by Linnea May
Oh, I bet they’re going to love the next one.
“Also,” I add. “Even though I don’t feel qualified to evaluate your work, I would hate if my words were to go unheeded in this class. So we will have little random quizzes. Unannounced, and whenever I feel they make sense. I won’t grade them - but it’d be nice if you don’t give me reason to doubt your school’s excellence.”
An unhappy moan spreads across the crowd. I turn my gaze to Miss Harlington. She doesn’t participate in the surrounding chatter, but fixates me with a look that is hard to read. She may hate me for mentioning her name. I pretty much blamed her for that stupid attendance list and also connected her to the idea of having unannounced quizzes.
She has every reason to hate me. I revel in the way she’s looking at me now. She has to learn that her behavior has consequences, and this is just the beginning.
She doesn’t raise her hand once during class. Every time my eyes land on her, I see her taking notes as if her life depends on it. Her shoulders are stiff and pulled up to her ears every time our eyes meet.
Such a good girl.
I bring my lecture to an end, leaving the students with a little assignment for homework. I never intended to give out homework, but little Miss Harlington inspired me to be the teacher she and others expect, at least in some regard.
She should thank me for not blaming the homework on her insights.
Just like last time, a bunch of students come up to me after class, bombarding me with silly questions and remarks. All of them are girls, and some come in groups of two, walking arm in arm, as if they were supporting each other. The second-hand embarrassment I feel is almost unbearable.
I cut them short and get out of the auditorium as quickly as possible. This time, Lana Harlington was not among them. I can’t say I expected her to confront me directly, but a part of me was hoping for her to approach me like she did last time.
I make my way across campus, blinded by the late summer sun as I try to check my e-mails on my phone. The bright sunlight is making it close to impossible to read anything on the screen and it annoys the hell out of me. I hate being away from my responsibilities for too long, especially in a time like this, when one of my projects is about to be acquired by a bigger company. It’s a small and rather young business and seeing the interest coming from the big players in the industry really pushed my confidence. The whole idea of it was new and risky, if it gets acquired at such an early stage - and for the sum of money that is in talks right now - it really shows that I know how to pick them.
“Was that really necessary?” I hear a voice coming from my left.
I stop and look up from my phone. My eyes are having trouble adjusting to the blinding sun for a few moments, but I see her silhouette right away.
Miss Harlington is standing a few feet away from me, in the shadow of a massive tree next to the bricked sidewalk I have been following. Her right hand is resting on the tree as if she was seeking support, while her other is holding a black satchel in front of her. She is wearing dark blue jeans, a white blouse and black ballerina flats.
Her eyelashes flutter as she looks at me. I know her face is supposed to show anger and determination, but the force she needs to display a nonexistent confidence is obvious.
Her position next to the sidewalk, partly hidden by the tree is more than awkward. It’s as if she’s been waiting for me behind the bushes, ready to attack when no one else is around. No one from my class, that is.
“Was what really necessary?” I ask as if I have no idea what she’s talking about.
She furls her eyebrows and steps closer. Just two small steps, that is all she dares. Her hand leaves the tree and joins the other hand at the handle of her satchel. Her shoulders are tense and lifted up to her ears.
“Blaming me like that,” she says, raising her chin. “I told you why I was reluctant to tell you my name, and today you just proved me right to be suspicious.”
“I didn’t blame you for anything,” I say. “I simply told the truth. You made me aware of a few things I needed to establish in class. You know, like a real professor would. Instead of being mad at me, you should thank me.”
Her eyes widen with disbelief. “Thank you? For making me look like an ass?”
“Language!” I warn her, shaking my head. “Miss Harlington, all I did was consider your helpful advice. After all, you are more familiar with this environment than I am, wouldn’t you agree?”
She looks at me with a skeptical expression. “Maybe.”
“Besides,” I add, now approaching her with two wide steps. She flinches but doesn’t back away. Watching her react to me is captivating. Even the smallest motions make me burn inside.
I can’t wait to see her orgasm under my touch.
“You should be aware of the consequences of your sassy behavior. Lecturing me as if I was a dumb little boy. Don’t you think that was a little out of place?”
She narrows her eyes, holding my strict gaze while her lips move in odd ways. She’s pressing them together, as if she’s trying to stop herself from saying anything stupid, biting and tucking her lower lip so much, it almost looks painful.
“I agree I could have been more polite,” she admits. The tone of her voice is unnatural and her words come out incredibly forced, following each other in a mechanic staccato, as if they were programmed into her.
“You’re not very good at saying you’re sorry,” I say, winking at her.
That little wink makes her flinch and lower her eyes. It’s endearing to no end.
The fact that she’s been waiting for me is evidence enough to know that she seeks my presence, my attention. She’s drawn to me, but she’ll make me chase her. It’s a game that many have played before. A classic example of courtship display that many fall victim to. I certainly have. I’m not sure about her, though. She might be new at this.
Her eyelashes are fluttering again and I notice her playing with her fingers, rotating a prominent black ring around her left ring finger.
