Dear Professor

by Blaire Drake

  To: darcy_h345@gmail.com

  From: jkeat@gmail.com

  Subject: Reminder

  Darcy,

  Expressing my disappointment at your bullshit yesterday.

  J

  I looked down to hide my grin. That was the politest way I’d ever been called a bitch in my life.

  To: jkeat@gmail.com

  From: darcy_h345@gmail.com

  Subject: Official notices preferred.

  Dear Professor,

  Really? You look so happy. Look at you over there, grinning and shit. You look like you should be baking cookies with a little, pink, polka-dot apron. It’d bring out your eyes.

  Xoxo, Darcy

  Well, it looked like my sassy pants were on today. Ironically, given my lack of leg coverage.

  To: darcy_h345@gmail.com

  From: jkeat@gmail.com

  Subject: Don’t you have work to do?

  Darcy,

  Perhaps you should focus on maintaining your grade instead of imagining me as some kind of elf. And for the record: pink is not a color I favor. Unless it is on you, of course.

  J

  And I just so happened to be wearing pink panties.

  Get a load of that for coincidence.

  To: jkeat@gmail.com

  From: darcy_h345@gmail.com

  Subject: Two thousand words, to be precise.

  Dear Professor,

  Interesting. Would you also enjoy pink on your bedroom floor?

  Xoxo, Darcy

  P.s: I’m wearing pink panties.

  P.p.s: I’m logging off.

  I fought my grin as I hit the red X in the corner and the window disappeared. Laughter bubbled in my belly, but I somehow managed to keep it in. Mostly because the tone of the room had changed again—but this time, I was the only one who could feel it. I was sure.

  I glanced up over the top of my screen. Instantly, I found his gaze. His bright, penetrating, furious gaze. I squirmed beneath its power as a shiver cascaded down my spine. I fought it, but I failed, and my whole body trembled in one short, sharp shock. His lips twitched the tiniest bit, and I knew he’d caught it.

  Crap.

  He wasn’t supposed to, but of course he did. He didn’t miss anything.

  I dropped my gaze back to my laptop and the blank word document sitting there. I typed the title of the essay and my name before my fingers paused. It was like my brain had short-circuited, and I knew exactly what the reason for it was.

  He was still staring at me. He was still invading my personal space with one look. I had no idea what it was about him—how he could pack so much into it. It was thrilling and terrifying at the same time, and those emotions were so distinct as they rushed through my veins, making sure to touch every part of my body.

  And this was it… The game. Moving the playing pieces… Trying to catch the other out.

  I straightened my spine and flexed my fingers. Life returned back to them, and I zoned out of everything else as I focused entirely on the screen in front of me and the task at hand. I couldn’t entirely block out his gaze, but after a few minutes, the intense feeling dimmed. A little of the tension oozed out of my body as his attention was diverted elsewhere, and I could finally write without feeling like I was being mentally bent over a desk and fucked.

  I took a deep breath and bravely flicked my eyes toward him. He was staring at his computer, his glasses now on. Good. I could work in peace.

  Type. Type. Type. The tapping of keys filled the room with an oddly melodic sound. The quick succession of letters, the harder knock of the space bar, and the frustrated hit on the backspace as several typos were made in a row. Every single one seemed to meld together. It was relaxing.

  Kind of like whale songs… But for nerds.

  Every few moments, I felt the distinctive heat of Professor Keaton’s eyes on me once again. I was just as bad—when he wasn’t looking at me, I was looking at him. It was a reflexive action I wanted to stop immediately.

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t.

  Eleven hundred words into my essay, I checked my e-mail. I shouldn’t have.

  To: darcyh_345@gmail.com

  From: jkeat@gmail.com

  Subject: No excuses for lateness.

  Darcy,

  Open your legs.

  J

  My eyebrows shot up. Open my legs? What the—he was insane. He had to be. Right there in class? Jesus. Still, I scanned the room and saw everyone with their heads down, focusing on what they were doing.

  Oh hell—I was considering his request.

  What was wrong with me?

  I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth and inhaled deeply through my nose. Fine. I’d do it. I was no stranger to a little exhibition, after all. Slowly, I eased my legs open, and under the pretense of scratching my thigh, I lifted my dress up a little higher so I was sure he’d get a glimpse.

  To: jkeat@gmail.com

  From: darcy_h345@gmail.com

  Subject: Your wish is my command.

  Dear Professor,

  Consider me your own personal genie.

  Xoxo, Darcy

  My eyes lingered on him as I sent the message. It happened like a flash of lightning. He looked up so quickly that shock stuttered my heart, and he looked exactly there… Like he’d been waiting for me to do it.

  He must have been.

  To: darcyh_345@gmail.com

  From: jkeat@gmail.com

  Subject: (empty)

  See me after class.

  “Are you coming?” Jake zipped his bag.

  “I’ll see you later. He wants to see me about the letter.” I nodded toward Professor Keaton. “He e-mailed during class.”

  Jake’s dark eyes darted between me and the man still sitting behind his desk after he’d dismissed us. “Good luck.”

