Kept by the Professor

by Sasha Gold

  I’ve worked on plenty of college campuses and have never even looked at a student. Lilly, though… the moment my lips touched hers, I lost all sense of reason. My blood heats at the memory of her kiss. Standing by the window, I scan the students walking the campus below. I can’t help myself. I crave her with some sort of primitive hunger and need to catch a glimpse of her.

  Another text comes in, one from a headhunter in Dubai. He wants to know what it would take to get my help on a project in late summer. Usually this sort of stuff gets my blood pumping. Travel. Big technical ventures that come with big paychecks. Not anymore. I came back to the area to be near family for a short while, but now that I’ve met Lilly, I’m not making any plans. Not until I know what she wants.

  Instead of scanning the crowd of students below, I decide on a different tact. I’ll check her schedule. Wouldn’t she be surprised if I strolled over to the Art Department and caught her just as she was heading into some senior-level art history class?

  I sit at my desk and search for Lilly’s schedule. I wait as the outdated computer searches for her file. Normally, slow hardware irritates me, but all I can think of is Lilly. The idea of seeing her on campus fills me with wicked amusement. She thinks she’s going to get away from me, that she can forget what happened? We’re not done. We’re nowhere near done. Period. She’s not going to blow me off with a sassy maybe. She can try maybe again and find herself over my knee.

  And finally, after what feels like forever, the damned computer brings up Lilly’s class schedule.

  Chapter Seven

  Lilly

  My friends and I have recurring dreams about school. In the light of day, when we talk about them over coffee or dinner or whatever, the dreams are always hilarious. We laugh at how silly our dreams can get. The scenarios are always the same cringy sequence of events. We’re late, maybe partially naked, or at least missing a crucial item of clothing. We’ve arrived at school, high school or college, doesn’t matter, we’ve walked into the one class we freaking hate, improperly dressed, only to find that there’s a test we didn’t know about.

  I’ve talked with lots of friends about this common, very terrible dream. Comparing notes with others always helps us see how crazy the dreams are. Why do we torture ourselves? Maybe it’s our brain’s way to make sure that terrible, awful thing never happens. Our subconscious or whatever is urging us to be fricking careful!

  The other common vibe we always notice is that not one of our worst days is even a fraction as horrifying as our nightmares. We might have a bad day, do poorly on a test, but we never actually walk into class only to get surprised by a test. A quiz, maybe, but not a test.

  I certainly have never gotten surprised by a test and a new professor, a professor who, a few hours ago, had his mouth on my breast.

  Not until today.

  I stand in the doorway, blinking, praying that this is a hallucination. It’s my brain, or conscience maybe, torturing me. A sort of shaking noise distracts me from the man standing at the front of the room. It’s the plate of oatmeal cookies I baked. The aluminum foil rattles against the plate because my hand is suddenly vibrating.

  “Algebra 1013?” Ryker, the vision from my waking nightmare, asks me in an icy tone.

  I nod.

  “Have a seat.” He points to the empty chair in the front row.

  In a sort of a daze, I make my way to my seat. I might be the only student who notices his threatening glare. It’s just a flash behind his eyes as he sets the test on my desk. When he’s finished handing out the tests, he takes off his jacket. He rolls up his sleeves. I stare at his hands. My heart flutters and my mouth goes dry. Those hands were all over me just a few hours ago. I cringe, recalling the things he did to me, the way he made me writhe and cry out as I had an earth-shattering orgasm.

  My breathing gets a little faster and shallow as he goes to the whiteboard.

  He destroyed my den. Tore my best bra. Left me trembling and bewildered. After he left, I fell into a deep sleep and woke up feeling like an entirely different person. I’d thought sweet, yearning thoughts about him.

  Yeah, those are gone. Serves me right for getting down and dirty with a guy I obviously didn’t know at all. Ryker’s swagger jolts me from my daze.

  When I first saw Ryker, he was wearing faded, ripped jeans, an old t-shirt, boots and a tool belt. He’s still sort of rumpled looking but I have to admit he looks good, no, great actually. He’s got a sexy and smart professor vibe.

