Teach Me

by Lola Darling

  Instead of answering him, I lean through the newly created opening and run my hands through his silk-smooth hair. He pauses an inch from my face, his nose brushing mine.

  “Walk on air against your better judgment,” he breathes, hot against my lips. It doesn’t seem like he’s talking to me. More to himself.

  Deep in the recesses of my mind, the tiny part that’s still functioning buzzes with recognition—I know that line. From where?

  Then I forget all about it, because his lips crush against mine. His hands tangle in my hair tightly. I let my fingers run through his hair down the back of his neck to curl around his white-hot skin. He breaks away, grabs a fistful of my hair to tilt my head to one side. His lips graze my jawline, followed fast by his teeth, sinking into the soft spot just beneath my ear, hard enough to leave a mark. “You taste just as good as you sound,” he murmurs.

  I groan. Something about the fact that he hasn’t bothered to ask my name—hasn’t even waited to see my face before taking me—is so fucking hot.

  “I could say the same about you, Father,” I whisper.

  His rough stubble scratches my cheek as I catch his ear between my teeth and bite down hard in response. That earns me a soft, guttural growl.

  There’s a splintering sound. He cracks through the remainder of the flimsy wall between us with one knee. For a second I freeze, afraid someone must have heard that. They’ll open the door, find us in here.

  But outside, someone screams a terrible karaoke rendition of the newest Adele song. Background music blasts, cups clank, and the party rages on, no one the wiser about what’s happening behind the closed doors in this tiny, abandoned corner of the room.

  “Don’t worry.” I can practically hear the grin in his voice. “They won’t hear us. Not until I make you really scream.”

  Then his lips dig into mine once more and he’s lifting me, one arm around my waist, dragging me over the partition into his side of the confessional.

  “Forgive me, child, for I plan to sin.”

  “Is it wrong that I think I’ll enjoy it?” I lean down to lick his lips.

  He grabs my legs, adjusts me so I’m straddling him and runs his hands down my back to my skirt. “Only enjoy it? Oh, I think we can do better than that.” He toys with the waistband for a moment, then drops his hands farther, reaching for the hem at my knees.

  I grab at the hem of the thin shirt he’s wearing, but he catches my wrist.

  “Clothes on,” he whispers, more a command than a request.

  My heart skips a beat.

  Then he shoves up the hem of my too-long, too-proper skirt. It bunches around my waist, but he leaves it there and hooks a finger through my thong, tugging it down my legs inch by inch. The edge of his finger skates across my pussy, just a teasing brush, as he pulls my underwear down. “Wet already, I see. Why, it’s almost as if you’re more than enjoying this.” He stops when the thong is halfway down my thighs, and I wriggle, trying to pull it the rest of the way off.

  He holds me still with one firm arm around my waist.

  Fine. That’s how he wants to play it? My turn.

  “Seems like I’m not the only one enjoying this.” I drop my hand between us. Even through his jeans, I can feel the hard press of his cock. I trace the outline, feel him twitch when I press my fingertips against his tip.

  Suddenly, he grabs both of my wrists, pulls my arms behind my back so I can’t reach him, can’t touch him.

  I swallow a groan of frustration. “What?”

  He keeps holding me there, gazing up at me through a lock of hair that’s fallen across his face. If I’m not mistaken, he’s smiling. “Just you first,” he says.

  I open my mouth, about to say I don’t understand, when he pushes me onto my feet, slides off the confessional bench and drops to his knees between my legs.

  Oh god.

  He grips my ass hard with both hands, pulls my legs toward him. If anyone opened the door now, they’d have a face full of my . . . everything. I squeeze my eyes shut, heart pounding with nerves. Nerves, and something more. Something a lot like thrill.

  I’ve never done anything like this before. Fucking in the film room late at night in a near-abandoned library basement with a locked door and no windows was hardly the same thing as being in a hastily constructed box with a party raging outside.

  This is such a terrible idea.

