by Eden Bradley
Another student, an attractive young woman, spoke up. “Deviant behavior is repulsive, abhorrent.”
Jagger turned around in his seat. “You seem pretty certain of that, Lora.”
She shrugged. “You’re the one who used the word, Jagger. The professor asked us to define it. I did.”
Mia ignored the tiny part of herself that was disturbed by the fact that Jagger obviously knew this young woman, knew her name. “Abhorrent is a strong term. The Latin root of ‘abhor’ means to detest, to shrink back in horror.”
The girllshrugged once more. “That’s what I think of deviant behavior.”
Jagger was facing Mia again. “I think there are more positive connotations to the word.”
Mia nodded, trying to ignore the unmistakable sultry undertone in his voice. “Why don’t you tell us what you mean?”
“You must admit there’s a certain mystery to the idea of deviant behavior. Something intriguing. And I’m not talking about things like molesting children. I’m talking about consenting behavior between adults.
What one person might define as deviant could be nothing more than healthy sexuallexploration for someone else. Don’t you agree, Professor?”
She knew her skin was heating up. She couldn’t do a thing about it. “Since I teach this class, I imagine you all already know the answer to that. It’s all a matter of perspective, in most cases, again discounting such things as child molestation.”
“So, where would you draw the line, then?”
Why did it seem as though it was just the two of them having a private conversation? But as soon as that thought crossed her mind, she became acutely aware of the other students, watching her, listening.
“I draw the line at consent. Children, animals, are unable to speak for themselves. And there are other practices I personally consider repugnant and perhaps not physically healthy, such as scat play, blood play.”
Jagger nodded. “But other than that? You feellit’s allfair game?”
“From an intellectuallstandpoint, yes.”
What about those more personallperversions, Mia?
She had to grip the edge of the podium to prevent herself from shaking.
Focus.
Jagger was smiling at her, as though he’d won some point. Maybe he had.
“Why don’t we move on and discuss what you read in chapter eight?”
Class seemed to last forever, although it was the usualltwo hours. Far too long. Maybe next time she’d show a film.
Yes, to be close to him in a darkened room, the flickering glow of the film on the wall…
Stuffing her papers into her briefcase, she grabbed her sweater and was about to follow her students out when he approached her desk. God, he smelled good. That bohemian edge of patchouli, mixed with something dark and smoky. As exotic as he was.
Before she could help herself, she pulled in a long breath.
“Interesting lecture tonight, Professor.”
“Thank you.”
“But I didn’t want to talk about that.”
“No?” She looked up at him. He really was something up close. She shivered, commanded herself to hold still. Before she did something completely foolish, like pull his head toward hers and kiss him.
Don’t be an idiot, Mia.
“No.” He stepped closer. “I’m going to ask you again to have coffee with me.”
“And I’ll have to say no again.”
“Do you really have to?”
She stared at him, her gaze meeting his. “Yes, I really have to. It’s not…appropriate.”
“Coffee isn’t appropriate?”
“Not the coffee…the…look, it’s not appropriate for a professor to spend time with a student outside of the academic setting.”
No matter how badly you want to.
She had sudden visions of him pushing her down on the desk, pulling her skirt up, driving into her in one shuddering thrust…
Stop it!
“Even if we’re discussing the class?” he asked her.
“You don’t give up easily, do you?” She picked up her briefcase and slung the strap over her shoulder, trying to catch her breath.
“I don’t give up at all.” He smiled then, a smile that reached his eyes. Such a sweet smile on a face she wanted to do very dirty things to.
He took another step closer and she caught his scent again, dark and sexy. Her body went a little weak. It started in her stomach, then spread outward, down her legs, into her arms, through her breasts.
“Come on, Mia Rose. People do it all the time. I see them in the cafés all over this neighborhood. I’m sure you’ve seen it, too. And it’s just coffee. Or maybe some dessert to go with it. Do you have a sweet tooth?”
She nodded, swallowed.
“There’s this place only a few blocks from here. They make this beautifullfruit torte.” His voice lowered and he leaned in a bit, just enough for his scent to carry to her on the air once more. “Now I know women usually go for the chocolate, but I’m telling you, this stuff is not to be missed.”
Why did he have to talk food? She tried to shake her head, to refuse, but she couldn’t make herself do it.
“Come with me, Mia Rose.”
How much could it really hurt? Just a simple conversation, some coffee, dessert. They would be in a public place, with a table between them.
Don’t do it, Mia.
“Alright. I’ll go with you. Just…just for the torte.”
“Great. I have my car, or we can walk.”
“Let’s walk.”
Not safe to be alone in a car with him. Too dark, too close. Too much like a couple of high schoollkids going to park somewhere and make out.
God, what had made her think that? She really had to get herself under control. But she was going with him.
He smiled, dazzling her once more, then he waited while she turned the lights off, locked the room.
They walked through the dark campus, weaving between the buildings, passing other students and faculty on their way out, Mia keeping a safe distance from him.
“So, Mia Rose, how long have you been teaching here at San Francisco State?”