  “We have three more classes before the final,” Ryker announces. “This test will give me an idea of what sort of review you need.”

  He’s writing on the whiteboard, talking in a tight, clipped tone. A few girls mutter behind me, commenting on the way his jeans fit. I grit my teeth.

  “Those are my office hours and email,” he says, turning back to the class. “If you can’t meet during office hours, email me and we’ll arrange a time that works.”

  “My place or yours?” one of the girls behind me says under her breath.

  “I wonder if he offers extra credit?” another girl murmurs.

  “I bet he’s got wicked tats…”

  I rub my forehead and stare at his writing on the board. He printed his name. Ryker Stone. His email is a Grenville College email address, and his office hours are every afternoon from one to three. The classroom grows quiet as the students begin their test.

  Ryker works on his laptop, pointedly ignoring me. I can’t stop staring. I guess dinner’s off. Which is fine. Yeah. Good… right? I can hardly breathe. My heart races. My skin feels clammy. What would it be like to have dinner and just pretend this morning didn’t happen? Not awkward at all, right? Then I could work in a small, desperate plea for tutoring.

  And even better, I need to figure out a way to pay for Taffy’s vet bill. I should never have let him leave his card with the receptionist. I’ll bet he regrets that gallant gesture. The memory of what we did this morning floods my mind. Maybe he doesn’t regret offering to pay the bill. Maybe he’s just pissed he didn’t get more out of the deal.

  Panic tightens inside me, coiling around my lungs. I need to pass this class. Thirty percent of my grade is still up in the air. How much will this test be worth? I’d like to ask him, but the last thing I intend to do is raise my hand and wait for the professor to grant me permission to speak. I refuse to humiliate myself further.

  Instead, I begin the test. It’s short. Just ten questions. I’m the first one done. I hand it in, narrowing my eyes at the top of his head. Since I don’t want to walk out of the classroom, carrying the damn cookies that I made this morning, I set them on the corner of the desk. This is the second time I’m accidentally giving this man cookies.

  “Stay after class,” he says quietly.

  Not happening. I’m leaving. I refuse to speak to him. Hoisting my backpack to my shoulder, I lean over and add a note to the bottom of my test. Not happening.

  Chapter Eight

  Ryker

  I pace the length of my office window. I’ve eaten at least six of the cookies she brought but have barely tasted them. My teaching assistant, Jeremy, grades the tests. He gives me an inquisitive glance, one brow raised, so I shove the cookies in his direction. He takes one. “Thank you, sir.”

  Jeremy’s an older student, returning to school on the GI Bill. He served overseas and carries himself like a military man. I’m lucky to have a TA who’s a little older, seen a little of the world and might actually get shit done. I’ve taught here and there and had underclassmen who thought being a TA would be a blow-off job, so I appreciate a solid guy when I see one.

  “The cookies from one of your students, sir?”

  “Did you think I baked them for you?”

  He grins. “No, sir. I just figured it was the same little blonde gal who used to bring Dr. Murphy cookies and banana bread any time she needed help.”

  “I reckon it’s her.” I don’t want to sound too sure.

  “Lilly Wharton?”
>
  A jolt of possessive need blindsides me. I glare at Jeremy, waiting to see if he’s going to add a dirty comment about my girl. But he says nothing. He doesn’t even look away from his computer. He sits at his desk, his back ramrod straight, the cookie set aside as he works on the grades.

  I grit my teeth, trying to tamp down my jealous response. “Lilly. That sounds right. Pretty sure that’s her name.”

  The memory of kissing Lilly last night – or more correctly, this morning, plays over and over in my mind. It was like an erotic dream, the kind of dream I might have had in high school. Heavy petting, frantic kissing, a surprise orgasm just from having my mouth on her gorgeous, perfect breast. I wander to the window, lean against the frame and picture her tits and the way they filled my hand, creamy skin, lush with rosy tips that I need to taste again. I also want to make her cry out my name again, the next time, preferably with her silken thighs pressed against the side of my head.