  I needed it—but not in the way he thought I did. I smiled wanly and waited until the whole class had filtered out of the room before finally zipping my own bag. The door shut, and the sound of the bang reverberated through the air.

  “Come here.”

  Two words. Not a request. A demand.

  I picked my bag up and did as he’d said. Each step got heavier, and uncertainty took control of my body. My hand trembled as I ran it through my hair and tugged on the side of my dress at the same time. I needed to touch something—do something with my hands. Anything. I didn’t care whether I was painting or doing shadow puppets. I needed to be occupied by something else.

  I paused once I’d reached his desk and rested my fingertips on the edge of it. “What’s up?” I tried for light and airy, but it came out shaky and breathless.

  He shut the computer down. Then he reached up and scratched between his eyes. Slowly, his fingers closed over the arm of his glasses and pulled them off. He set them on top of the laptop and, starting at my hips, dragged his gaze up the length of my body. I swallowed hard as I imagined him imagining undressing me.

  He had my full attention for the longest moment. It was the moment where his eyes collided with mine. That split second where there was nothing but the brightest, most electrifying blue.

  “I’m not sure your dress is appropriate. It’s rather…distracting.”

  The gravelly tone of his voice made my skin tingle.

  “Then I apologize for my oversight when I dressed this morning. It won’t happen again.”

  He pushed back to standing. Every step he took toward me was slow, easy, and calculated. He was stalking me yet again.

  “On the contrary,” he said in a low voice as he approached me. “Please ensure it does.” He touched his fingertips to my lower back.

  I sucked in a breath as they fell downward over the curve of my butt. He took a step closer to me, but I was frozen.

  My body flooded with warmth as his hand moved ever lower. Each touch was like a lightning bolt across my skin, burning with desire. The air thickened as he placed his hand over mine on the desk. His breath fluttered hotly across my collarbone, making the hai
r on the back of my neck stand on end.

  I was a match in the moment before it lit. And, as he ran out of fabric and his fingers grazed my thigh, he knew it too.

  “Pink…” He laughed quietly. “Pink is definitely my favorite color.”

  I inhaled sharply as his palm connected with my ass cheek. The light sting that had radiated over my skin in a tingle settled between my legs.

  “Mine too,” I said.

  He laughed again as he massaged the spot he’d just hit. My eyes darted over his shoulder, toward the door, and he took my jaw in his hand. He softly turned my face toward his, and I licked my lips as my eyes fell to his mouth. Despite the fact that he was standing to my side, the feeling of his body against mine was strong. With a glimmer in his eyes and a smirk on his lips, he looked down my body.

  “Step back. Ah, ah,” he added. “Keep your hands where they are.”

  I did as he’d said. My back arched naturally with the movement, and I shuddered when he grabbed the skirt of my dress.

  Unapologetically, he yanked it up.

  The air was cold on my bare cheeks, but it didn’t last long as he ran his hand over the curve of my butt. His eyes were focused on his movements there, and he toyed with the string of my thong with his thumb.

  “You’re a tease, Darcy.” The words were said right against my ear in a low voice that had my stomach coiling in desire. “That video last night. Your e-mail. Sitting for half the lesson with your legs open. Anyone could have looked back and seen your pussy creeping out of your thong.”

  “I hope they enjoyed the view,” I whispered.

  He wound his hand around the back of my neck and teased a fingertip across my pussy. “I did.”

  Then he crushed his lips to mine.

  It was driven by lust—a lust that went straight down between my legs and made my clit throb with its intensity. I didn’t know what this man was doing to me, but I knew something.

  He was making me feel things I hadn’t for a long time. With every kiss and touch he both pleasured and punished me with, I felt desire and desperation I’d thought were long gone.

  The door opened, and he jumped away from me. My heart jumped into my throat. I turned with a jolt to face him and tugged my dress down to cover myself at the same time. It was a group of students coming in for his next class, and with the tiniest glance toward them, he grabbed an empty folder from the tray at the corner of his desk and shoved some plain paper inside.

  “This should hold everything you need. Return the material tomorrow,” he said with extra volume in his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, taking the folder from him and stepping back. “See you then.”

  “See you then,” he responded, his eyes following me as I walked past him and toward the door.

  I walked faster than normal and made it out of the room within seconds. The hall was half full as people hurried to their next classes, and I had to push my way through more than a group or two to find the nearest exit.

  I fell out of the door, my bag hanging over my shoulder and the folder full of blank paper clutched to my chest. The second the air touched my face, I took a deep breath. It was the first real one I’d taken since class had ended, and it felt like heaven.

  Heaven was a welcome counter to the hell that accompanied Jordan Keaton’s presence in my life… Not to mention the way he was making me feel.

  It had to stop. I’d worked too hard on my body’s reactions for too long. I’d curbed my base desires so I didn’t get attached to anyone, whether or not I liked them for real or had to sleep with them. Basic human sensations were almost foreign to me because I was always afraid that, if I liked the way a guy I had to sleep with handled me and he asked me for my number, I’d hand him the real one instead of the fake one.

