A+ in Trouble || hjs - lmh

6

Minho

(Smut!)

I should've locked the door.

I knew he'd come.

Han Jisung hadn't missed a single office hour since that kiss. Not one. And every time he walked in, it got harder to pretend that I wasn't dreaming about him every night and regretting it every morning.

Today, he didn't even bother pretending he had a question.

Just strolled in with that hoodie hanging off one shoulder and a smirk that made my self-control beg for mercy.

"You're early," I said, voice already too tight.

He leaned against the desk like a scene from a movie. "Thought you'd appreciate some one-on-one time."

"Do you even remember what class you're in?"

He grinned. "The one where I make my professor lose sleep."

I looked away.

Because he was right.

And because he was already closing the distance between us.

"Jisung..."

He didn't stop. Just walked up to me, smooth and slow, until he was between my legs, hands on my shoulders.

"I missed you," he said softly.

Dangerous.

"I told you this can't happen again."

He tilted his head. "So don't let it."

Then, without another word, he straddled my lap and sat down.

My hands immediately went to his waist.

Like instinct. Like sin.

"Jisung—"

"Shhh," he whispered, hips rolling down just enough to make me see stars. "Tell me to stop."

I couldn't.

Because he was warm. And beautiful. And shifting in my lap like he knew he was my favorite mistake.

I gripped his waist tighter. "This is wrong."

"Feels right."

I buried my face in his neck. His skin smelled like mint and danger. His fingers tangled in my hair, tugged just enough to make my breath catch.

We kissed.

No build-up this time. Just need.

Hot. Open. Messy.

He rocked against me and I groaned, hands sliding up under his hoodie, fingertips skimming soft skin.

"You're not real," I whispered.

He bit my lip. "Then stop imagining me."

My hold tightened.

He gasped, arms wrapping around my neck. "Professor..."

That should've stopped me.

It only made me harder.

His thighs, his hips, the waistband of his shorts. Every inch of him, memorized by touch.

Somewhere in between, my pants went to my knees, and his landed somewhere under the desk.

And then...

He shifted his weight.

Lifted his hips.

And started to move.

Slow at first—testing. Teasing. Watching my face like he wanted to memorize the moment I broke.

I did.

"God," I gasped, clutching his waist as he bounced in my lap, soft moans spilling from his mouth. "You're gonna kill me."

"Then die like a man," he whimpered, rolling his hips just right.

The chair creaked under us.

The desk still had exams of students left on it.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this was the beginning of the end.

But I didn't stop.

Because the way he moved on me—confident, desperate, his—made everything else disappear.

Morality. Rules. Careers.

All I knew was him.

And the way he moaned my name like a secret prayer.