Tell me how you would fry me after class in the back desks

She stays behind when the last student files out, textbook still open, pen twirling between her fingers. You catch the way her skirt rides up when she leans back in that rear desk, watching you lock the classroom door.

You cross the room slowly, letting her wait. Her breath quickens before you even touch her — fingertips grazing her jaw, tilting her face up toward yours, the plastic chair scraping against linoleum as she shifts closer.

Afternoon light cuts through the blinds in narrow strips across her skin. She whispers something you don't quite catch, and you decide it doesn't matter.