by Linnea May
Her eyelashes flutter as she looks at me. I know her face is supposed to depict anger and determination, but the force she needs to display a non-existent 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 knits her eyebrows in annoyance and steps closer. Just two small steps is all she dares. Her hand leaves the tree and joins the other one gripping the handle of her satchel. It’s obvious that she’s nervous and tense.
“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 for being suspicious.”
“I didn’t blame you for anything. I simply told the truth. You made me aware of a few things I needed to point out to the class. You know, like a real professor would. Instead of being mad at me, you should thank me.”
Her eyes widen in 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 skeptically. “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 for the first time 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 that 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 mechanical 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 display of courtship that many fall victim to.
Her eyelashes are batting 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 to things. Things she has done wrong, things she’s feeling. Maybe even things she likes, things that embarrass her.
This could make for endless fun.
She takes a deep breath and raises her eyes up to meet mine, giving the impression of a warrior 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 look 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 being secluded from the mainstream,” she mutters crossly.
That’s a quote from my book. I feel oddly flattered to know that she read it.
“So you read my book,” I say. “What a compliment, considering I’m not a real professor.”
She throws me another angry look.
“Well, I didn’t read all of it,” she challenges. “And I felt it was sort of a prerequisite, since you’d be teaching my last Econ class.”
“Is this your major?”
She shakes her head. “No, just a minor. My major is Sociology.”
A fresh breeze travels across the campus, blowing the loose strands of hair into her face and causing the material of the light blouse to ruffle, flattering 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, 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 has suddenly disappeared behind a group of dark clouds and within seconds, 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 under 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. We don’t want to get struck by lightning.”
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 nods.
“OK, but 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 whipping across the campus.
Mr. Portland is walking next to me, his eyes going back and forth between the blustery sky 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 strides and fast pace as he quickens his steps. “It’s just a five-minute walk.”
“Even that might be too much,” he predicts.
The weather gods prove him right. The moment he finishes his sentence, the clouds unleash a downpour. There’s no light drizzle to prelude the heavier rain to come, it just starts pouring down in torrents.
“Fuck!” I hear him yelling through the heavy rain. Loud thunder accompanies his curse, startling me as I feel Mr. Portland’s hand on the small of my back. He starts running and pushes me along ahead of him. His hand leaves my back a few moments later, and I watch in surprise when I see him take off his jacket at full gait. It’s a futile attempt, but he holds it over my head, trying to protect me from the rain. I’m soaked already, but my heart skips at the gesture.
He steers me in 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. “Keep moving!”
I realize that we’re heading ba
ck to the building we just came from, evading students and teachers left and right as they flee from the sudden storm. Everybody is so preoccupied 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.
My cheeks are burning with heat, despite the cool breeze the thunder storm brought with it. I find myself a little disappointed when we reach the entrance of the Economics Building and he puts some distance between us, removing his protective arms from my back, but not his jacket.
The foyer 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, the dampness causing it to stick to his toned chest and arms. He lifts his hand to comb his fingers through 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 mine. His scent, masculine and woodsy, is radiating from his jacket, and it is intoxicating. I want to close my eyes and inhale it, but I refrain.
“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 in the world. As if he has to take care of me like a father. Or a boyfriend.
He doesn’t wait for any kind of reply from me, and turns around to walk down the hall, clearly expecting me to follow him without further questions.
So I do.
I try to ignore the looks I’m getting from the crowded hallway, many of them coming from my fellow students who likely wonder why Mr. Portland’s jacket is wrapped around my shoulders. Yes, this is weird to me, too.
Mr. Portland hastily strides down the hall, not looking back once to see if I’m following him or not. I hasten my pace 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-” I stop as I look down at myself. My thin, white cotton blouse is drenched and has turned into a see-through garment.
Oh God, he can totally see my bra!
I quickly close his jacket around me, turning crimson red in the process and falling behind a few steps so that I’m not walking directly next to him. Now, though, 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 make it pretty obvious.
“My office,” he says.
My heart 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 confront him after 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 that wrote them, 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 musings.
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 was the arrogant beguiler I assumed he would be.
But instead, he has me unraveled like no one ever has before. I feel weak under his gaze, but yet I sense him channeling an encouraging strength at the same time. He intimidates me, makes me nervous, angry – yet, curious.
My mind and body are actors, 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 can 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 is made of the same dark wood as the cabinet. There’s a heavy and comically large desk taking up almost one-third of the room, a comfortable-looking black leather office chair, and a book case next to the cabinet. Contrary to the majority of 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, arching his eyebrows in an unconscious manner.
I reluctantly let go of the jacket still hanging over my shoulders and reach for the sweater. 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 shoulders.
Knowing how see-through my white blouse has become, I feel painfully exposed. I 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.
“What are you waiting for?”
“I…. err, I’ll be right back,” I utter, making an effort to turn around and walk toward the door.
“You can change here,” he says, chuckling. “I won’t look.”
Heat rushes up to my cheeks with such force that I’m sure he must see me glowing like a red beacon.
“Unless you want me to,” he adds, casting me a sinister smile.
I huff with indignation. “Excuse me?”
Mr. Portland is standing about four feet away from me, his back facing the window. For some reason, the blinds are pulled down so that no one can see inside, as if he anticipated this weird clandestine meeting with me.
I put my bag on the ground next to me and step forward to the desk, placing the sweater on top of it so that my hands are free. Contrary to what I expected, he does not turn around when I’m about to unbutton my blouse. Instead, he locks me down with his gaze, not scanning my exposed upper body, but contenting himself with my face. The green of his eyes proves such a surprise in contrast to his black hair and dark complexion. It gives him a mysterious look, adding to his enigmatic demeanor.
“I didn’t say I want you to look,” I say. My voice is oddly soft, so girlish and modest. I never hear myself speak like this.
“I think you did,” he says, lighting a fire behind my chest that feels hot enough to dry that damn blouse in an instant.
What the hell is he saying? What is this? Is he flirting with me? He can’t be serious.
“But
I’ll leave you to it anyway,” he adds, turning his back to me. “Hurry.”
“Thanks,” I whisper helplessly.
I quickly get out of my drenched blouse and place it next to the sweater on the desk. For a moment, I consider taking off my bra, as well, because it’s equally soaked, but the thought of my boobs touching his sweater is too much for me to handle.
I pull the sweater over my head, suppressing a sigh of ecstasy as the soft, warm, fabric slides over my skin. It feels like a hug.
And it smells like him.
Just as I am about to announce that I’m dressed and decent, he turns back to me, nodding toward the cabinet.
“I think there’s a hanger in there,” he says. “You can put your blouse on it so it can dry.”
I nod and walk over to the cabinet, opening the door that he was rummaging behind before. Just like the rest of his office, the cabinet is almost empty. All I find is more sweaters, a few pens and notebooks, bags of instant coffee, and two hangers that seem out of place..
I use one of them to hang my blouse and turn around to ask him where I should place it - only to find him standing in front of me with his shirt unbuttoned and about to take it off.
Another rush of blazing embarrassment streams through me, and I hardly manage to free my eyes from his ripped torso before I whirl around to turn my back to him.
“I’m sorry!” I yelp. “I didn’t know you were-”
I hear him chuckle behind me as he takes off his wet shirt. Two commanding steps announce him approaching behind me, and I freeze. I don’t even flinch when I can feel him breathing down my neck as his right arm reaches into the cabinet, passing closely by my side, but without actually touching me. I can feel the warmth of his masculine body encasing me just like the sweater he gave me.
He grabs another hanger from the cabinet and uses it for his own shirt, completely ignoring my discomfort.