The Teacher's Supernova Trap - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Six years ago, I was just a high school kid with a hopeless crush. Sophia Valentine had freshly graduated college—barely four years older than me, but she might as well have been on another planet.
Now I'm twenty-five, and Sophia? Can't be older than thirty—prime time for a woman who's fully come into her own, all confidence and wildfire energy.
So tell me—is she really like those tabloid rumors about stunning streamers who "thank" their top donors with… extracurriculars? Dinner, drinks, fun, and whatever comes after?
She's been my fantasy since forever. If she actually made an offer? I'd fold like a cheap suit.
Just thinking about it has me gulping down tea like it's oxygen.
Right on cue, my phone buzzes the second her stream ends: "Hey there, big spender. That Supernova Gift bought you a wish—name it."
Any wish.
Jesus. Who knew my untouchable high school dream girl had this side to her? Pulse jackhammering, I test my luck: "Send me some stocking teases."
The second I hit send, I'm wearing a hole in my floor.
One excruciating minute. Radio silence.
I groan. Smooth move, genius. Charm takes finesse, and you just bulldozed in like a horny teenager.
Fumbling for damage control, I type: "Kidding! Don't ghost me—"
Then—buzz.
She actually sent them.
Multiple shots, followed by a voice note that curls around my spine: "Freshly taken just for you, sweetheart. Hope I meet expectations."
First few photos? Long legs sheathed in stockings, teasing flashes of thigh under a skirt that hugs every curve.
Next two? Half-body shots. A white blouse with strategic buttons undone, barely containing the view.
Light makeup, flushed cheeks, lips parted just so—every frame is a masterclass in temptation. The kind that short-circuits rational thought.
My teenage fantasy, served up on a silver platter. Who knew the universe would dangle her back in front of me?
If the photos are this bold… how far would she go if I asked?
Before I can overthink it, another voice note arrives, lower this time: "Well? Do I pass inspection? Want me to dance for you next?"
That voice—sweet smoke and velvet—sends a jolt straight south.
The fact that it's her, the woman I once pined for from the back row, annihilates my self-control. I type without thinking: "Streaming's gotta be exhausting. Let me buy you late-night bites?"
Her reply is instant, syrup-slow: "Mmm, perfect. Off at 8:30. Text when you're outside."
The photos wrecked me. Seeing her in person? I might spontaneously combust.
If she's this willing, why fight it? Only an idiot turns down a feast handed to him on a platter.
Tonight, with this woman in the flesh, is going straight into the hall of fame of my life.