A Fixed Point In Time

"You've been thinking about my tits all week, haven't you."

Not a question. Her hips roll forward. Everything leaves your body at once. Breath, thought, whatever you were holding onto. She watches it go. That's the thing about her. Her eyes track every reaction and she takes note, cuts it into memory, only to use it against you at the exact right moment.

"Haven't you," she says.

She's been doing this for twenty minutes. Same deliberate pace, hands flat on your chest, the city light from the window cutting her jaw into something architectural. The slip dress is on the floor—black satin, still warm. The white lace underneath stayed on longer than everything else and now that's gone too. Her hair is down, loose from where it was pinned up when she walked in. She looks nothing like the woman who walked into that seminar four years ago with a paperback tucked under her arm and sat two seats ahead of you and didn't look at anyone.

She looks better. The city light on her collarbone, the flush already working down her chest and throat, her thighs spread warm across yours, the bare heat of her pressed right where you're hardest—she looks like something you don't deserve and she knows it.

"You miss this," she says, rolling her hips slow—deep, measured, the pull of her enough to wipe your mind clean—watching your face come apart. "Don't you. You miss how tight I am."

God, yes. You miss exactly that. The grip of her, the slick heat of it, the way she takes you so completely that there's nowhere for your brain to go but here.

She leans forward just enough that her chest is in your face and she feels you inhale and she smiles, easy about it. "Say it."

"Yes." You can barely get it out. "God, yes—I fucking miss you, Jimin—"

"How much." She doesn't speed up. She never speeds up when you want her to. "Tell me specifically."

"Every day." Your hands tighten on her hips and she lets you grip but doesn't let you move her. "I thought about you every day—"

"About me." She rolls forward and holds there, walls tight around you, and the sound you make is embarrassing. She holds it a beat—tilts her head, like she's reviewing footage. "Or about this."

"Both." Honest. Completely honest. You have no capacity for anything else right now. "Both, Jimin, please—"

"Please what."

"Move. Please move."

She considers this. "Since you asked nicely." Her hips start moving faster, tight walls gripping your cock at every thrust. "And since you admitted that you missed me."

"You missed the unit about Wong Kar-wai"

First thing you said to her. The elevator was slow. It was always slow. You'd been standing in it together for eleven seconds and your brain, apparently, produced: you missed the unit about Wong Kar-wai. Accurate. Devastating as an opener. Fucking smooth you dumbass.

She looked at you. Eyes that always look like they're about to say something they won't. Slight angle of the chin. Zero defensiveness.

"I watched them on my own," she said.

"All of them?"

"All of them."

The elevator doors opened. She walked out first. You followed, slightly behind, thinking: of course she did.

She rolls her hips forward—slow, deep, the whole length of her taking you in—and whatever you were thinking evaporates. You don't even catch what it was. Just gone, replaced by the heat of her, the tight grip of her around you, and nothing else makes it through.

Of course.

Of course she came back.

Second semester she disappeared for six weeks. No explanation in the syllabus, no note to the class. Her seat just stopped being occupied and the seminar felt structurally wrong the whole time, like a wall had been quietly removed and no one could figure out which one.

You watched the empty chair. Took notes. Checked the attendance sheet once—her name sitting there unsigned, week after week—and told yourself it was fine.

She came back on a Thursday and sat down and opened her notebook and caught up on six weeks of coursework in one session without appearing to try. Like she'd never left. Like the six weeks were a rounding error.

You considered saying something. You'd been rehearsing it. Landed on nothing that wasn't embarrassing.

You watched her from two rows back the rest of that semester and thought: where do you go? And what do you do?

You think it was a Thursday. You've been saying Thursday for four years. It might have been a Wednesday.

You still think that. Even now. Especially now. You always look for her.

"Look at me."

You do. Her hair loose around her face, the flush starting at her throat and working down. She moves and you feel it everywhere—that tight heat, the pull and grip of it—and your hands find her hips without asking your permission.

"Don't close your eyes," she says. "I want to see what I do to you."

She rolls forward and holds. Just holds. You make a sound that has no dignity in it and she tilts her head, almost clinical.

"There it is," she says quietly. "That's the one." A slight grin. "Cute."

"Jimin—"

"I'm not moving until you look at me properly."

You look at her properly. Flushed but controlled, voice still level, watching you come apart from a position of complete safety. This is the version of her that destroys you—not when she loses it, but right before. When she still has it and is choosing, piece by piece, to take it from you.

She moves. One slow roll. All the way down.

The breath leaves your body and doesn't come back the same way.

"Good," she says. Quiet as a set just after the director shouts action.

She sets a pace then—measured, controlled, hips rolling in long deep strokes that pull every nerve ending you have to the surface. The tight grip of her eases on the pull, clenches on the push, her weight shifting forward and back with the kind of control that makes it hard to think in full sentences.

You can feel exactly how wet she is. Every stroke makes it obvious.

She keeps her eyes on yours the whole time. When yours drift she stops completely, sits there full and still and warm around you, and waits.

"Eyes on me baby," she says. "I'm not a film you can look away from."

"I know—"

"Then prove it."