Chapter 2: Office Hours: Grading Desire
The classroom was empty, hollowed out by the departing tide of students. Chalk dust hung in the slanted beams of late afternoon sun, turning the air into something tangible, something you could taste at the back of your throat. Anjali erased the board with slow, precise strokes, the squeak of the felt a familiar punctuation to the week. The ghost of Machiavelli’s name lingered in the smudged grey.
Her body hummed. A low, persistent vibration beneath the crisp cotton of her salwar kameez. It had been three days. Three days since the farmhouse, since the silk on the floor, since the chai at dawn. Three days of dragging herself through the motions of being Dr. Sharma while her mind replayed, on a loop, the feel of rough cotton sheets and the specific pressure of a thumb circling her hip bone.
She stacked papers, her movements mechanical. The rational part of her, the lecturer, had drafted a dozen speeches. It was a mistake. A beautiful, singular lapse. A reclaiming of something lost, but now it’s over. That part was polished, logical, serene.
The other part, the part that had woken up sweating at 3 a.m., remembered the way he’d said stay.
The door clicked open.
She didn’t turn. She knew the rhythm of her students, the scuff of sneakers, the hesitant cough before a question.This was different. A silent presence. A shift in the quality of the quiet.
She finished erasing a stubborn ‘O’, dusted her hands on the side of her trousers, and turned.
He was leaning against the doorjamb, one shoulder propped, as if he’d been there for minutes. Dressed in dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt that did nothing to hide the build she’d felt under her hands. He held a single, thick book in one hand. His expression was unreadable.
“Office hours ended twenty minutes ago, Mr. Verma.” Her voice was a lecturer’s voice, cool, dusted with chalk.
“I know.” He pushed off the doorframe and walked in. Not with the prowling confidence of the farmhouse, but with a deliberate, almost cautious ease. He placed the book on the desk beside her. It was an old, hardbound edition of The Prince. The same translation she used. “I was in the library. Found this. Thought you might want it back.”
She glanced at it. Her own name was penned neatly on the front flyleaf, from a decade ago. She’d loaned it to a promising, if infuriating, student. He’d never returned it.
“You kept it,” she said.
“I told you I kept the paper.” A faint smile. “I kept the book too. Seemed important. Proof that someone saw I might be interesting, even if I was wrong.”
Her heart was doing something stupid and frantic against her ribs. He was here. In her sanctuary. Smelling of soap and open air, cutting through the scent of old paper and dust. The proximity was a live wire.
“You’re not a student anymore,” she said, the statement hanging between them.
“No. I’m not.” He took a half-step closer. The sunlight caught the flecks of grey in his stubble. “Does that change things?”
“It changes everything.” She turned away, busying herself with her leather satchel. She could feel his eyes on the nape of her neck, where her hair was pinned up, where his fingers had twisted in the loose strands. “And it changes nothing.”
She heard him breathe out, a slow, measured sound. “That’s about right.”
A silence stretched, thick and heavy. The campus outside was quiet, just the distant hum of a lawnmower. This was the precipice. She could thank him for the book, dismiss him. Rebuild the wall, brick by brick.
Instead, she reached for her shawl, a soft pashmina of emerald green. She shook it out, the fabric whispering. As she went to drape it over her shoulders, her fingers, usually so deft, fumbled. The shawl slipped, tumbling from her grasp in a silken cascade.
It landed on the worn carpet between them.
She didn’t move. She watched him look from the shawl to her face. His expression shifted, the careful neutrality dissolving into understanding, then into something hotter, more focused.
She let a beat pass. Then another.
Slowly, deliberately, she bent from the waist to retrieve it. She didn’t squat, didn’t kneel. She bent, keeping her spine straight, her head level. The V-neck of her kameez gaped forward with the motion.
She’d chosen her undergarments with a cold, strategic clarity that morning. Not the sensible cotton.The lace. The specific, delicate ivory lace he had unhooked with reverent fingers in the lantern light.
The edge of the cup was just visible, a fragile web against her skin. She held the position for a second longer than necessary, feeling the cool air on her exposed cleavage, feeling the weight of his stare like a physical touch.
Then she gathered the shawl, straightened up, and draped it around herself, pulling it tight.
She met his eyes. His were dark, the pupils wide.
“You dropped something,” he said, his voice rough.
