Chapter 175

Emma closed the piano lid gently and stood, stretching her arms over her head. The room felt settled now—clean, organized, ready.

She walked the perimeter slowly, straightening a music stand here, adjusting a chair there. She erased the faint smudges left on the whiteboard and rewrote the agenda neatly:

Wednesday:
• Warm-up scales
• Chord transitions
• Follow-along melody
• Open floor practice

She stepped back and nodded to herself.

Better.

A soft knock echoed from the doorway.

Emma turned.

One of her students from the guitar class stood there—hesitant but hopeful.

“Hi, Ms. Smith?” he asked.

Emma smiled warmly. “Hi. Come in.”

He stepped inside slowly, backpack slung over one shoulder. “I just… I didn’t want to ask in front of everyone yesterday, but I’m having trouble with my finger placement. My hands are kind of small.”

Emma’s expression softened instantly.

“I’m really glad you came,” she said. “Let’s take a look.”

She grabbed a guitar from the wall and handed it to him. “Show me where it feels uncomfortable.”

He positioned his fingers awkwardly on the fretboard, frustration written across his face.

Emma stepped closer—not crowding, just guiding.

“Okay,” she said gently. “You’re stretching too far at once. Try rotating your wrist slightly inward. And don’t lock your thumb—let it slide.”

She demonstrated slowly, then had him mimic her.

His fingers adjusted.

The chord rang out cleaner this time.

His eyes widened.

“Oh.”

Emma grinned. “See? Your hands aren’t too small. You just needed a better angle.”

He laughed quietly. “That makes way more sense.”

“Music isn’t about forcing your body to fit the instrument,” Emma said softly. “It’s about learning how to work with it.”

He nodded, absorbing that.

“Thank you,” he said. “Seriously.”

“You’re welcome,” Emma replied. “And don’t ever feel weird about asking. That’s literally what I’m here for.”

He left looking lighter than when he walked in.

Emma stood there for a moment after the door closed, feeling something warm settle in her chest.

This.

This was why she came back.

A few more students filtered in during office hours—quick questions about scales, one asking about performance anxiety for the upcoming showcase. Emma listened carefully, offering practical advice and reassurance without overcomplicating anything.

By the time her office hour window ended, the room felt alive again.

She glanced at the clock.

Still some time before she needed to head home.

Emma sat back down at the piano, pulled out her phone, and texted Abigail:

Office hours went really good. I helped a student with chord placement and I didn’t panic once 😂 I think I’m actually getting comfortable.

A few seconds later, her phone buzzed.

Abigail: I told you. You were made for that room.

Emma smiled at the screen.

Emma: Don’t gas me up too much. I still have to survive Wednesday.

Abigail: You will. And I’ll be front row if I have to.

Emma laughed softly.

Emma: Please don’t. I’d never get through class.

Abigail: Exactly 😌

Emma shook her head, still smiling, and tucked her phone away.

_________________________________________________

10:00–11:15 AM – English Composition

Professor Naomi Fletcher

Professor Fletcher was already at the front when Abigail walked in—sharp blazer, glasses low on her nose, flipping through printed drafts.

“Good morning,” Abigail said as she slid into her usual seat.

Professor Fletcher looked up. “Well. Someone’s glowing today.”

A few students snickered.

Abigail smirked lightly. “Just well-rested.”

“Good,” Professor Fletcher replied. “You’ll need that energy.”

She tapped the stack of papers.

“Today we’re talking about voice. Not the sound of it—your written voice. The difference between saying something… and saying something as you.”

She wrote two sentences on the board:

“The experience was challenging.”
“I didn’t know who I was when I walked in, but I knew I wouldn’t be the same walking out.”

She turned. “Which one belongs in an academic essay?”

A student near the front said, “The first one?”

Professor Fletcher nodded slowly. “Technically. Yes.”

She pointed to the second sentence. “Which one will I remember?”

Silence.

Then Abigail raised her hand.

“The second,” she said. “It makes you feel something.”

Professor Fletcher’s eyes flickered with approval. “Exactly. Academia doesn’t require you to be lifeless. It requires you to be intentional.”

She shifted her attention fully to Abigail. “So tell me—how do you balance emotional honesty with structure?”