It’s easy to see that one of the hardest things for her is admitting things. Things she has done wrong, things she’s feeling. Maybe even things she likes, things that embarrass her.
This could be endless fun.
She takes a deep breath and raises her eyes up to mine, giving the impression of a warrior who’s entering battle.
“I said that I could have been more polite,” she says. “That’s as much of a sorry as I can give you.”
She smiles at me, which takes me by surprise. Her smile is forced and has a belittling tone to it.
“Besides, I didn’t hear you say sorry,” she adds. “For pointing fingers at me in front of the entire class. You said I should consider the consequences of my behavior, but have you thought about your own?”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “I usually do.”
“Oh, do you,” she snaps. “Did it ever occur to you that everybody hates me now? And I’m not exactly popular to begin with…”
“That’s not my fault,” I retort. “Not being the popular kid in school has more advantages than disadvantages, anyway.”
“Yeah, I know, I know. One can thrive in seclusion from the mainstream,” she mutters crossly.
That’s a quote from my book. I feel oddly flattered at the knowledge that she read it, or at least parts of it. It was not a requirement for the class. I have no reading list and no suggestions for the students. If she read it, she did it completely on her own terms.
“So, you read my book,” I say. “What a compliment, considering I’m not a real professor.”
She casts me another angry look.
“Well, I didn’t read all of it,” she says. “And I felt it was sort of a requirement, since you’d be teaching my last Econ class.”
“Is this your major?” I want to know.
She shakes her head. “No, just a minor. My major is Sociology.”
I want to roll my eyes at her, but keep from doing it. I pointedly check the time
on my wristwatch. While I have nowhere to be for the next few hours, it’s always good to maintain the impression that my time is valuable, because it is.
A fresh breeze travels across the campus, blowing the loose strands of hair in her face, while the light blouse flatters her slim frame. She lifts her left hand, the one with the black ring on it, and tries to keep the hair out of her face.
“Was there anything in my book that caught your interest?” I ask, expecting her to huff with indignation and shake her head.
But she just looks at me, with her hand still up to her temple, grimacing as if she was chewing on her words instead of saying them out loud.
“Actually, yes there was,” she says eventually, lowering her hand.
Her movements are so considered and calm, in stark contrast to the heavy wind that forecasts a thunderstorm. It’s been unusually hot and humid for the past few days, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who welcomes the cool breeze and the accompanied relief.
While it was sunny just a few moments ago, the sun is now suddenly hidden behind dark clouds and the heavens start growling above us.
Miss Harlington looks up to the sky with her mouth partly opened, studying the busy clouds above us.
Standing outside, let alone beneath this huge tree, once the thunderstorm breaks loose is not a good idea. But I’m not done with her, yet.
“If you wish to continue this conversation, I may have a little time right now,” I tell her. “But we can’t do it out here, with the thunderstorm approaching.”
Her gaze goes back and forth between me and the rumbling sky above us. She’s still chewing on her lips, her messy hair blowing around her pale face as she contemplates her options.
Finally, her eyes stay on mine, and she suggests a nod.
“Where should we go?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LANA
The clouds literally explode above us as we turn around to head for a coffee place off campus that I suggested. It all happens within seconds. Sunshine is replaced by an eerie darkness and the wind increases, turning from a light breeze to violent gusts across the campus.
Mr. Portland is walking next to me, his eyes going back and forth between the busy heaven and the area ahead of us.
“Is it far?” He asks.
“No,” I reply. I’m clutching the satchel against my side, trying to keep up with his long stride and fast pace as he quickens his steps. “It’s just a five minute walk.”
“Even that might be too much,” he presumes.
The weather gods prove him right. The moment he finishes his sentence, the clouds unleash a heavy rainfall upon us. There’s no harbinger, no light drizzle that announces heavier rain to come, it just starts pouring down in torrents from one moment to the next.
“Fuck!” I hear him yelling through the heavy rain. Loud thunder accompanies his curse, startling me as I feel Mr. Portland’s hand on my back. He starts running and pushes me along with him. His hand leaves my back a few moments later, and I watch in surprise when I see him take off his jacket while running. It’s a futile attempt, but he throws it over my head, trying to protect me from the rain. I’m soaked already, but my heart skips due to this intimate gesture.
He steers me to the other direction, his firm upper body pushing against my side as he forces me to turn right.
“That’s not the way to the-”
“We’re not going to the Café!” He interrupts me. “Run!”
I realize that we’re heading back to the building we just came from, evading students and teachers left and right as they flee from the sudden storm. Everybody is so occupied with the weather, that they don’t pay any attention to us. Thank God. With how popular Mr. Portland is among my female classmates, I bet I’m risking a lot of hateful stares with the way I’m tucked beneath his jacket, his insanely muscular chest still bumping into me with every step while we’re running next to each other.
My cheeks are burning with heat, despite the cool breeze the thunder storm brought along. I find myself a little disappointed when we reach the entrance of the Economics building and he instantly puts some distance between us, removing his protective arms from me, but not his jacket.