  And yet. Adrenaline floods my veins. Added to the lust already pulsing through them, there’s no way I’m telling him to stop.

  His lips brush my inner thigh. I forget the party. I forget everything.

  His tongue flashes out to trail up my leg. I shiver, and he laughs, a puff of hot air that burns against the sensitive skin he just licked. “You taste even better than I imagined,” he says, his voice almost a growl.

  “Fuck me,” I gasp.

  Another laugh. “Not yet,” he murmurs into my skin. “Not until you’re ready to burst.” His teeth nip along the crook of my leg and my hip. Nerve endings I didn’t know existed start to fire. Shivers ricochet up my spine. I can’t help the soft moan that breaks free.

  That earns me another laugh, this one right against my . . . oh GOD.

  His tongue swirls across the skin between my legs. His fingers clench my ass again and I jerk forward involuntarily, press myself hard against his face. I let one hand drop to cup his head, and when his tongue glides over my clit, I can’t help but clench my fist in his hair.

  “Shit,” I hiss. But he’s only getting started.

  He delves between the slick folds of my pussy, laps at me. One hand slides from my ass, skates over my hips to the front, where he brushes my bellybutton, still licking as his fingers trickle down, down, down. His tongue slides out of me and I gasp again, this time from want.

  I’m not left wanting long. I groan through gritted teeth as he slides one finger into me. It glides in easy. I’m soaked.

  “God, you’re so tight.”

  His tongue circles my clit again, sending bullets of pleasure shooting through my nerves while he thrusts in a second finger, then a third.

  I rock against him, my legs shaking so hard it’s difficult to stay standing. He holds me in place with his other hand, gripping so hard it’ll leave marks. His fingers fucking me slow at first, then faster, harder, while his tongue lashes my clit.

  Before I know it my head falls back and I’m moaning out loud, desperate, hanging on the edge of release.

  He curls his fingers inside me, brushing against my walls at the same time that his tongue spears my clit.

  The orgasm sparks through me and I cry out, my knees finally losing all control over keeping me upright. My head buzzes, my vision going red at the edges, and all I can think about is if he can do that with just his tongue . . .

  Luckily, he’s a faster thinker than I am at the moment. He catches me, yanks my underwear up and my skirt down fast as possible. I grab at his shirt in protest—we haven’t even done him yet, it’s my turn. But he spins me away from him, and I land on his knee facing the confessional door just as it bursts open.

  Bright light floods my probably red-hot face, blinding me. I hold up a hand against it while my eyes struggle to adjust after what feels like hours spent inside this totally dark booth.

  Through a squint, I can see at least a dozen people peering in at us, wearing various expressions of surprise and amusement. The guy who opened the door has on a full bishop outfit, complete with giant scarlet hat.

  “Well you guys definitely win ballsiest move of the night,” he says in an American accent, his eyes drifting to the broken wooden stall beside us. “What have you done to the confessional?” With a shock I recognize him. It’s the guy Mary Kate went up to the roof with, the one from my exchange group.

  No one else behind him looks familiar, but I haven’t exactly memorized the whole campus yet.

  What have I done?

  “I’ve got to go,” I call over my shoulder without turning around. I can’t let him see my f
ace, and I don’t want to see his. If I do, if I look at him . . . This will all get way too real, way too fast.

  “Wait,” he says, but I’m already flinging myself out of the booth, letting my now-very-mussed hair hide my burning face as best it can. The group who found us laugh and cheer as I race past, but I don’t stop for high fives. I make a beeline through the karaoke-filled living room, straight into the hallway. My coat swings on a hook there—I yank it free, throw it around my shoulders, and text Mary Kate from the hallway.

  I’m going home. Sorry I can’t stay.

  I know it’s a dick move, skipping out without a goodbye. But this is MK’s party. These are her friends. She’ll be fine.

  I’m the one who needs the chaperone.

  #

  “You don’t even know his name?” MK exclaims as we meander toward our first class, the one I really ought to be conscious for. Twentieth-Century English Poetry, the subject I specifically came here to study, with the professor I idolize. Now, I’m going to look like a total wreck on day one. Great first impression.

