out until Paisley trembled and laughed, half-broken. Only then did Aaliyah drop to her knees, tongue back in, cleaning every drop like it could save her from the truth: she wouldn't let go.