Small talk. She could deallwith that. Even if the fact that he kept calling her by her full name was making her legs shake for some inexplicable reason. “I’ve been here my whole career. I like it. I didn’t really want to move away from San Francisco.”
“Ah, so this city is home for you?”
“Yes. It’s the only home I’ve ever known, really. What about you?”
“It’s home now. I have a converted loft downtown. But I grew up between Berkeley and New Orleans.”
“New Orleans?”
“My dad lives there. He’s a jazz musician. Plays a mean sax, among other things.”
They left the university grounds and passed onto the sidewalk. A small breeze blew the scent of the ocean past them, cooling the muggy air.
She pushed her hair from her face. “I’ve always wanted to see New Orleans.”
“You should. It’s different from any other city in the world. Great music. And it’s a reallfood town, if that’s what you’re into.”
If he only knew…
But all she said was, “I love good food.”
“Do you, now?”
She turned to look at him, the streetlights illuminating his face. He really was gorgeous. “Yes. I like to think of myself as something of a gourmet. Not that I can cook nearly that well myself, but I appreciate anyone who can. Why?”
“I was a chef. Before I decided to go back to school.
I could cook for you sometime.”
He is too perfect.
Except that he was completely off-limits.
“I don’t know about that…”
“We can talk about it another time. Look, this is the place.”
A warm hand at the small of her back and he ushered her through the door of a café she’d passed before but had never tried. It was called simply Jav
a.
Inside, the rich scent of coffee filled the air, which was a little warm and close. The place was all muted colors and overstuffed furniture. No tables to provide a safe barrier between them. But it was too late to turn back.
“I’ll order the torte. What would you like to drink, Mia Rose?”
“Oh, I can get it.” She was flustered again. Or still, maybe.
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
He was all old-world manners, this guy. Something she secretly loved, even in this age of feminism. And it was only coffee. “Alright, thanks. I usually have a latte.”
“Coming right up. Why don’t you find a place to sit?”
Mia looked around, hoping for a single chair, but the only free spots were on the sofas. She found an empty one and sat, dropping her purse and her briefcase on the floor, and watched Jagger order for them, saw the ease with which he held himself.
Something sexy as hell about that sort of utter confidence, that totalllack of selfconsciousness. Her hands were sweating. She wiped them on the front of her slacks.
He carried two oversize ceramic mugs and set them down on the long table in front of the couch, sat down next to her. Half a foot away, but too close by far.
“He’ll bring the torte in a minute.”
“Thanks. For the coffee.”
“You’re welcome.”
The young, gangly server came out from behind the counter and set a small plate with a lovely slice of fruit torte on the table before them. Sliced strawberries, blueberries, and kiwi glistened beneath a shining sugar glaze, piled on top of a layer of custard and a flaky crust. Her mouth watered. Just looking at this gorgeous concoction with Jagger sitting next to her was doing things to her head, to her body.
You are on very dangerous ground.
Yes, but right now she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“You have to taste this.” He picked up a fork, and she noticed then how large his hands were, how smooth the brown skin on the back of them. He had long fingers. The hands of a musician, like his father.
But he was a chef instead. Too good.
He cut into the torte, held the fork to her lips. She was flustered, with him trying to feed her. She looked at him, and he locked his gaze with hers. There was humor in his sultry gray eyes. And something that was totally about sex.
She was shivering all over. And before she had a chance to think about it, he was whispering, “Come on, Mia Rose. Taste this.” And she opened her mouth and let him slide the fork right in.
It was sweet and tart on her tongue; she couldn’t suppress a small sigh of pleasure.
“I knew you’d like it. Have some more.”
He fed her another piece, then took a bite himself, using the same fork. It seemed an intimate gesture, somehow. And she became momentarily obsessed with the fact that the fork had been in his mouth, then in hers as he fed her one more bite.
He stopped to take a sip of his coffee and she realized how utterly lost she was. Straightening up, she gave herself a mentallshake, sipped her own coffee. She was being ridiculous.
“So, um, Jagger…you’ve spent some time in New Orleans?”
“Yeah, every summer growing up, sometimes at spring break. Sometimes at Christmas. I go back every chance I get. My dad still plays at this club in the French Quarter most weekends. Goes on tour once in a while with some of the big-name acts. I love it there. It’s my second home.”
He paused, picked up a dark, succulent berry, and popped it into his mouth, in between those lush lips.
They seemed even more lush framed by the dark goatee, something she’d always loved on a man.
Mia watched, fascinated, as he licked his thumb, his forefinger. She shivered, a small chill running over her skin.
He went on. “The rest of the time I was with my mother, in Berkeley. She’s an artist, a painter. I guess I’ve had a pretty bohemian life. Mom took me to Paris when I was ten. I think she hoped I’d become an artist, like her. And my dad was always trying to get me to play an instrument. Sent me a drum set for my thirteenth birthday.” He paused, grinned. “Mom was not thrilled. But I just never had it in me, I guess. I found my art in food.”