“I’m aware.” She smoothed the shawl. Her own breath felt shallow. “You know, Rohan, I was just reviewing some old participation records. Yours were… lacking. Consistently.”
A ghost of his old smirk appeared. “Was I?”
“You had insightful things to say. But only when formally called upon. You never volunteered. You held back.” She took a step toward him, closing the distance. The space between them crackled. “It suggested a reluctance to fully engage.”
He didn’t retreat. “Maybe I was waiting for the right invitation.”
“Perhaps.” She was close enough now to see the gold rings in his brown irises. To smell the subtle, clean scent of his skin. The memory of it on her tongue was vivid, overwhelming. “But class participation is a significant part of the grade.”
“Is that what this is?” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. “A grading session?”
Her hand came up, not to touch him, but to adjust the shawl at her collarbone. Her knuckles brushed against the warm skin of his neck. He went utterly still.
“Stay after class, Mr. Verma,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that was both command and secret. “We need to discuss your… performance.”
For a long moment, he just looked at her. The air between them was charged, thick with the dust and the fading light and ten years of unfinished business. She saw the battle in his face—the urge to close the gap, to kiss her right here against the desk, warring with the understanding of the game she was proposing. A game she controlled.
Finally, he gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. “Of course, Professor.”
She walked back to her desk, her heels silent on the carpet. She picked up her satchel, slid the reclaimed copy of The Prince inside. Her movements were calm, deliberate. She could feel him watching her every step.
“I have to lock up,” she said, not looking at him. “The janitors come at six.”
She walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the empty hallway. She didn’t look back. She began walking toward the stairwell at the end of the corridor, her footsteps echoing on the linoleum. Her entire body was a tuned instrument, listening.
She heard it. The soft click of the classroom door closing. Then the second set of footsteps, falling in behind hers, maintaining a careful distance.
The hallway was long and shadowed, the ceiling lights flickering on with a dull buzz. Her skin prickled. Her mouth was dry. She reached the stairwell door and pushed through, holding it open a fraction longer than necessary.
She didn’t turn as she descended. She could hear him on the stairs above, his tread heavier. The concrete well amplified every sound: the rustle of her clothes, the soft exhale of his breath, the faint jingle of her keys in her hand.
They reached the ground floor, a dim, utilitarian space that smelled of disinfectant and damp concrete. Her office was a small, windowless room tucked behind the main lecture halls. She stopped at the unmarked door, her hand unsteady as she fitted the key into the lock.
It turned with a loud, metallic scrape.
She pushed the door open and walked inside, hitting the switch. A fluorescent tube stuttered to life, illuminating a cramped space dominated by a large, scarred desk piled with books and papers. She placed her satchel on the sole chair and turned.
He filled the doorway. He had to duck his head slightly to step inside. He closed the door behind him.
The click of the lock was deafening.
The room was so small his presence seemed to consume all the oxygen. She leaned back against the edge of the desk, the wood biting into her thighs through the thin fabric of her trousers.
“So,” he said, his voice a low vibration in the sterile air. “My performance.”
“Yes.” She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture that also, she knew, accentuated the curve of her breasts under the shawl. “It was… unorthodox. Particularly your final submission.”
A slow smile spread across his face. He took a step forward. Then another. Until he was standing right in front of her, his legs almost touching hers. He placed his hands flat on the desk on either side of her hips, caging her in.
“Unorthodox,” he repeated, leaning in. His breath fanned her cheek. “Was it effective?”
“It demonstrated… a thorough understanding of the subject matter.” Her own voice was barely a whisper. “A hands-on approach to research.”
He lowered his head, his lips a hair’s breadth from the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “I’m a very thorough researcher, Professor.”
She shuddered. All the controlled tension, the deliberate tease, evaporated. She turned her head, capturing his mouth with hers.
This kiss was nothing like the ones at the farmhouse. There was no slow burn, no exploration. It was a clash, a release of three days of pent-up, impossible want. It was hungry and messy, teeth clacking, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him hard against her. He groaned into her mouth, his own hands leaving the desk to grab her waist, to haul her up so she was perched on the edge, knocking a stack of papers to the floor.
The shawl slipped away. His hands were on her back, under her kameez, fumbling for the clasp of the lace bra. He found it, flicked it open with a practiced ease that made her gasp against his mouth. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, and looked down at her.