Abigail thought for a second.

“You anchor emotion in analysis,” she answered. “You don’t just say what you felt. You explain why it matters.”

A slow smile spread across Professor Fletcher’s face.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s it.”

The discussion picked up from there—students debating whether vulnerability strengthens credibility or weakens it. Abigail leaned in, contributing confidently, referencing Baldwin and Morrison without overexplaining.

At one point Professor Fletcher nodded toward her draft.

“You’re refining your tone well,” she said. “Less defensive. More assured.”

Abigail absorbed that quietly.

Less defensive. More assured.

She liked that.

Before class ended, Professor Fletcher assigned a creative exercise.

“Write one page,” she instructed. “No citations. No research. Just your voice. Due Thursday.”

As the last student filtered out of English Composition, Abigail slid her notebook into her bag, Professor Fletcher’s words still echoing in her head.

Room 416.

Abigail didn’t rush — but she didn’t exactly walk slow either.

The music wing felt quieter than usual, the hum of distant practice rooms echoing softly through the hallway. When she reached 416, the door was slightly open.

Emma was inside.

She had her laptop open on the desk, a neat stack of syllabi to one side, a legal pad with handwritten notes to the other. A mug sat near her elbow, steam barely visible. She was mid-sentence typing something when she sensed someone in the doorway.

She looked up.

And immediately smiled.

That smile wasn’t the classroom one.

It was the real one.

“Well,” Emma said softly, leaning back in her chair. “Look who decided to visit my office hours.”

Abigail stepped inside and closed the door halfway behind her. “Am I allowed in without an appointment, Ms. Smith?”

Emma tried not to laugh. “That depends. Are you here to discuss academic concerns?”

Abigail walked closer to the desk, slow and deliberate. “Very serious concerns.”

“Oh?” Emma folded her hands like she was conducting an official meeting. “Let’s hear them.”

Abigail rested her palms on the desk and leaned in slightly. “Concern number one: my fiancée is extremely attractive in professional settings.”

Emma bit her lip. “That sounds like a personal issue, not an academic one.”

Abigail tilted her head. “Concern number two: said fiancée might be distracting me from my studies.”

Emma stood slowly from her chair.

She walked around the desk.

Stopped right in front of Abigail.

“And how exactly am I distracting you?” she asked quietly.

Abigail’s hand slid gently to Emma’s waist. “By existing.”

Emma’s composure cracked just a little.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered — but she didn’t move away.

Abigail leaned in and kissed her softly.

Not rushed.

Not heated.

Just warm.

Emma melted into it, one hand coming up to rest lightly against Abigail’s chest. The kiss deepened slightly — still office-appropriate, but unmistakably intimate.

When they pulled apart, Emma exhaled slowly.

“You came all the way over here just to kiss me?”

“Yes.”

Emma’s eyes softened. “You’re lucky I only have office hours today.”

Abigail glanced around the small space. “So this is where Ms. Smith handles business.”

Emma smiled. “Emails. Lesson planning. Student questions. Nothing scandalous.”

Abigail stepped closer, lowering her voice playfully. “Good. Because I prefer you scandalous at home.”

Emma laughed under her breath and lightly pushed her back toward the desk. “Behave.”

Abigail smirked. “I’m being very respectful of faculty.”

Emma leaned up and kissed her again, this time a little longer.

“Go eat,” Emma murmured. “You have Music History later.”

Abigail groaned softly. “Don’t remind me.”

Emma’s tone shifted — not tense, just steady. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Abigail nodded. “I’m good.”

Emma studied her face for a moment, then brushed her thumb lightly over Abigail’s jaw.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” she said gently. “Just go in, do your work, and leave.”

Different words.

Same grounding effect.

Abigail nodded once. “I will.”

Emma stepped back toward her desk. “Text me when you’re done.”

“I will.”

Abigail reached for the door, then paused.

“You really look good in here,” she said quietly. “Like this fits you.”

Emma smiled — softer now.

“It does,” she admitted.

Emma watched Abigail reach the doorway.

Watched her hesitate.

Watched her almost leave.

Then she tilted her head slightly.

“You know what, baby…”

Abigail paused mid-step and looked back.

