by Jordyn White
He grins, clearly pleased with frustrated expression on my face. His eyes light on something behind me, and I remember the sculpture.
“What’s this?”
I bite my lip and twist my fingers as he draws closer to it. “It’s your Christmas present.” I’m watching him carefully, looking for any sign this may not have been a good idea.
His eyes light up and he smiles at it. “Is it?”
I nod. “I thought of you when I saw it.” I shrug again, a nervous tic. “It seemed like something you would like.”
“You’re right. It’s great.” He has both hands on it now, turning it so he can see all sides. I can tell he really does like it, because this is more than just a cursory glance. He’s examining every inch, every detail, his eyes glittering with delight. My nerves release in an instant. I’m lighter without their weight.
“Tell me about the artist.”
So I do. I tell him about my excursion downtown with the girls, how I came upon the sculpture, and my conversation with the artist. I conclude by saying, “I thought you could put it in your office at school. It could use a little sprucing up.”
He straightens. “That’s true.” He turns back to me and cups my face in his hands, drawing me close. “Thank you. I’ll think of you every time I look at it.”
His lips press against mine gently. He lingers long enough for me to feel the power of his presence, then pulls away smiling. My heart flutters against my chest. “Hang on.” He releases me.
He disappears into the bedroom and I look back to the sculpture, pleased with myself. I like it even better now.
He returns with a small, rectangular box wrapped in silver paper.
I smile. I don’t even care what it is, I’m just happy I didn’t misjudge the situation.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling at him and taking it.
I remove the shiny paper to reveal a long, rectangular velvet box. Without knowing any more, I’m already giddy, because boxes like this contain gifts that are personal and full of meaning. I tilt the lid open.
A delicate sterling silver bracelet winks up at me. The strands braid together smoothly, creating a pattern like the swells of ocean waves. It’s beautiful and understated and just my style.
“Oh,” I breathe. “It’s so lovely.”
“You like it?”
I nod eagerly.
He takes the box and removes the bracelet, He carefully manages the tiny clasp and secures it around my wrist. When he’s finished, he tenderly rests his hand over the bracelet and my wrist. “Maybe when you look at it, it will remind you of me.”
“I don’t need a reminder. I think about you all the time.”
Even better than the bracelet, my favorite Christmas gift comes three days later: my mom’s tests point to a kidney infection, nothing more. Her doctor gives her a prescription and we all take one, giant, collective breath.
When Christmas rolls around, I text Shane a Merry Christmas before heading into mass. I don’t really believe all the things the church teaches, but I believe some things and find the familiar rituals comforting. It’s part of my family.
Shane and I talk on the phone that night. He’s back in Chicago, celebrating with his family, which seems to have gone better than I expected. I’m happy to hear he’s having a good time. As we describe one another’s day, I realize that in a lot of ways the day has been about the same thing for him as it has been for me: spending time with the people I love.
Well.
Most of them anyway.
A week into the new semester, I’m on Shane’s floor on my stomach doing homework, even though I’m considerably less stressed about grades now than I was last semester. Though I got a B in my neurology class, I managed to squeak out an A in my other classes and salvage my summa cum laude. Spring grades aren’t factored in, so it’s a done deal.
Now I’m just waiting to find out if I get to go to the school of my dreams or not.
But what of that? As much as I’ve been dreaming about that, I’m starting to view the end of the school year with dread. While graduation could theoretically mean we would no longer have to sneak around because our professor/student relationship would be at an end, it also means we’ll be that much closer to going our separate ways.
It’s getting more and more difficult to put that thought out of my mind.
Shane’s in jeans and a tee, sitting sideways on the couch with his legs stretched out and his laptop open. I may not be as stressed about homework, but he still has plenty to do in the way of grading papers and his own coursework. I’m trying to be a good girl and let him alone for a while.
I glance at him, looking all yummy in his tight tee. I’m wearing a loose skirt that comes to my knees. I’m casually kicking my bare calves and feet behind me and fantasizing about him taking full advantage of the fact that I’m wearing a skirt. I sigh. It just sucks trying to be good sometimes.
I force myself to go back to my work but my pen dies. I rummage around in my bag but don’t have another one.
“Do you have a pen?”
He glances at me, wearing that look of concentration he gets when he’s working. “Should be some in the office.” He goes back to his laptop.
I’m even more tempted to pull him out of his reverie now, but instead I pad barefoot into the office in search of a pen. We agreed to work for a couple hours before taking a break. One hour to go.
I step into his office and the first thing I see is the sculpture I gave him, sitting on its own pedestal in the corner.
“Shane?”
I slowly walk up to it, running my fingers along its smooth surface. I have this unpleasant tingling feeling on my skin. I can’t even say why.
He comes through the door and heads for his desk. “Couldn’t find one?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look. Why is this here?”
He glances at the sculpture and gets a funny look on his face.
“I bought this for your office at school.”
“I know.”
