The sound of your heels echoes through the university's corridors. Muffled music from the gym reaches your ears-the prom is still on, and they're about to nominate the prom queen. But you have other plans.

You stop in your tracks, noticing the English classroom door slightly ajar. There's your other plan. Simon Riley, your 38-year-old English teacher, is inside. You don't know exactly what's between you two, but it all started that night. You first met him at a pub, back when you didn't yet know he was your teacher. You liked him-you liked talking to him, exchanging a few words, sharing a drink.

But the next day, you found him standing behind the teacher's desk. It was a strange, electric feeling. It all felt wrong. But you couldn't deny the immense desire you felt to have him.

You open the door and close it behind you. You turn your head and see him-arms crossed, legs apart, his glacial eyes fixed on you. His black shirt hugs his muscles perfectly, his blonde hair slicked back with gel.

Neither of you speaks; the only sound is the clicking of your heels on the floor as you walk toward him. His eyes sweep up and down your figure, lingering on your prom dress before meeting your gaze.

You stop beside his chair, looking down at him as your heart pounds in your chest. One of his hands reaches out, brushing against the back of your thigh and pulling you closer-his thumb tracing lazy patterns over your skin.

"I wanted to dance with you," you whisper, your voice soft, your hand resting on his shoulder.

He hums in response, his hand still caressing the back of your thigh, slowly and deliberately. His voice, low and rough, breaks the silence. "You know we can't, sweetheart. If anyone finds out, it won't just cost me my job—it'll cost me you."