  The tall, crenelated medieval buildings of our campus look somewhat less inspiring at the ass-crack of dawn.

  Okay, so it’s 8:00 a.m., but that feels impossibly early after I stayed up all night in the dorm room replaying the party in an endless loop of embarrassment.

  Embarrassment, and some—what did he call them? Impure thoughts.

  “I already regret admitting anything,” I mutter between sips of my espresso. Coffee here kind of sucks, but I’ve got to admit, their espresso is the shit. Or at least, it makes me feel marginally less like shit, which after a night like the last one, is a minor miracle.

  “Oh, please. Nick already told me how he found you. Like I’d let you get away without answering at least some basic questions. How hot was he, scale of one to fuck-me-stupid?”

  A group of girls crossing the green in the opposite direction, their patent leather shoes clacking on the cobblestones, glance our way. Were they at the party last night? Did someone tell them about me?

  My cheeks flush.

  “I told you, I didn’t see his face.”

  The girls pass us without a second glance. I’m getting paranoid.

  “At all?” Hearing her posh accent in such a shocked tone wins a slight grin from me. “Wow, Harper, I know you always tell me you’re trouble, but that’s a new high.”

  “Oh shut up. You’d have been tempted too if you heard his voice.”

  “The accent? I thought you were immune to such charms by this point. You’ve only been over here visiting me half a dozen times.”

  “I’ve never heard an accent like his.” I catch myself, and clear my throat. Almost drifted into dreamy for a second there. I definitely do not have a crush on the sort of guy who would go down on me at a costume party in a closet. “It was fun, that’s all,” I say out loud.

  MK points at a door that looks more like a hobbit hole than a classroom entrance. It’s so short she has to duck as she enters, though for little 5’5” me it’s nothing. We step through the arched stone entrance and into a room paneled in dark wood. A dais surrounded by chalkboards stands at the head of the room. Stadium desks rise around it, each one equipped with an uncomfortable-looking chair.

  We slide into seats in the second row, high enough so that we’re looking down a few feet at the professor as he sets up.

  MK elbows me and leans over to whisper in my ear. “Should I warn you to behave yourself again?” she asks with a grin in teacher’s direction.

  Jack Kingston, leading expert in twentieth-century poets and a star professor of Merton College, is pretty damn hot, I must admit. Dark eyes that match his choppy, neck-length, jet black hair, and the kind of angled, severely masculine face you’d expect to see on billboards, not in front of a classroom. His nose is a little long, but it works on his face, gives him that distinguished academic air.

  “I might be reckless, but I’m not that stupid,” I hiss back at MK. Dating professors is where I draw the line. Even back home with Derrick, I made sure he was only a TA before I let anything happen.

  Only a TA. Are you listening to yourself? I heave a sigh and sink lower in my desk chair. It’s going to be a long day.

  While the rest of the students file into their seats, I flip open my notebook and jot down the notes already scrawled across the board. Because even more than escaping from my litany of exes, even more than spending a semester with MK exploring a whole new country, this class, this professor, is the reason I’m here in Oxford.

  Back home, I’ve already declared my focus on T. S. Eliot, who not so coincidentally attended this very college. Professor Kingston is a leading scholar on his work, the author of the paper that inspired me to start studying Eliot in the first place.

  I need to forget the hookup, forget everything except this class.

  We’re starting with Seamus Heaney. We’d been assigned ten of his poems to read before class, and an essay on those same poems due in a couple of days. I have to admit, though, I only skimmed the last one, “The Gravel Walks.” Someone insisted on dragging me out to a party instead. I cast Mary Kate a sideways glance. She’s busy batting her eyelashes at Professor Dreamboat.

  Finally, the clock on the wall hits 8:30 and Dreamboat breaks the hum and chatter of the room with a clap of his hands. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  My eyes snap forward, lock onto him the moment he speaks.

  No.

