by Linnea May
“Don’t stress about it,” I add. “It’s not going to be graded - but try not to look like an idiot, okay?”
I sit on the edge of the desk, crossing my arms in front of my chest while I watch the quiz being distributed among the students.
“Time starts when everybody has their test,” I say, demonstratively looking at my Rolex.
She could have met someone.
That awful thought suddenly appears in my mind and sends a rush of fury coursing through my veins. What if she has a boyfriend? Maybe that’s why she is keeping her distance from me. It could be her discreet way of putting me in my place. While I didn’t go all out in my office with her, I clearly made it obvious there is something there, an attraction. I showed her what I have to offer - she just didn’t bite.
Fuck. The idea of her being taken away from me by some college boy drives me wild with rage. This doesn’t happen to me. Not anymore, that is.
I’m clenching my teeth, suppressing the urge to look at her, sitting there with her cute makeup and new hairdo, fancying herself up for someone else, while pushing me away.
She was supposed to become mine, if only for me to break her sassy little spine.
Fuck. I need to see her crawling in front of me, begging for me. Now it might never happen.
The longer I think about it, the more sense it makes that she has another guy in her life. She may have been dating someone all along, after all - I never asked. Officially, it never mattered. I’m just her damn teacher, a guest lecturer who will be nothing more than a quick appearance in this girl’s life.
I end class right after the quiz, but not because I don’t know what to do with the students. I had a few things prepared, but with my mind running wild with thoughts about what - or who - is keeping Miss Harlington away from me, I just can’t stand to be in the same room as her for much longer. At least not today.
I know my fury will subside and I will find a way to deal with this - most likely by fucking the tits off of one of my girls. I haven’t seen any of them since I started this position. Teaching, next to my usual responsibilities, kept me busy enough.
Besides, I thought I’d be having a lot more fun right here, with little Miss Harlington.
Now that that’s not going to happen, I’ll have to leave my frustration in another woman’s bed. Charlotte maybe. She’s willing and kinky enough for my tastes, and she never complains, about anything.
I spend the usual amount of time chit-chatting with a few students after class. The group of people who come up to me to bombard me with questions has grown smaller every week. Today, only three of them gather around me, and while I’m talking to them, I notice that Miss Harlington is waiting at her seat, as well. She’s still busy packing up her things, but her overly slow movements suggest that she’s in no hurry to leave class and wants to have a word with me.
By the time all the other students have left, she slowly gets up from her seat and approaches me.
“What can I do for you, Miss Harlington?” I ask without looking directly at her, as I put on my jacket.
When she doesn’t reply right away, I turn to search her face. She looks up at me through black-framed eyes, her thick lashes flickering and a taste of hurt in her gaze.
“I thought about what you said,” she says in a soft voice.
“I said a lot of things,” I retort. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. A behavior that deserves a thorough spanking.
“The homework you gave me,” she clarifies. “When we were in your office.”
“Mhm,” I utter. “What about it?”
“I wonder if we could talk about it,” she says. Her voice is so different than it was the first time she approached me. It’s weak, shy, almost as if she has been beaten.
My eyes search hers, trying to see behind her words. So she came back to me. But does she want to have a career prep talk, or does she show interest in something else as well?
“You want to talk?” I ask, not losing her eyes for one second.
Her painted lashes start flickering more than before. She’s turning into that trapped butterfly again, a clear sign that she’s nervous. I may not know a lot about her, but I know this much: her lashes are like a natural EKG recording. They reflect her heart beat.
Let’s see.
“I don’t have time right now,” I say, securing the buttons of my coat. “But later today, if that would work for you?”
She nods. “My last class ends at 6 p.m.”
“So you’ll be on campus, then?”
“Yes.”
“We should meet somewhere nearby,” I suggest. “How about we-”
“How about your office?” she blurts out before I can finish my sentence.
Now she’s the one who locks me in place with her intense gaze. Her eyelashes are still fluttering madly, but I can tell that she’s trying very hard to keep it cool.
“I mean,” she adds. “If you’re around as well, that is.”
“I’ll be around,” I say. “I’ll be going through the quizzes from this afternoon.”
She nods. “Okay, good. I just thought it would make sense, because…”
Because we’d be alone and this is the only place you can think of that doesn’t seem too inappropriate to meet up with me in private?
“I still have your sweater,” she finishes her sentence. “And this way, you could put it right back where it belongs.”
I wouldn’t care if she kept that damn sweater. In fact, I like the idea of her wearing it even when I’m not around. The thought of her wrapped in my clothes arouses me to no end.
“Sure,” I say nonchalantly. “You can come by after your class.”
“Good.” She smiles at me and turns around to leave.
I watch her walking away in her black pleated skirt, swinging her small hips in an awkwardly seductive fashion, fully aware that my eyes are on her. I didn’t know college girls still wore those.
So fucking enticing.