Emma slowly closed her laptop.

She didn’t rush.

She stood, walked around her desk, then instead of sitting back in her chair — she lifted herself up onto the edge of the desk.

Calm.

Deliberate.

She crossed one leg over the other, hands braced lightly on either side of her hips.

“Come here.”

Her voice wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

Abigail’s eyebrows lifted just slightly. “I thought I was supposed to be going.”

Emma leaned back on her palms, the soft afternoon light from the window catching her hair.

“You are,” she said smoothly. “But I changed my mind.”

Abigail stepped back into the office, closing the door a little more firmly this time.

“Oh?”

Emma’s eyes moved over her slowly — hoodie, hands, the way she was standing like she didn’t know whether to behave or not.

“You walked in here,” Emma continued, “called me attractive in a professional setting… distracted me… kissed me… and then you think you’re just going to walk away?”

Abigail swallowed, but her smirk returned. “Is that not how office hours work?”

Emma uncrossed her legs and let them hang off the edge of the desk, heels brushing lightly against Abigail’s thighs as she stepped closer.

“No,” Emma said softly. “That’s not how this one works.”

Abigail moved in until she was standing between Emma’s knees.

“Enlighten me, Ms. Smith.”

Emma’s fingers slid up to the collar of Abigail’s hoodie, adjusting it slightly like she was fixing something that wasn’t.

Abigail knew exactly what she was doing as she positioned herself between Emma’s legs, spreading them wide. The soft cotton of Emma’s skirt inched higher, exposing the pale thighs Abigail loved to explore. Emma’s breath caught, but she made no move to stop this, not even when Abigail’s hand reached under the hem to palm her warmth.

“Emma,” Abigail whispered, her voice thick with desire. “I can’t resist you, not here, not now.”

Emma’s hands found Abigail’s hips, fingers digging in as if to anchor her. “Then don’t,” she panted, her gaze locked onto Abigail’s.

Abigail slid her other hand up Emma’s thigh, shoving her skirt higher until it bunched around her waist. The cool air of the office caressed Emma’s heated skin, making her shiver. Abigail’s fingers danced along the damp lace of Emma’s panties before tugging them aside.

“Baby, you’re so ready for me,” Abigail murmured, circling Emma’s clit with her thumb. Emma’s hips jerked, a soft moan spilling from her lips.

Emma’s eyes flashed to the bulge in Abigail’s jeans, and her fingers tightened on Abigail’s hips. “Then take me,” she demanded, voice husky with need.

Abigail popped open the button of her jeans and slid down the zipper, freeing her erection. She cradled it in her hand, giving it a slow stroke as she positioned herself at Emma’s entrance.

With a gritty growl, she thrust forward, burying herself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

Emma cried out, her back arching as Abigail’s thick length filled her. The desk creaked beneath them, the sound a counterpoint to the slap of skin against skin as Abigail began to move.

“Faster, harder,” Emma urged, her leg fisting around Abigail’s waist. “Use me.”

Hard and fast, just as Emma had demanded. Abigail’s hips snapped forward.

“Yes, just like that,” Emma moaned, her head thrown back against the desk. Abigail’s kisses trailed down Emma’s neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. Emma’s legs wrapped tight around Abigail’s waist, heels digging into her lower back to urge her on.

The desk creaked under their frenzied coupling, the wood cool against Abigail’s sweat-dampened skin. She pistoned in and out of Emma’s body with reckless abandon, chasing their shared release.

“I’m close,” Abigail panted, her hips jerking hard. Emma bucked against her, fingers scrabbling at Abigail’s shoulders.

“Don’t stop,” Emma gasped. “Fill me, now!”

With a hoarse cry, Abigail slammed into Emma one last time, her orgasm ripping through her. She felt Emma’s pussy clench around her in rhythmic spasms, milking her climax.

Panting, Abigail collapsed forward, burying her face in the crook of Emma’s neck. They lay there, entangled on the edge of Emma’s desk, the remnants of their passion still crackling in the air.

After a long moment, Emma’s arms came up to wrap around Abigail, holding her close. “I love you,” she whispered, her breath warm against Abigail’s ear.

“I love you too,” Abigail replied, her voice muffled. “More than anything.”