by T. K. Leigh
The instructor increases the resistance on the bikes and we all pedal even harder, the ache in my legs a temporary distraction.
“When I agreed to that first non-date with Julian,” Evie continues, panting, “I had no idea who he was. And it’s probably a good thing. I’m not sure I would have gone. I probably would have second-guessed the entire scenario. Hell, I did that anyway, but having no clue who he was allowed me to relax and get to know him. I never looked him up, apart from that one time you showed me his Wikipedia page. I got to learn about Julian from him, not the Internet.”
She exhales a breath, her face reddening. “And who the fuck decided spin classes were a good idea?” Her eyes dart to Nora. “It was you, wasn’t it? Sadist. Why can’t we have girls’ time with ice cream instead?”
“That’s a different situation, E,” I argue when Nora simply shrugs in response to Evie’s accusation. “Julian Gage is well known. Lincoln Moore isn’t.”
“How do you know?” Nora asks, then does a double take, brows furrowed. “Wait a minute. His name is Lincoln Moore?”
“Yes…,” I answer in a drawn-out voice.
She stares at me, mouth agape. I brace myself to find out he’s now officially off-limits due to the girl code. Before she settled down with Jeremy, her fiancé, she was a date-aholic. We often compared “war stories” about what it’s like finding someone you feel a connection with in the New York City wildlife. I never cared about the connection, not like Nora, although she claims she didn’t, either. That she was simply enjoying her twenties. Secretly, I could tell she was looking for more than a fleeting romp in the sack.
Maybe I was, too, but I didn’t realize it.
“Damn, that’s a great name. Lincoln Moore.” She fans herself, continuing to pedal, making it appear effortless when everyone else in the class is ready to stick the instructor’s head on a spike in revolt. I suppose running a yoga and meditation studio has its benefits. “Does he have you begging for more?” She grins mischievously.
“No.” I pause before breaking into a smile. “More like screaming.”
“That’s my girl.” Nora reaches toward me and we bump fists. Some may find our conversation inappropriate, but we’ve never shied away from topics some consider taboo. That’s probably why I’ve remained friends with Nora and Evie…and even Izzy…for as long as I have. They’re as comfortable with discussing sex as I am.
“Scream for more all you want,” Evie interjects. “Just promise you won’t Google him.”
“He Googled me first.”
“I bet he did,” she says under her breath.
“To send you underwear,” Nora reminds me. “Not to figure out who you are. I know how you work. You’ll find something random and convince yourself not to pursue him. Don’t. Get to know him. Don’t assume he has some weird fetish because you misread something while stalking his social media profiles.”
“Well, he does have a weird fetish.”
They perk up.
“For my panties.”
We all erupt in laughter, eliciting a few glares, but we ignore them.
“I’m happy for you, Chloe,” Nora says in all sincerity.
“Me, too,” Evie adds. “And, for the love of a magical penis, will you take some of your own advice?”
“My own advice?”
“Exactly. When I wasn’t sure what to make of Julian going from hot to cold in three point five seconds, do you remember what you told me?”
I don’t immediately respond.
“You told me to enjoy the ride.”
“On his rocket,” I add to cut through the tension.
She smiles for a second before fixing her expression once more.
“Yes. And I’ll give you the same advice here. Chloe, I’ve known you five years.”
“And I’ve known you ten,” Nora pipes up. “I’ve never seen you this excited about a guy.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you excited about a guy, period,” Evie offers, then adds quickly, “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not a bad thing. I just… I want you to be happy. If that means pursuing something serious with Lincoln Moore, great. If you want to keep things casual, that’s great, too. Don’t think too much. Let life lead you down the path you’re meant to travel.”
I take a swig of my water, giving her a smug grin. “Strange words coming from a woman who, six months ago, used to plan every minute of every day down to the nanosecond.”
Evie playfully punches my bicep. “I did not. At least not down to the nanosecond.” She winks. “But you know what I mean. I understand how it is when you find yourself in uncharted territory. You over-analyze everything. I know I do. And as much as you’d like to think we’re opposites, we’re more alike than you think. So have fun with Lincoln Moore—”
“You can just call him Lincoln.”
She pauses, her eyes scrunched together in contemplation, before she quickly shakes her head. “Nope. Can’t do it. His name rolls off the tongue too perfectly.”
“She’s right,” Nora agrees. “It does.”
“It really is the perfect last name for a sex god.” Evie giggles.
“I never said he was a sex god.”
“You didn’t have to,” Nora states. “It goes with the territory.”
“What territory?”
Nora and Evie share yet another look. It makes me wonder if they have a secret code when it comes to me. I’ve never exactly given them a reason to focus on me.
For the past five years, our friendship has focused on Nora’s seemingly never-ending search for Mr. Right while insisting all she cared about was a decent lay, although we all knew she wanted more. To our surprise, she met someone on Tinder who felt the same.
