Amber could not remember a week dragging so slowly. Every moment away from Kabir felt like denial. In class, his lectures became pure torment. He would pace the front of the room, voice deep and steady, discussing the erotics of power in Reich’s theories or Lacan’s concept of jouissance, but his black eyes kept finding her. They would lock on her huge amber gaze first, holding it until her pupils dilated with raw need, then drift downward deliberately. Slowly. To the swell of her breasts straining against her white blouse. He stared openly, unashamed, for long seconds while the other girls scribbled notes. Each time, her nipples hardened instantly, dark peaks pressing visibly through lace and cotton. She knew he saw. He always saw. And the knowledge soaked her panties every single lecture.

By Friday she was a live wire. Touch-starved. Dripping at the slightest memory of his voice saying “good girl.”