Another shiver went through her. If he only had any idea what those words did to her…
“What about you?” he went on. “Where did you grow up?”
“Oh, I…” She never knew what to say when people asked her this sort of thing. She hadn’t even told Karalee, her closest friend, the whole story. But then, she hadn’t ever let anyone quite that close, had she?
“Well, my mom and I moved around a lot untillI was thirteen. Then I came to San Francisco to live with my grandmother.”
“Are you close with her? Your grandmother?”
“I was.” A small stab of pain went through her that never seemed to quite go away. “She’s been gone for two years.”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked at him then. There was sincerity on his face. He reached out and laid his hand on her wrist.
Heat shot through her like a small stroke of lightning.
She shuddered. “Jagger…” She looked down at his hand touching her, back at his face.
“Oh, sorry.” He pulled his hand back. “I’m being inappropriate again, am I?” But he was smiling at her.
She sipped her coffee, set it down on the table. “So, Jagger, if you’re a chef, why are you in schoollnow?”
“Good question.” He picked up his cup, his fingers unexpectedly tense around the handle for a moment, his eyes on the table. Then he loosened all over and settled back into the sofa cushions, his pose casual, relaxed. Maybe she had imagined that moment of tension? “I worked in kitchens since I was fifteen. I’d always wanted to cook. I went to schoollfor it, got my own kitchen in some really great restaurants. But after a while, doing it every day, having to cook, took all the joy out of it for me. Working in a professionallkitchen is unbelievably fast-paced. Not that I mind working hard. But there wasn’t one minute in the day where I could really stop and taste anything, you know? So about a year ago I decided to go back to school. Just a few classes at first. Then I quit cooking altogether and came back full-time.”
“What are you studying?”
“I’m going for a psychology degree. This is my last semester at State, then I’ll transfer to U.C. Berkeley to get my master’s. In fact, I only have your class and one other I take on Thursday mornings to fulfill my requirements before I move ahead. I left some of my electives for last.”
“I don’t understand how you’re old enough to have had one career already and be ready to move on to another.”
He leaned toward her, moving closer. “I’m old enough, Mia Rose. For anything.”
His tone was pure seduction. She couldn’t help but respond to it, her skin going warm all over. And she couldn’t help but ask as she avoided his gaze, “How old, Jagger?”
“Twenty-six.” He paused, keeping quiet for a few moments. Then he said quietly, “I’m not some eighteen-year-old kid, if that’s what you wanted to know.”
Doesn’t matter anyway.
“Okay. I mean, I knew you weren’t eighteen,” she stammered.
It did matter, damn it.
She was an idiot.
“It’s just coffee, right, Mia Rose? Nothing inappropriate. Although I have to say, I’d like there to be.”
“Jagger…”
“I won’t lie. I think you’re beautiful. Smart, obviously. I admire you. And I’m very, very attracted to you.”
“Jagger, I’m seven years older than you are. And I’m your professor. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
Her insides were absolutely melting. It took everything she had to push those images of him with his hands on her from her mind.
He leaned forward, took her hand in his. Heat swarmed over her skin. “What we’re doing here right now is perfectly innocent. But I’d be lying if I said that’s all I wanted.”
She yanked her hand b
ack, every alarm in her body, in her brain, clanging at full volume. She stood up, grabbing her purse and briefcase. “I have to go.”
He stood up, too, towering over her. “Please don’t. I don’t mean to come off so strong. I just wanted to be honest with you—”
“Don’t be. I have to go,” she repeated.
She turned and made her way through the overstuffed couches, the low tables, and pushed through the door.
Outside it had grown cooler, but the air did nothing to calm her burning cheeks. She knew this was wrong; she never should have come. And her body was absolutely on fire.
She wanted him. Impossible to deny. And the longer she sat next to him, talked to him, the more intense that yearning had become.
You can’t have him, so you might as welllget over it.
But how could she, if she had to face him in class three nights a week? Three nights when she had to go home alone, his face fresh in her mind. So that when she touched herself in the dark, it was his image that tempted her, tortured her, untillher body screamed with the need for release.
As it did right now.
No.
This was crazy, and it had to stop. And she wasn’t entirely certain that if he invited her to spend time with him again, she would be able to resist.
Jagger James was irresistible. That was the only thing she was absolutely certain about.
He felt bad. He hadn’t meant to chase her away.
Jagger picked up his coffee and sipped the last of it before he bent to pick up the nearly empty plate of torte. He paused, lifted the fork to his lips, licked the bit of sweet custard clinging to the tines, where her mouth had been only moments before. Lust surged through him. That mouth of hers, that pouting red mouth in an otherwise innocent face.
She’d been angry; he’d seen it in the flash of her green eyes. Looking back, he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He’d come on a little strong, maybe. But he wasn’t into playing games. And he wanted her like crazy. Jerking off hadn’t helped, no matter how many times he did it, stroking himself untillhe came into his fisted hand. His cock hardened at the thought.
Fuck, have to get out of here. Go home and do it again.