  The outfit she wore to class flashes in my mind’s eye. Lust surges through my veins as I picture her standing in the doorway of the classroom. Sex-kitten boots. Schoolgirl skirt. Librarian blouse. She hit every fantasy I never knew I had.

  When she caught sight of me, she blushed. She was adorable. I allowed myself to admire her for a second or two, until I noticed some of the guys in the class admiring my girl, too. That’s when I told her to sit down on the front row where I could discreetly look at her without anyone blocking my view. Even better, the other little shit-weasels couldn’t check Lilly out, or at least not easily.

  Glancing at Jeremy, I can see that he’s grading her paper. I could have asked him to grade it right off the bat, but I don’t want to draw any attention to Lilly and our relationship. They could fire me which would be just fine, but I don’t want her to have any trouble.

  Jeremy shakes his head as he marks answer after answer incorrect. When he’s done, he writes her grade at the top. She scored a 20.

  Fuuck. That’s not good. Raking my fingers through my hair, I grimace and mutter a few more curse words. A bead of sweat rolls down my spine. How is she going to pass the final if she can’t pass a comprehensive review?

  I drive home, trying to figure out what the hell might have happened. Her grade is a mid-C. She hasn’t bombed any tests this whole semester. Did she crash and burn because I surprised her in class, or does she really struggle that much with basic algebra?

  Her car is parked by the carriage house. I go to her front door and raise my hand to knock. I pause when I hear her talking to someone. Her voice shakes as she explains that she doesn’t have the money. She’ll pay it back by the end of the summer.

  I don’t know what she needs money for, but the pain in her voice tightens a hard knot in my chest. Tension coils across my shoulders. A growl rumbles in my throat. Without waiting another moment, I yank open the door.

  She whirls to face me, clapping a hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking. She’s mostly successful. The only sound coming from her is a small warble of surprise.

  She can’t believe I’m in her house. I’m pissed that she’s upset. I hold out my hands with a ‘what gives’ gesture.

  My attention drifts from her expression of alarm. She’s still wearing what she wore to school. The sweet, sultry little mash-up of innocent pin-up girl, minus the boots. She backs away, holding up her hand to fend me off, like I might pounce on her. My gaze is drawn to her bare feet and fuck, if the girl isn’t sexy all the way to her pink-painted toes. This morning they were cherry red. I noticed and remembered. Now they’re pink. I imagine her painting her toes and the image makes my irritation fade away. I want to rub my thumb along the arch of her foot and bite her. I’ve never been into feet. I think I’m just into Lilly Wharton. Yeah, that’s it. Lilly’s my fetish.

  “I will figure it out on my own,” she says to the person on the phone. “Just like I always do.”

  Her words jar me from my dirty thoughts. She’s still talking on the phone, holding up her hand and staring at me wide-eyed, like I’m some lunatic. I draw a deep breath, trying to tamp down my need to touch Lilly. It helps to turn away. I let out a tortured sigh and eye the couch which is a bad idea too. This morning she and I had a life-changing make-out session on that couch. The memories are permanently burned into the caveman lobe of my brain.

  “I’ll just take out another loan,” she says. “You’re the last person I want to be indebted to.”

  I cast a quick glance her direction, frowning.

  She reddens. “Okay, maybe the second-to-last person I want to be indebted to.”

  With that, she says goodbye and hangs up. She folds her arms tightly across her chest and looks at me with reddened eyes. I didn’t notice her tear-filled eyes before because I was imagining running my tongue along the curve of her instep. Her fragile expression is a punch to my gut. I want to gather her in my arms, soothe her and make her pain go away. And then I’d like to tear apart the person who did this to her.

  I force myself to keep away from her. “Who made you cry?”

  “My mother. But I’m having a bad day in general,” she says softly. “Professor.”

  “Did I make you cry?” I’m really hoping the test didn’t upset her so much that she’s crying. Shit, she might be one of those math-phobic people and I’m probably not the most sensitive guy, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t the time to tell her about the 20 she scored.