  He claps his hands and turns that stately, chiseled profile on us. “I recognize most of you from eighteenth century—glad you all decided my class was worth a second go-round. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Jack Kingston; you can call me Jack, Professor JK, Prof, I really don’t care what, as long as you do the readings and participate.”

  No way. No goddamn way.

  “As you know—hopefully—we are starting with Seamus Heaney, one of the great Irish poets of our time. Heaney won the Nobel Prize in 1995, and penned, in my opinion, some of the greatest literature not just of the twentieth century, but the English canon on the whole. You’ll have read ten of his best in preparation for today’s class—in fact, one of the lines from one of those poems is the epitaph on his gravestone. Can anyone guess which line that was?”

  His eyes meet mine, and for a moment he frowns, faintly, as though confused. Probably because I’m gaping at him in abject horror.

  “How about you, Miss . . . ?” He lifts an eyebrow, clearly waiting for me to tell him my name.

  I can’t force any sound through my throat. It’s permanently closed. My brain has checked out. I manage to shut my mouth, open it again, then clamp my lips tight and shake my head.

  Beside me, MK lifts an eyebrow, clearly wondering if I’m suffering a mental breakdown.

  Professor Jack Kingston waits another moment, blinks a few times, and then calls on a boy across the room, waving his hand frantically in the air. “Yes, Henry?”

  I already know what Henry’s going to say, even before he opens his mouth. I remember where I’ve heard that line of poetry now, too late to save myself. Far too late.

  “ ‘Walk on air against your better judgment,’ sir,” Henry recites.

  “Very good,” replies our famous professor, the man I came here hoping to study with.

  The guy I hooked up with last night.

  Jack

  I close my eyes and I’m in the confessional booth again, my hands digging into her soft, supple skin, pulling her against me, her salty sweet taste filling my mouth. I want to keep going, flip her over and bury myself to the hilt in that tight, wet little pussy, go at her until we’re both gasping, and—

  I force my eyes open and stare at my empty classroom. Focus, Jack. Jump off that train of thought before it gets me into trouble.

  Besides, my mystery American is already long gone. She said she was up from London; no doubt she’s headed back there even now, miles away, completely out of my reach.

  It’s better that way.


  I shove myself onto my feet and pull out a piece of chalk, jotting down some preliminary thoughts on the boards. We’re starting with Heaney, because I already assigned them the readings. I would rather skip ahead to the big announcement, the sheaf of papers the Merton librarian found stuck between a pair of the dullest botany texts in the entire college, which likely explains why no one found them before now.

  We’re still in the process of analyzing them, but they look like they might be early workings from T. S. Eliot himself, an alum of Merton, which he attended during the First World War.

  I’ve petitioned the dean of the college to organize a graduate seminar around them, so I can recruit my lead doctoral candidates to help analyze the texts. We’ll likely need an undergraduate aid as well, someone to play research lackey. But that will look great on a CV, if nothing else. Any number of my usual students would kill for the position.

  Depending how well this class does with Heaney, I might even recruit from here, Henry or Jenny, maybe. They’re all here for twentieth-century poets, so there are doubtless a few Eliot aficionados among them. We’ll see how they tackle Heaney’s themes and go from there.

  A door creaks open somewhere in the back of the room. I turn, ready to greet the first wave of new students, on our first day back to class.

  The smile freezes on my lips.

  Hannah stands in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame, a wide smile playing on her lips. “I hear you went to Drew and Mindy’s party last night.”

  She knows, my gut screams at me. I tamp that thought down. Ridiculous. How could she possibly?

  Anyway, it’s none of her bloody business. “I did,” I reply, purposefully grabbing a sheaf of papers to shuffle together so I don’t have to watch her studying me.

  I can still sense her, though. Analyzing. Judging. Same Hannah as always.

  “Did you dress as a vicar or a tart?” Her tone is playful, but I hear ice under it.

  I heave a sigh and lift my eyes to hers. “Hannah, please. My first class starts in five minutes. Can we do this some other time?”