  Then I’d have to stop working. I’d have to get a job that paid minimum wage and ran me ragged six nights a week. I didn’t want that, but more importantly, I didn’t want to give up being on camera. I liked it. Loved it. It was a part of Darcy Hamilton.

  I got into my car and slammed the door, intent on Starbucks. Maybe that’s why I was struggling so much with this situation.

  I was no longer Darcy Hamilton, Dalton Cam Girl.

  I was Darcy Hamilton, Professor Jordan Keaton’s Personal Whore.

  Fuck.

  I had no idea what to do next. The realization had been striking. He’d managed to take me out of a situation where I had been incredibly comfortable and put me somewhere I was…strangely comfortable.

  The more I thought about it, the less I could deny it. I wasn’t uncomfortable in his company. I almost hoped he’d call me after every class and e-mail me with a demand.

  I’d gotten addicted to the rush of performing on camera. It wasn’t just the orgasm—although that was nice—or the money and the subsequent independence. It was the power I held over the people on the other side of the show. Male, female, trans—I didn’t know. But I did know that I was the inspiration for many an orgasm, and I was okay with that.

  I loved it. I hated drama, but I guessed I had a bit of a thing for attention, and attention was something I tried not to draw in my personal life. Mostly because with attention came drama.

  It didn’t escape my notice that the attention from my job had me smack-dab in the middle of a hefty dose of drama, but I was choosing to omit that from my current thought process.

  I was definitely addicted to my job. And really, that was dangerous. While all of us who lived in Dalton House were college students, we weren’t the only girls who worked for the company. Some of them were thirty, forty, fifty… Married, engaged, single… Mothers, grandmothers. I briefly wondered how many of them had started as a student and simply never stopped.

  I could see how it would be easy. With my savings alone, I could put a small deposit on a nice, little house in town and do this for the rest of my life.

  Unfortunately, I was a dreamer, and that was my problem. Jordan Keaton was the sandman and the boogeyman all wrapped up into one. He had total control of my dreams.

  The worst thing was that, when he kissed me, I forgot that.

  He was just a man, and I was just a girl, and it was just natural. Like his lips had been made for mine.

  I blew out a long breath and lay back. Except he wasn’t, was he? And I had no place thinking that. No place even enjoying his kiss. That was reserved for his wife, whoever and wherever she was.

  Jesus Christ—why was I even thinking about kissing the man? Why did I let him?

  I was a bitch. A total bitch. I was essentially The Other Woman. Albeit a contracted, paid-for other woman, but still.

  I grabbed my fluffy Minnie Mouse cushion and slammed it over my face. I screamed into it. Loud and hard. I took the ball of frustration inside my chest and let it all out. It didn’t work though. I threw the small cushion at my bedroom door and sat up, grabbing my pillow.

  I let rip at it with my fists. I punched the heck out of my nightly best friend and kept screaming. But I was still annoyed. At him. At myself. At everything. At this whole damn situation. At every choice I’d ever made. At the decision to do this because I’d known that it would one day catch up with me. At my inability to walk up to him, jab him in the chest, and ask him what the hell a married man was doing fucking around with his student.

  At life. I was mega pissed off at life.

  Karma could go suck an egg. I was so tired of this.

  “What the hell?”

  My bedroom door exploded open, and Jenna almost fell into my room. Her eyes found me sitting on the bed, and she stopped while still holding the door handle.

  “I thought you were being attacked! Or that you had some kinky-ass motherfucker in here trying to chain you to a wall or something.”

  My shoulders heaved with my deep breath. If only.

  “No,” I said. “I’m frustrated. It was screaming and abusing my pillow, or I’d need bail money.”

  Jenna’s eyes narrowed. “All right. I know a shortcut to
the woods. Who are we burying?”

  My lips twitched. I loved her. “No one needs to be buried. Well, not today, anyway.”

  “I have a couple of minutes. Wanna talk?”

  I shrugged then focused on her fully. She was wearing her underwear. Literally just her bra and lace boy shorts plus one stocking.

  “Do you want to… I don’t know. Put on a robe or something first?”

  She looked down at herself like she’d forgotten she was half naked. “Eh. I panicked and forgot. Hold on.” She disappeared down the hall.

  I shook my head when she returned a couple of minutes later with her missing stocking, a tank top, and her makeup bag, which she set on my dresser. She finally shut the door and perched on the edge of my bed.

  “Now, tell me what’s up.”

  Sweat beaded on the back of my neck. This was risky. Of course, I couldn’t use details, but while discussing it even the tiniest amount, I had to be careful.

  I sighed heavily and grabbed a hair tie from my nightstand. “Picture this. There’s this guy. He’s…made it known…that he’s watched your show several times. He’s attracted to you—”

  “Is he hot?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So screw him.”

  “But he’s in a relationship,” I hurried out before she could argue further. I tied my braid off just as she turned with her mouth open in a tiny O.

  “Well, that poses a problem,” she stated.

  No fucking shit.

  She dusted face powder across her forehead. “Is this girlfriend supposed to be secret?”

  “I’m not sure.” I wasn’t. For all I knew, Jordan and his wife enjoyed an open marriage. “Hypothetically…yes.”