The entrance area is filled with students, most of them just as soaked as we are. Mr. Portland is standing next to me in a light blue shirt that is sticking to his undoubtedly toned chest and arms. He lifts his hand to ruffle his wet hair and move the dripping strands from his face, a gesture that looks forbiddingly sexy on a man like him.
He catches me staring at him, and I instinctively duck beneath his jacket as his eyes lock on me. His scent, masculine and woodsy, is radiating from his jacket and it is intoxicating. I want to close my eyes and inhale it more thoroughly, but of course, I do nothing of the sort.
“You’re soaked,” he states, ignoring the fact that he’s completely drenched himself. “Let’s get you into something dry.”
He says that as if it’s the most natural thing to say. As if he has to take care of me like a father. Or a boyfriend.
I want to clarify what he’s talking about, but he doesn’t wait for any kind of reply from my side. He just turns around and walks down the hall, clearly expecting that I will follow him without further questions.
So I do.
I try to ignore the looks I’m getting left and right, walking through a crowd that contains many of my fellow students who are very familiar with the jacket that is wrapped around my shoulders. Yes, this is weird to me, too.
Mr. Portland strides down the hall in hasty steps, not checking once if I’m following him or not. I hasten my pace in an attempt to catch up with him.
“I’m okay, I don’t have any-”
“You’re soaked,” he repeats without looking at me. “And the way your blouse has taken the rain is not appropriate for running around campus.”
“What do you you-” I stop as I look down on myself. My white and thin summer blouse is drenched and has turned into a see through nothing due to the heavy rain.
Oh God, he can totally see my bra!
I quickly close his jacket around myself, turning crimson red in the process and falling behind a few steps so that I’m not walking directly next to him. Now, instead, I’m confronted with the view of his ripped back hugged by an equally wet and see through shirt.
“Where are we going?” I ask, even though the direction he’s taking should be pretty obvious.
“My office,” he says.
My heart literally skips a beat at the thought of being alone with him. What the hell is wrong with my head right now? How did I end up here? All I wanted to do was to face him, because of that unnecessary blame game during class. I was furious, humiliated.
But I was also angry at myself for acting the way I did after his first lecture. I found myself flicking through his book again and again during the past week, reading passages I had read before I met the man behind them and was now seeing them in a different light. Every time Celia caught me with his book in my hands, she made sure to make fun of me, adding silly wooing sounds to her amusement.
The fact that she was not altogether wrong about her assumptions made it all the worse for me. I can’t deny that Mr. Portland fascinates me in a way that’s caught me off guard. It would have been so much easier to elevate myself above the swooning fangirls if he were the arrogant beguiler I assumed he would be.
But instead, he has me unraveled like no one ever has before. I feel weak beneath his eyes, but feel a strangely encouraging strength at the same time. He intimidates me, makes nervous, angry, and still curious.
My mind and body are actors in a bewildering play, and he is the puppet master.
I keep my distance when he unlocks his office door and steps inside, waiting for me to follow. Our eyes meet for a split second, as if we’re assuring each other that we’re well aware of what’s happening right now.
There’s absolutely no reason for me to be here. There’s no reason that I should follow him to his office to
change into something dry. It’s not like I’ll catch a deadly cold within the few minutes it would take me to wait for the rain to stop and walk back to my dorm. We both know that this is just an excuse to be alone.
Or am I imagining things?
Maybe he really is worried about my health. But what could I even change into? I have no other clothes with me and he certainly doesn’t have a stack of women’s clothing stored in his office.
Or so I hope.
He closes the door as soon as I step inside, and while I remain in the middle of the room with nowhere to go, he whirls around to a dark wooden cabinet and opens it, the door blocking my view as he starts rummaging around in it.
The office is small and rather empty. All of the furniture displays the same dark wood as the cabinet. There’s a heavy and comically large desk that takes up almost one third of the room, a comfortable looking black leather office chair, and a book case next to the cabinet. Unlike I’ve seen in many other faculty offices, this bookcase is almost empty, only stocked with a handful of books and - to my surprise - a bottle of expensive looking Whiskey with two glasses next to it.
“Here,” he says, closing the cabinet door and handing me a soft looking sweater.
I stare blankly at his outstretched hand.
“Take it,” he urges, coming closer. “You’ll catch a cold if you don’t change.”
I look up at him. “I can’t-”
“You will,” he interrupts. He furls his eyebrows.
I reluctantly let go of the jacket that is still hanging over my shoulders and reach for the sweater he’s offering me. It feels softer than anything I’ve ever worn before. The dark gray fabric feels so insanely luxurious in my hands that I have to suppress the urge to press it against my cheek to test its touch.
“Let me take that,” Mr. Portland says, lifting his jacket from my shoulder.
Knowing how see-through my white blouse has become, I feel painfully exposed and awkwardly try to cover myself by crossing my arms in front of my chest while still holding the sweater.
Mr. Portland puts the drenched jacket over the backrest of his office chair and turns around to me.