Then there was Evie’s breakup with her long-time boyfriend and her whirlwind fake relationship with one of Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors, which ended up being a lot more real than either intended. Compared to them, my life is boring, mainly because I tend to keep the details to myself.
Evie pinches her lips together before answering. “You have high standards.”
“Says the girl who once berated me for sleeping with anything with a pulse.”
“To which you replied you were sampling the buffet before you went back for seconds.”
“Precisely.”
“My point exactly, Chloe. You rarely go back for seconds.”
“I’ve seen a few guys more than once,” I argue.
“True,” Nora says, finally piping up. “But I think this time’s different.”
I roll my eyes. “All I promised him was a chance to get to know me. He left the ball in my court, so to speak.”
“Well, if I were you,” Evie begins, “I wouldn’t wait to throw that ball. I’d toss it now. Hell, I’d spike it to show him you’re not stringing him along.”
“He knows I’m not.”
“Trust me,” Nora interjects. “A single, attractive man who’s interested in more than a quick fling is a rarity, especially in New York. Most men you’ll meet are either married to their career, married to their bachelorhood, or married to their wives. Yes, you say all he’s asking for is a chance to get to know you, but he’s giving you a chance, too. Don’t fuck it up.”
“Gee, thanks for the words of encouragement.” My tone oozes sarcasm.
She shrugs. “What are friends for?”
Nora’s and Evie’s warnings seem to play on repeat in my mind for the rest of the afternoon and evening, festering, making it impossible for me to concentrate on anything other than Lincoln and what he’s doing. Is he out with friends? At work? Having dinner with another woman he’s also sent panties to?
The idea of him stealing another woman’s panties is all the motivation I need to get off the couch, shower, and make my way to his apartment. He surprised me with a present at work today. What better way to spike the ball back onto his side of the court than by showing up at his apartment wrapped in a present for him?
Bringing my hand up to the d
oor, I knock softly, my insides vibrating with anticipation of how Lincoln will react. I strain to listen for any sound coming from within. At first, there’s nothing but silence. Then I hear a faint rustling. Shoeless footsteps gradually grow closer. There’s a pause, and I assume Lincoln’s checking to see who could be here at ten on a Friday night.
When the door opens, he peers at me with a furrowed brow. He parts his lips, presumably to ask me what I’m doing here, but I place a finger over them, silencing him.
Without saying a word, I loosen the belt on my coat and slowly unfasten each of the buttons, allowing my jacket to fall open, exposing my body clad in the negligee he’d sent me earlier.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, a bull in heat. His gaze rakes over me, calculating, agonizing, as if imprinting every inch of me to memory.
Approaching him, I stand on my toes, my lips ghosting against his. “That’s the plan, Mr. Moore.”
A growl rips from his throat as he tugs my body hard against his, his mouth covering mine, devouring, possessing, consuming. I curve into him, signaling with my acquiescence to his touch that I’m his for the night.
Maybe longer.
Chapter Sixteen
My heels skid on the tile in the lobby of the journalism building on campus as I rush to the elevator, checking my watch. Ten minutes past three on Thursday afternoon. Meaning I’m ten minutes late for my first day of class. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m notorious for being late, especially when sexting with Lincoln Moore.
Lincoln. Just Lincoln.
Ever since I appeared at his door last Friday, scantily clad, we’ve seen each other every day. And every day, I grow more and more addicted to his touch, his essence, his everything.
Once the elevator doors close, I pull out my phone and read through our most recent exchange, unable to stop the smile from tugging on my lips.
Lincoln: Have I mentioned today how much I love your legs?
Me: My memory’s not what it used to be. I am closing in on thirty. Why don’t you refresh my memory?
Lincoln: You’re still a baby. And I love your legs. Actually, I’m not so sure love is the correct word. I think about them nearly every waking moment.
Me: Nearly?
Lincoln: Yes. Nearly. Except when I’m buried deep inside you. Then I can only think about how amazing your pussy feels when it clenches around me.
Desire, thick and intense, coils in my core as I attempt to come up with a response, having left him hanging once I realized I was running late. The elevator doors open and I scurry down the hallway toward my classroom, typing out a quick reply.
Sorry to leave you with your dick in your hands. Lost track of time. Have class. Maybe I can come over after and you can feel my pussy clench around you. You know, so you can take a break from thinking of my legs.
Once I hit send, I shove my phone into my bag, slowing when I reach the classroom. Fixing my frantic expression, I open the door and do my best to slip in unnoticed without interrupting class, smiling at a few familiar faces who don’t seem surprised to see I’m late on the first day.
I make my way toward one of the vacant seats in the middle of the room, trying to be as quiet as possible. It’s obvious by the stiff posture and annoyed breathing of the professor he’s not exactly pleased with my disruption.
When I’m about to slide into my chair, he finally turns around from where he’s written out the text of the First Amendment, and our eyes meet.
Ever have one of those dreams where everything seems perfect? Maybe your boss called you into his or her office and gave you that promotion you’ve been hoping for. Maybe Publishers Clearing House, if that’s even still a thing, showed up at your door with one of those oversized checks. Or maybe you ran into one of the hottest guys you’ve ever seen while grabbing your morning coffee. All great things, right?
