Too Hot for Teacher: Night School

Jade Kush frowned at the email glowing on her screen. Georgia Jones's grades had slipped, dragging the class average with them, and the student needed a talking-to. The call was quick and blunt: grades were tanking; what, if anything, could Jade do? Georgia asked for a tutor. Jade protested—she only worked with students during office hours—yet one plaintive sigh from the girl wore her down. A session was set for that same evening. She pictured the two of them at Georgia’s kitchen table, not ten minutes in Georgia’s bed with econ notes spread across the sheets. Georgia sat cross-legged, lithe and bright, pointing at graphs while her fingers traced lazy circles on Jade’s forearm, then tugged the hem of her blouse. Each time Jade steered them back to elasticities or marginal cost, Georgia drifted closer until her breath warmed the teacher’s neck. “This is wrong,” Jade muttered, cheeks flushed. Georgia smiled, teeth flashing, and promised silence. The promise dissolved the last of Jade’s resolve. Papers slid to the floor as mouths met skin. They peeled off clothes with hungry efficiency, tasting one another in greedy strokes, legs scissoring and hips grinding until the sheets were damp and the night air carried the slick sound of friction and pleasure. Georgia applied herself with the focus she should have shown in class, and for once Jade stopped grading.