  “No.” She sets her phone down and rubs her forehead. After a moment, she lifts her gaze to mine. “I had no idea you were a professor.”

  “I had no idea I was your professor.”

  “We can’t…” Her words fade as she waves her hand between us. “You know…”

  “I know, Lilly. I understand professors and students aren’t supposed to fraternize.”

  Her eyes dart to the couch. Just this morning, she and I were doing a lot more than fraternizing on that couch. I had my hands and mouth all over her. She’d writhed beneath me, practically begging for more, and I came damn near to giving her everything I had.

  Color rises to her face as she turns her attention back to me.

  “Why are you still in a freshman level class?”

  She blinks as her eyes water and she tries to keep from becoming distraught. I could soothe her with a gentle word, but I see the retreat in her face. She doesn’t want to talk about this. I’m going to drag the answer out of her and I’ll be that bastard because I need the answer. I can’t help her if she won’t level with me.

  Her face flushes a deep pink. Her breathing goes shallow and I begin to suspect what’s bothering her. Some sort of math or test anxiety. My fingers flex, my muscles tighten because I want to fold her into my arms and hold her close.

  Finally she speaks. “I just put off taking the class. That’s all.”

  I give her a bland look, one intended to make it clear that I don’t buy one word of her explanation. She folds her arms across her chest and raises her chin a notch. Her eyes are still shining from tears but she gives me a pretty good fuck-off look.

  She clears her throat. “Taffy’s doing better. The surgery went fine, but the bill is going to be $2,300. I plan to pay it when I pick him up.”

  “I’m paying the bill. I thought you understood that.”

  She regards me with a disbelieving look.

  “I already agreed. I don’t go back on my word.”

  “That doesn’t seem like a good idea. It’s not like I have any way of paying you back.”

  The devil sitting in the evil part of my brain summons an X-rated list. The decent part of my brain turns off his mic. Lilly doesn’t believe I’d really do something like this for no reason. She’s certain I’d negotiate for sexual favors. Sounds fun, actually, but not now.

  My thoughts shift because the expression on her face bothers me. A lot. I meant it when I told her I’d do anything for her, but now’s not the time to bring that up. I’ll just have to show her that I’d do anything for her. It will take time and patience and a lit
tle stealth thrown in.

  “I’ll pay his bill in exchange for giving him a new name.” I shove my hands in my pockets to remind myself not to touch her. “No dog should be named Taffy. We’re going to call him… Buddy.”

  She frowns, her suspicion deepening.

  “Yeah, I want you to name him Buddy.” I soften my tone to give my words a little more emphasis. “That was the name of my first dog when I was a kid.”

  Her frown fades.

  Since this is working, I go with it and add a sentimental, “He died when I was seven.”

  Which is true. Buddy did die and that might have been when I was seven, or maybe ten. Not sure. What I won’t mention is that my father named every ranch dog Buddy. The dog that died when I was a kid was probably the fifth Buddy, and I’m sure we’ve had a few more since then. If I ever mention a dog by the name of Taffy, my old man would never let me live it down.

  “Okay,” she says quietly. Her eyes shine with new tears.

  “And I want to help you with the final, Lilly.” I close the distance between us.

  While she was okay with me taking care of the dog, I can see this is a hard no. Her shoulders stiffen. She presses her lips together, shakes her head and notches up her chin. “I’ll accept your help with the dog, but not with school. I don’t need your help. I can do just fine on my own.”

  Chapter Nine

  Lilly

  I try to pull myself from the dream. Warmth invites me back to sleep, pressing over me, luring me back to the depths of my dream, and the promise of his wicked touch. If Ryker Stone is six foot four of hot temptation in the light of day, he’s a hundred times worse when I close my eyes, because in my sleep, I’m powerless to resist his powers of seduction.

  Arousal heats my body. I need him. It’s been two days since he touched me. Two days since he kissed my breast and took me over the edge. Two days since he changed everything.