In the back of my mind, I know I’m being silly. Why should I feel bothered? It was a gift and he can put it anywhere he wants. He could put it in the garden if he wanted to, really. But I have a strange feeling about seeing it here. I don’t know why. The look on his face only encourages my feeling that something’s wrong.
“Don’t you think it looks nice there?” he asks.
“Is that why you put it there?” I’m deliberate about looking him in the eye.
He’s getting a different look on his face now, one I’ve seen before. One thing I’ve learned about Shane Brooks: he won’t lie if asked about something directly.
“No,” he says.
“Then why did you put it here?”
He presses his lips together. “Because I didn’t want a reminder of you in my office at school.”
I straighten, feeling slapped.
“You don’t want reminders of me?”
He looks apologetic and comes to me with his arms outstretched. “Honey—”
I put my hand up to stop him. I’m acutely aware of his bracelet on my wrist. I’ve worn it every day since he gave it to me.
“Honey.” He drops his arms. “That’s my office at school. That’s where I’m Professor Brooks. I just... I couldn’t handle the guilt of having a gift from you, one of my students, in my office like that. Surely you can understand.”
My blood is pulsing through my body. I understand. I do. But I still don’t like it and I can’t pretend to. “When are you going to stop looking at me as just a student?”
“You aren’t just a student, but you are a student. How am I supposed to forget that when you show up in my class twice a week? When I’m entering your grades into the system?”
“Ugh!” I press my palms to my eyes. “We’ve been... together,” I say, not knowing what word to use and hating that too, “for four months now, Shane. I can’t believe you’re still holding back.”
“Isabella, I—”
“How are we supposed to have a relationship when you’re holding back?” I exhale in frustration. “Is this a relationship? What are we even doing?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing.” He grabs me by the arms, “I’m hanging on for dear life! All I want is to take you and make you mine but I can’t.”
“I’m right here,” I say desperately. “You have taken me. I don’t understand what more needs to happen.”
Still holding my arms, he closes his eyes and presses his forehead against mine. His breath is coming in short, sharp pants.
“What would be different if you weren’t my professor? Aside from being out in the open, because I don’t think that’s what we’re talking about.”
He shakes his head slowly, eyes still closed, still gripping me. “That’s not what we’re talking about,” he says, his voice tight.
“So what would be different if you weren’t my professor?”
“I am your professor.”
“Look at me!” I bring my hands to both sides of his face.
He opens his eyes and I’m holding him close.
I need him to see me. I need him to hear me.
“What. If. You. Weren’t.”
Something clicks inside him. I see it. His eyes sharpen on mine and his breathing halts. His body tenses up, like an animal ready to strike.
In the next second, he does.
He presses his mouth hard against mine and backs me up until we slam into the wall. His whole body is pressed against me, crushing me. His erection is hard against my thigh.
He breaks free and I gasp for breath. His hands dart up under my skirt and hook around my panties, thrusting them down and off me. When he looks at me, I realize I’ve never before witnessed the full extent of his desire for me. He looks like he wants to devour me.
His jeans come off next and I try to brace myself but I’m unprepared for the intensity with which he comes at me, pinning me hard against the wall. He lifts my legs and wraps them around his waist, thrusting into me with more violence than I’ve ever experienced.
I’m stretched to the limit, full of every inch of him as he hits bottom.
“Wait,” I breathe, but something in him has been unleashed. He rams me again, almost frantically pounding me and claiming me. Unable to move, I’m the helpless receiver of Shane’s passion. The heat in my body blooms as he ravages me and I open to him, heart, body, and soul.
“Shane,” I gasp, “Yes.”
I’m gripping his shoulders. He doesn’t slow and I tighten around him as he takes me like he’s never done before. He grunts again and again, like an animal, and I feel him building. I’m building too, and pinned in like I am, I’m unable to move with it. I’m going to be torn apart by my own pleasure.
He pounds me fiercely, pushing me rapidly to my climax. When it comes, it explodes with such violence I cry out again and again, digging my fingernails into his shoulder, my legs quivering helplessly. In the middle of my orgasm he thrusts and hits bottom once, twice, three times and then lets out a long, loud cry as his hot semen spills into me. Gasping, I cling to him as he takes more than I thought it possible to give.
The last spikes of pleasure shatter me and depart, leaving me limp against the wall. My limbs are heavy as he starts to release his body’s pressure against me.
Coming away from me only slightly, we slowly sink helplessly to the floor. Too weak to do more than collapse where I land, I lie on my side, my back to him. The room is filled with the sounds of our rough panting.
Slowly he tucks in behind me, cradling me so lovingly and gently. He’s still partially erect, gradually coming down from the high.
Catching my breath, still too weak to move, I whisper, “Am I yours now?”
His arms tighten around me and he gently kisses my neck. “Mine,” he whispers in my ear, kissing me again. “Mine.”
Chapter 19
Sam and I are in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast.
“How are things going with your professor?” she asks. “Still having fun?”
I give her a cheesy grin and she laughs.
“Good. Just don’t fall in love. That’s when things get dangerous.”