Until you look down and realize you’re naked.
That’s what this moment feels like.
Correction.
This is worse.
Because this isn’t some dream.
This is real.
Lincoln Moore is my college professor.
I’ve been sleeping with my college professor.
Without knowing it.
Fuck…
A throat clearing cuts through the heavy silence. Unsure what else to do, I slink into my chair, doing my best to hide behind the girl sitting in front of me. Even so, the slight tremble in Lincoln’s hand as he writes on the board doesn’t escape my attention, evidence he’s as surprised about this turn of events as me.
Had I walked into this room and one of the other men I’d slept with had been lecturing the class, I wouldn’t have been so dumbfounded. But this is different.
Lincoln is different.
I try to convince myself this is for the best, that this never would have worked out. Listening to his lecture solidifies this assessment. He needs someone who can be his intellectual equal. Someone he can debate about what should be classified as obscene and not deserving of First Amendment protections. I’d barely be able to get out a few words without stumbling over them.
Conversation breaks out in the room and I glance up from the blank page of my notebook to see the other students packing up their things. When I glance at my watch, I’m surprised to see it’s fifteen minutes to six. I’d just sat through almost an entire three-hour class without hearing a word, too consumed with this strange, new reality.
Snapping out of my daze, I scramble to shove my belongings into my bag and leave without having to confront Lincoln and endure an awkward conversation where we pretend we don’t know each other. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, but I’ll figure something out. Try to drop the class. Do an independent study. Something…anything so I don’t have to come back to this classroom.
My eyes averted, I attempt to escape unnoticed when a familiar deep voice foils my plan.
“Miss Davenport.”
I stop in my tracks, my shoulders tensing as I exhale a frustrated breath. I hate that he used such a formal tone. It’s one he’s used with me in the bedroom, but it was part of our game. This isn’t a game.
In an effort to appear unaffected by this turn of events, I fix my expression and slowly face him, staring into green eyes that mere hours ago looked upon my naked body with an unmatched hunger. “Yes, Professor Moore?”
When I address him this way, he flinches. “I’d like a word.”
“I have somewhere I need to be.”
“I insist.” He widens his stance, his gaze darkening. It’s not quite a glare, but it’s not a compassionate look, either. It’s a new expression, one that tells me not to test him, that this isn’t something we can avoid discussing. “Just a few moments of your time, then you can go on with your life.”
His statement hits me hard. By the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in a thick swallow, I get the feeling it was just as difficult for him to say as it was for me to hear.
On a deep inhale, I nod, trailing a few steps behind him as he leads me toward the faculty corridor. This entire scenario makes me feel like an errant teenager who acted out in class and is being handed off to my guidance counselor, who will press me to talk about my parents’ divorce and how I’m “coping”.
Except I’m an adult.
Who just found out she’s been screwing the professor of the one class she needs to finally graduate this spring.
So much for proving to my father I’m not a complete fuck-up.
Once the door to the office closes behind us, allowing us to talk in private, he heads to the window, peering at the city surrounding us. I simply stare at him, unsure what to say. Then he glances over his shoulder.
“Did you know?” There’s a hint of pain in his tone.
Aghast, my eyes widen. “What?”
“When you saw me in Vegas…” He fully faces me. “Did you know who I was and not say anything in the hopes of getting me in bed?”
“Of course not
! Why would you think that?”
“How could I not think that, Chloe?” He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at it. “This seems to be too much of a coincidence.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Yeah. Because I’d go through the trouble of starting to fall for a guy, only to have to walk away when I learn he’s my goddamn professor!”
“I don’t know. I—” He stops short, inhaling sharply. “What did you say?”
“That you’re my professor…,” I answer in a drawn-out voice.
“No.” He shakes his head, licking his lips. “Before that.” His tone becomes tranquil, expression softening.
I replay the words and stiffen at the truth that poured so freely from my mouth. His eyes plead with me, and I can’t deny him this.
“That I wouldn’t fall for a guy if I knew there was zero chance of survival.”
“You were falling for me?” He steps toward me, his gaze raking over me, as if searching for something. What, I’m not sure.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” I tear my eyes from his.
A part of me wants him to tell me we’ll make it work. That the connection between us is too strong to throw away over something as trivial as this. But he doesn’t, the compassionate Lincoln transforming back to the man he was the past three hours as he lectured the class.
“You’re right. It doesn’t matter anymore. It can’t matter anymore.”
He walks to his desk and pulls out a thin book, Policies and Procedures written on the front in bold letters. He flips to the table of contents before turning to the appropriate page, scanning it.
“Right.” His tone is firm when he looks up. “According to the conduct code, as long as the previous relationship is disclosed, it’s not a big deal.”
I hug my jacket tighter around my body, my stomach queasy as I listen to Lincoln talk about me as if I’m just a problem in need of fixing, not a person he once cared for.