***
She knocks at my door at precisely 6:15 p.m. and waits for me to call her in. I don’t reply to her first knock, but wait to see if she’ll open the door or wait to hear my command.
She waits, then knocks again a few moments later.
“Come in!”
She hurries through the door and closes it behind her.
Not much has changed about her looks from this morning. Her eyes are still framed with thickly painted lashes and a thin line of eyeliner on her upper eyelid, her cheeks blushing in a light pink, and her hair styled up in a loose bun.
However, two things catch my eyes. She’s wearing the same white blouse she was wearing the day we got caught in the thunderstorm. It goes well with the black pleated skirt she wore this morning, and makes her look even more like a school girl. Is she doing this on purpose? Does she think I have some kind of fetish for school girls? Because I don’t.
However, I don’t mind her appearance either.
The second thing that’s different from this morning is that she’s wearing lipstick. I’ve never seen her wear lipstick before. It looks strangely misplaced on her innocent face.
“You look pretty,” I tell her without giving her more than a quick glance. It’s just to let her know that I noticed. “Do you have a date after this? New boyfriend?”
The horrified face she makes is answer enough. She shakes her head vigorously.
“No!” she exclaims. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
She spits out the words as if the thought of having a boyfriend was absolutely absurd. It’s endearing.
No boyfriend then. So another man was not the reason she kept her distance from me for the past few weeks.
And now she’s here. No boyfriend. With her lips painted red and her blue eyes framed with a little too much eyeliner.
I beckon her to have a seat across the table, and she follows my gesture like an obedient little puppy.
“So, you said you wanted to
talk about your homework?” I ask.
She nods, placing her hands in her lap and sitting unnaturally straight as she looks at me.
“Yes,” she replies. “I have to admit that you struck quite a nerve with what you said to me that day.”
“What exactly?” I probe. “Enlighten me, Miss Harlington.”
“Well, you pointed out that I’m not really following my passion and-”
“I didn’t point it out,” I interrupt her. “You pretty much told me.”
She sighs. Again. I will remember that.
“Whatever,” she continues. “What matters is that you’re right. I’m not in this with all of my heart, and I haven’t really thought about what I really want to do in my life for a very long time. I just leveled up, as you put it.”
She pauses and exchanges a look with me. Anticipatory and testing. She is scared of a reaction that isn’t coming.
“I’m about to finish my master’s degree, and I was planning to follow up with a Ph.D.,” she continues.
“I know that.”
“Yes, but what you don’t know is that I’ve decided against doing that now,” she says. “I think there’s something else out there that would make me happier.”
I lean back and cross my legs, throwing her a curious look. “And have you figured out what that something else might be?”
She inhales audibly and relaxes her shoulders on the exhale. Her deep breath almost sounds like a moan, surprisingly erotic.
“Not exactly,” she whispers. “The thing is… I have ideas. Ideas for little things that solve everyday problems in life. Solutions that you can carry with you.”
“Like smartphones.”
She nods eagerly. “Yes! Smartphones! Apps!”
“Everyone wants to do apps these days,” I argue.
“Maybe,” she says. “But there’s a reason why everyone wants to do them. Because they’re what people are asking for. We use our phones more and more for every little thing in life. Apps are so widely used, it’s no surprise that everyone wants to hop on that train.”
“I’ll give you that,” I agree.
The sparkle in her eyes is undeniable. She shifts around in the chair, displaying a very different picture than the tensed-up creature I encountered on my first day here.
“Also, the people who want to make apps are always the same,” she continues. “They’re programmers. Unlike me, they know how to actually build an app, but they live in a specific environment that serves them with a particular input, and they, you know…”
“They’re geeks,” I complete her sentence. “Trust me, I know. I’m one of them.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” she says, as if she had to console me.
I glare at her. “Of course it’s not.”
She sucks in air and blushes, her eyes widening. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”
“Let me tell you something,” I say. “What you’re saying doesn’t sound stupid to me.”
“Well, thanks,” she interjects.
“Is there anything more specific about your idea you could tell me right now?”
She lowers her eyes and starts chewing her lower lip. Her eyelashes resume their frantic flickering.
“Not really, I just-”
“Then I don’t want to hear about it,” I interrupt. “You’ve taken enough Econ classes to know how to work out a good business plan. And you’re a student in my class, which is all about entrepreneurship and coming up with your own successful startup. You have enough tools to present me with a well thought-out business plan for one of your ideas. And we’ll see where we can go from there.”
She raises her eyes up to mine, wide blue marbles looking at me with dainty bewilderment.
“What do you mean by th-”
“Just do what I told you to do,” I hiss.
She slants her eyebrows, but doesn’t immediately respond.
“Okay,” she murmurs finally.
I study her expression for a few moments, watching as her eyelashes relax, and she eventually stops fiddling with the giant black ring on her finger. Her shoulders drop, but her head remains held high, her eyes nervously traveling between me, the desk, and her lap.