Here, in the harsh fluorescent light of her office, with her hair coming undone and her lips swollen, there was no pretense.No game. Just raw, mutual need.
He yanked his own t-shirt over his head, tossed it aside. Then his hands were on the button of her trousers, his eyes locked on hers, asking a final, silent question.
Her answer was to help him, shoving the fabric down her hips. She kicked it away, along with her shoes. She was exposed, wanton, sitting on her own desk in her utilitarian office. It should have felt sordid. It felt like power.
He pushed her back, gently, until she was lying atop the scattered papers and student essays. The cold wood was a shock against her bare skin. He knelt between her legs, his hands running up her thighs, pushing her kameez up to her waist. His gaze was a physical touch, scorching in its intensity.
“Anjali,” he breathed, and the way he said her name, here, demolished the last of the Professor.
He didn’t wait. He entered her in one smooth, deep thrust. She cried out, a sharp, unfiltered sound that echoed off the cinderblock walls. He covered her mouth with his, swallowing the sound, as he began to move.
This was nothing like the farmhouse. That had been discovery, a slow revelation.This was claiming. It was fast and desperate, a furious rhythm born of stolen time and illicit space. The desk shuddered and thumped against the wall with every drive of his hips. A framed degree rattled. She didn’t care. She wrapped her legs around him, heels digging into the small of his back, meeting him thrust for thrust, her fingernails scraping down his sweat-slicked spine.
It was over quickly, brutally. A building, screaming pressure that shattered without warning. Her climax was a silent, seizing convulsion, her body arching off the desk, her mouth open in a soundless scream. His followed moments after, a choked gasp buried in the curve of her neck.Collapse. Weight. The smell of sweat and sex and dusty paper. The cruel buzz of the fluorescent light.
He slumped against her, his body heavy and warm. She could feel the frantic hammering of his heart against her own. Her own breath came in ragged, shallow gulps.
Reality seeped back in, cold and insistent. The gritty feel of paper under her bare shoulders. The distant, echoing slam of a locker out in the hall. The sheer, unbelievable risk of it.
He stirred, pushing himself up on his elbows. He looked down at her, his face flushed, his hair mussed. He saw the dawning shock in her eyes.
“Okay?” he asked, the same question from the farmhouse bed.
She gave a weak, shaky laugh. “That was… insane.”
“Yeah.” He kissed her forehead, a strangely tender gesture amid the chaos. “It was.”
He helped her sit up. They dressed in silence, a hurried, awkward ballet in the tiny space. She re-hooked her bra with trembling fingers, pulled her kameez straight. He tugged his shirt back on.
She looked at the disaster of her desk, the scattered papers, the toppled pens.Proof. He followed her gaze and began to quietly gather the pages, stacking them neatly. The simple, ordinary act felt more intimate than what they’d just done.
When they were both put back together, standing in the center of the room like strangers again, the silence stretched.
“What happens on Monday?” he finally asked, voicing the unspoken dread.
She looked at him. The confident man was gone, replaced by someone who looked uncertain, almost young.She understood. The farmhouse had been a contained fantasy. This was a breach. This was her world.
She walked to the door, her legs feeling unsteady. She turned the lock and opened it a crack, peering into the empty hallway. The coast was clear.
She looked back at him. The Lecturer tried to find words, a policy, a boundary.
The woman who had just shattered on her own desk found different ones.
“I don’t know,” she said, and it was the truest thing she’d said all day. “But you should probably go.”
He didn’t argue. He just nodded, that same slow understanding from the classroom. He brushed past her into the hallway, the warmth of his arm a fleeting brand against hers. She watched him walk away, his silhouette swallowed by the dimness, until the distant exterior door groaned open and sighed shut.
Silence. Thick, total, and accusing.
The fluorescent light buzzed like an insect trapped in glass. She looked at her desk. The neat stack of papers he’d assembled sat atop the chaos, a pathetic attempt at order. A stark contrast to the imprint her body had left on the surface, a ghost of heat and sweat already cooling. She could still smell him in the air, mixed with the dust and her own perfume.
Her hands shook as she gathered her things. The shawl felt like a lie now. She stuffed it into the satchel.
The drive home was a blur of taillights and her own hollow reflection in the windshield. Every traffic light felt like a judgment. She replayed it all on a loop—the shawl dropping, the bra, the feel of the cinderblock wall shuddering. A visceral heat bloomed in her gut each time, followed immediately by a wash of cold dread.
