A+ in Trouble || hjs - lmh

22

Minho

(Smut!)

"You think I won't do it?" I ask softly. Calm. Too calm.

He leans in, lips brushing mine with the lightest touch.

"I hope you will."

I grab his hips and spin him onto the desk in one motion, chest to wood, his breath catching as I press myself against his back.

"You've been begging for this since the first time you walked into my office hours," I mutter, voice low in his ear. "You just didn't know it yet."

"I knew," he breathes.

I chuckle—dark, low, right against his skin. "Then you knew what you were asking for."

He tries to look back at me, still holding onto the bratty act, but I don't let him.

Instead, I press my palm between his shoulder blades, keeping him down. My other hand drags slowly down his spine, and I feel him shiver under my touch.

"So desperate in class today," I whisper, my voice a blade. "Sliding your hand up my thigh. Acting like a little tease."

"Maybe I was bored," he replies, breath hitching.

"Maybe you want to be punished."

That gets him.

His body stiffens, and then he relaxes—submitting, but just barely.

My fingers trail around to his waistband, teasing, tugging just enough to make him squirm. He gasps when I squeeze his hips, pushing his body back against mine.

"On your knees," I say, pulling him up off the desk.

He turns to face me, his cheeks flushed, lips parted. "Thought I was in trouble, Professor Lee."

"You are." I run my fingers through his hair, gripping it gently, guiding him down. "And this is your first lesson."

He drops, lips brushing my stomach through my shirt, and I let my head fall back, exhaling hard.

When his mouth finally wraps around me, it's slow and purposeful—teasing me now. I groan, one hand braced on the desk, the other tight in his hair.

"Fuck," I mutter, watching him. "You look so pretty like this. Mouth full. Eyes up.

He hums around me and my knees damn near buckle.

"Don't you dare stop," I warn, breathless. "I'll drag this out all night."

He doesn't. He keeps going—messy, loud, eager. He's got that after-smirk glow already, like he knows I'm close to breaking.

And I do.

I pull him up suddenly, kissing him hard, tasting myself on his tongue, not even caring anymore. My hands are everywhere—his back, his waist, the back of his neck.

He's panting. "Minho—fuck—"

"I said get on the desk."

He scrambles, heart pounding, and I grab his thighs, pulling him right to the edge. My mouth's on his neck, sucking bruises into his skin like I want people to see. Like I want them to know.

"You don't flirt in my class," I murmur against his skin.

"I wasn't gonna do anything," he breathes.

"I don't care." I bite his collarbone, just enough to make him moan. "You're mine."

He groans, head thrown back. "Say it again."

"You're mine."

I take my place between his legs, dragging his hips to the edge of the desk. The wood creaks as he wraps his arms around my neck, pulling me down, eyes glassy, voice shaky.

"Please—please, Minho—just do it—"

"You sure you can take it?" I ask, teasing, lips brushing his.

"I don't want gentle," he breathes. "I want you."

And that's all I need.

I take him like he asked—fast, hard, rough enough to make the desk shake and his moans crack. His nails dig into my shoulders, back arching, begging, and I don't stop.

He's babbling by the end—words slurred, broken, wrecked.

"Minho—Professor—I can't—too much—"

"You can." I kiss his temple. "You're doing so good for me."

His breath stutters. "You're gonna ruin me."

"I already have."