This is the perfect moment to find out.
“Why did you want to meet me here?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
LANA
His powerful gaze is focused on me, watching me closer than anyone has ever watched me before. The light gray shirt he is wearing today tightens around his muscular arms when he leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk. He interlaces his hands and locks me in place with his fierce and consuming stare.
“What? I just… I just told you why I-”
“That’s not what I mean,” he interrupts, His voice is calm, but domineering. “Why did you want to meet in here?”
We hold each other’s eyes, and I hope to God that he can’t see the heat rushing to my cheeks. But of course he can. I’m so pale, the slightest hint of embarrassment - just as the smallest drop of alcohol – almost instantly paints my cheeks a telltale pink color that is obvious to anyone with functioning eyes.
“Convenience,” I lie. “We’re both on campus, and-”
“There are plenty of coffee shops around here,” he says. “We could have gone to the one you suggested the last time. Is it because you don’t want to be seen with me in public?”
I huff. “What? No! Absolutely not. Why would I… I mean, there’s no reason why I wouldn’t-”
“Exactly, there isn’t,” he says, interrupting me once again. “That’s why I’m wondering. Is it because you wanted to be alone with me?”
Oh, God.
Seriously. What did I expect to happen? I asked for this. The suggestion to meet in his office just poured out of me when he asked where we should meet. I thought it would be inconspicuous, an innocent way of asking to be alone with him.
I wanted his input on my thoughts, true - but I also wanted to see where our conversation would go if we were confined alone together in his small office again.
Just the two of us.
“Let’s do it this way,” he continues, still keeping me in a tight grip with his eyes. “I’ll throw out a few of the presumptions I have about your intentions here, and you can tell me whether I’m right or wrong by nodding or shaking your head.”
I gulp. God, he’s good.
“Nod if you understand,” he adds.
He gets up from his chair and slowly walks around the desk. With every step that brings him closer to me, I can feel my heart leaping like a wild stag in my throat.
Mr. Portland sits down at the edge of the table right in front of me, forcing me to tilt my head back to look up at him.
“You’re curious about something,” he whispers. “You noticed the way I look at you in class, and it does something to you.”
I nod.
His eyes flicker, just for a brief moment.
“You’d like to know what it would feel like to be touched by me.”
His face is about two feet away from mine. I wonder if he can feel, not only see, but actually feel the heat of embarrassment that his words are sending through my veins.
I’m shivering at the thought of being touched by him, and I’m surprised to realize that I’ve never fantasized about his lips until now. I was so occupied with his eyes, his physique, his demeanor, that I never paid much attention to his lips, even though they’re just as gorgeous as every other part of this man. His strong jaw is dappled with dark stubble, giving him a very masculine look, while his lips are full and soft. There’s nothing rugged about their light pink flesh, and they stand out among his virile features.
I nod.
“I’ve told you before, Miss Harlington-”
“Lana,” I interrupt him. “Please call me Lana.”
The corner of his mouth hikes up. “Okay, Lana. I’ll still be Mr. Portland to you. For now.”
I nod, flustered about my interjection.
&nb
sp; “What I was going to say,” he resumes. “I like you. I told you in a different context, but it’s true that I like a challenge. I thought you might pose such a challenge, but you have surprised me quite a bit lately.”
I raise my eyebrows questioningly. “Surprised you?”
He nods. “Yes, you have.”
“How have I-”
“It doesn’t matter right now,” he cuts me off. “What does matter is my interest in you - and your interest in me.”
He pauses and regards me with a mischievous smile. “You look fucking delicious today, Lana. I want to believe that it’s no coincidence that you look like this and are visiting me in my office today.”
I gulp and lower my eyes, tying to hide another flush of reddening heat.
“Look at me,” he commands.
The sharp tone of his voice sends an electric jolt up my spine. My chin tilts up seemingly of its own accord, and I look up at him through my thick lashes.
“Good girl.”
He smiles at me and hooks a finger under my chin, lifting it up a little more so our eyes lock onto each other. He looks pleased.
Good girl.
When was the last time someone called me that? Why does it make my heart jump like this?
I can barely breathe.
“Do you look so pretty because of me?” he asks, still with that contented smile on his face.
I don’t like to admit that I made an effort to catch his eye today. But I did. It was not a conscious choice, I just happened to apply a little extra makeup, and I changed into the blouse I wore the day it rained, the last time I was here. Of course, I didn’t do that without ulterior motives.
I nod.
“I’m pleased to hear that,” he says. “Even though you’re making things a lot harder for me by looking this tasty.”
Tasty. Delicious. He’s describing me like an elaborate meal.
And I like it. It’s not like I get this sort of attention very often. I’ve never been the pretty girl who gets all the attention from the boys in school, wanted or not. I’m the smart girl, the plain and dutiful student, the good girl.
Even now, I feel the urge to apologize, because he said that I’m making things hard for him. But I realize just in time how silly that would be.