The Lines We Cross

The Lines We Cross

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WpMetadataReadMatureOngoing37m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Fri, Jun 6, 2025
Rafael Gray was the kind of man people respected but never felt comfortable around. At 39, he was sharp, emotionally distant, and always dressed like the world might fall apart if he loosened his tie. He taught Comparative Literature at a prestigious university in Chicago, and the classroom was the only place he ever seemed alive. He was methodical, intense, brilliant but cold. Imani Carter was 20. Young, vibrant, curious, and unapologetically herself. She was one of the few Black students in his department, outspoken in class but never reckless. She had a way of challenging Rafael in a way no student had before-not with arrogance, but with genuine insight and a quiet fire in her words. He noticed. He shouldn't have.
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"So Professor Jones, does this mean that we are an actual thing now?" "Princess, calling me that will get you in trouble," he grunts. I smiled in response, because he liked it. He liked that I was calling him professor. I think this was what was so exciting about him and I. He was my professor and the idea of fucking each other is a turn on. There was also the fact I had Grayson as well, even though he was the more reserved one, but what's the harm in still having both of them. I moved my hands under his shirt and I felt soft patch of hair, but hard muscle. "Maybe I want to get in trouble," I teased. "I thought you were going to be a good girl?" Grayson interjects. "I never said I would be good all the time," I say, innocently.

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