What had she done?
Her flat was dark and still. She didn’t turn on the lights. She poured two fingers of single malt, a habit from the worst days after Vikram’s death, and drank it standing at the kitchen window. The city glittered, indifferent.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. A single line from an unknown number, now saved.
I kept the book for ten years. I’ll keep tonight for longer.
She didn’t reply. She read it eleven times. Each time, the cold dread receded a fraction, replaced by that stubborn, glowing ember.
Monday arrived like an approaching storm.
Standing before her wardrobe, her hand hovered over a severe grey saree. Armor. She pulled out the ivory linen blouse and tan trousers instead. Neutral. Professional. Nothing that whispered of lace or lantern light.
The walk from the faculty lot to her building was an exercise in pure will. Every student’s glance felt pointed. Every colleague’s greeting sounded laced with insinuation. Her skin was a live wire, buzzing with exposure.
Her first lecture was a disaster. She called a student by the wrong name. She lost her place in her notes twice. The words “performance” and “submission” stuck in her throat, tasting illicit. She dismissed class early, citing a migraine, which wasn’t entirely a lie.
Back in her office, the door locked, she sank into her chair. The desk was just a desk again. She ran her fingertips over the cool wood where her back had been.
A knock. Sharp, official.
Her heart stalled. “Yes?”
The door opened. It was Dean Iyer, a thin man with perpetually worried eyes. “Anjali, a word? About the curriculum review.”
Twenty minutes of bureaucratic drone. She nodded, made notes, her smile a rigid mask. He left. She exhaled, a tremor running through her.
The knock that came ten minutes later was different. Softer. A bare knuckle, tentative.
She knew. Before she said “come in,” she knew. The air in the room changed, charged with a new current.
Rohan stepped inside. He was wearing a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled, his hair still damp from a shower. He looked like he hadn’t slept. He held two paper cups from the café downstairs.
“I brought chai,” he said, his voice careful. He placed one on the desk, well away from her. A peace offering. A boundary marker. “I was in the building. Meeting with the alumni office.”
“A likely story,” she said, but her tone lacked its usual edge. It just sounded tired.
He didn’t smile. “How are you?”
“Dean Iyer was just here.”
“Shit.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Did he—”
“No. It was about course credits.” She looked at the chai, steam curling from the slit in the lid. The familiar, comforting scent of cardamom and ginger filled the space between them. “Why are you here, Rohan?”
“To see if you were okay.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “And to say that was… it was too much. I got carried away. This is your place. I crossed a line.”
Her laugh was short, brittle. “I dropped the shawl. I unbuttoned my blouse. I think we both crossed several lines.” She finally looked at him. “I told you to go. You went. That’s the script.”
“Forget the script.” He took a step closer, then stopped himself. “Tell me what you want. Right now. If you say ‘never again,’ I walk out. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it. This isn’t a game to me anymore.”
The directness was disarming. It stripped away the fantasy, the roles, the dangerous thrill. It laid the question bare in the sterile office light.
What did she want?
She wanted the weight of his gaze on her in a crowded room. She wanted the secret knowledge that lived under her clothes. She wanted the farmhouse quiet and the office chaos and the terrifying freedom of having nothing left to protect.
She also wanted her quiet life back. Her unassailable reputation. The safety of solitude.
They warred inside her, two irreconcilable truths.
She stood up. The movement was slow, deliberate. She came around the desk, stopping an arm’s length from him. The buzz of the campus filtered through the window, a world of normalcy just beyond the door.
She didn’t speak. She reached for the first button of her ivory blouse. Her fingers were steady.
He watched, his breath catching.
The button slipped free. Then the next. A deliberate unveiling. Not an accident, not a tease. A statement. The blouse gaped open, revealing the same lace, the same skin he’d worshipped and marked.
She saw his eyes darken, his jaw tighten. But he didn’t move. He was holding to his word, waiting for hers.
“I don’t want ‘never again,’” she said, her voice low but clear. “But I don’t know what I do want. Only that it’s here. With you. And it’s terrifying.”
She took his hand. She placed his palm flat against the lace, over her heart. She let him feel the frantic, galloping rhythm beneath.
“That’s what I want,” she whispered. “I want to not be terrified of this.”