Too late for that advice. “I already know falling in love with my professor is dangerous.”
“Falling in love with anyone is dangerous.”
I give her a rueful look. “Which is why you avoid it.”
“Damn straight. Because you know where love ultimately leads you? Heartbreak. That’s something I can live without.”
Ashley bursts into kitchen with open letter. “I got in! I got in!”
Sam and I exchange glances. “Got in to what?”
“Hartman’s Music Master’s program.”
I blink. “Wait. What? I didn’t know you wanted to get your master’s.”
“Well, I didn’t want to say anything and curse myself. The grad program here is really good. I wasn’t sure if I’d get in.”
I raise my eyebrows. Didn’t know if she’d get in? Is she serious?
Sam rolls her eyes. “When are you going to open your eyes and see how good you are?”
Ashley just smiles and holds the letter to her chest. “I gotta go call my parents.”
She disappears and I turn to Sam. “What about you? Do you have any secret grad school aspirations I don’t know about?”
“Hell no. I’m not signing on for any more school than I have to. If I want to get better at design, I just need to get out there and get a job with a good firm. That’s where I’ll really learn stuff.”
“Have any places in mind?”
“Yeah. A few. There’s this one in Portland I’d love to work for. They take on paid interns every year and pair you with upper-level designers. A student here a couple years ago went to work for them and ended up collaborating on the Strike Stream campaign. Lucky bastard.”
Not for the first time, I imagine what things are going to be like come fall. Aside from the thing with Shane, the Firework Girls are going to be scattered all over the place, though it sounds like Ashley will still be here.
“I wonder what Jack’s going to do,” I say.
“Jack’s in denial,” Sam says. “He doesn’t want to imagine life without his girls and his frat parties. Though, he did just get another big freelance job, did you hear?”
I shake my head.
“That boy’s raking in the dough right now.”
The very next day Chloe comes in the front door, her stunning blue eyes glittering with excitement as she grins at me. I’m the only one home.
She holds an envelope aloft and waves it in the air. “Look what came for you in the mail today.”
I scramble off the couch and take it. Sure enough. It’s my letter from Harvard. I’m holding it with shaking hands.
“I can’t do it. You open it.” I shove it at her.
She takes it and starts to wedge one manicured nail under the flap.
“No, me.” I take it back from a grinning Chloe and tear into the envelope. I hold onto the letter while it’s still in the envelope, not pulling it out. For a moment I’m frozen. I look at Chloe for help.
She nods enthusiastically, her auburn hair bouncing, and gives me an encouraging smile.
I pull it out, flip open the paper, and don’t even try to read it. My eyes are too busy scanning for the key words—and there they are!
“We’re pleased to welcome you to the graduate program...” I practically shout, then I don’t even bother reading the rest.
Chloe and I both start screaming and jumping up and down. We’re bouncing around the living room as I shout, “I did it! I did it! I did it!”
I sink into the chair with my arms raised in victory and slide down until I’m practically on the floor. “Yes!!!”
Chloe bounds over and sits down. “Come on! Come on! You gotta text the girls.”
“No, no, I’ll show them the letter when they get home.” I sink the rest of the way to the floor and spread the letter on the coffee
table with both hands. I gaze at it lovingly. “This beautiful,”—I kiss it—“beautiful,”—I kiss it again—“beautiful letter.”
Chloe laughs.
“I’ll text my parents though.”
I send them the text, then think about Shane.
My smile fades a little and I look at Chloe.
“Are you going to tell him?”
I nod. “I don’t think I want to do that one in person though.”
Chloe nods.
Me: Just got my letter. I’m in!
There’s a slight pause, then my phone dings.
Apollo: Congratulations! I knew you could do it!
I read the text to Chloe then lean heavily on the table. “This part sucks.”
“I know, honey.”
My phone dings again.
Apollo: We have to celebrate. Can I take you to Swan Pointe? Tomorrow night?
He knows I already have plans with the girls tonight. Ever since they found out, I’ve been trying not to completely neglect my friends, with mixed success. But tonight we’re going to a club over on Eighth Street.
Me: That would be wonderful. Thank you.
Apollo: I’m proud of you.
“Well,” I say, “I guess it’s official. In four months I’ll be in Boston, and Shane will be here.” School doesn’t start until the beginning of September, but our lease is up at the end of June, so that’s when I’ll have to move.
I still don’t want to say I think I’ve fallen in love with him. It’s too scary, especially now. The fact is, there’s only one way for us to be together over the long haul. Someone would have to give up their dream school.
“Although I guess it doesn’t matter,” I continue as Chloe looks at me sympathetically. “It’s not like he’s said he’d want to stay with me. I mean, maybe he’s okay with it being over when I go off to school.”
“Do you really think so?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. How would I know? We don’t talk about the future like that.” Or say a toast when we drink champagne, or say ‘I love you’, or do anything that couples with longevity do.
“I know how you feel,” Chloe says.
I straighten. That got my attention. “You do? How?”