Hot for Teacher

by Barrie Abalard

  “It was Steve’s fault and none of yours. A good man doesn’t try to rape you, no matter what you’re wearing, doing, or saying,” Faith ground out through her tears.

  “Then I’ll not hear another word about how you’re responsible,” Rosemary said. “Will you help me wash my hair, damn it? And maybe get us some takeout for dinner?”

  She and Faith exchanged tentative smiles.

  * * * * *

  Jonathan Kent slammed down the book he’d been reading before he jumped up to pace his living room. His arms still trembled with rage nearly forty-eight hours after witnessing Rosemary’s attack. Picking up his mug, he drew his arm back to hurl it into the fireplace, attempting to spend some frustration. He wanted to strangle the bastard responsible for her pain and suffering.

  But breaking a mug wouldn’t do any good. Fuming, he placed it back on the table next to his recliner.

  Oh, what the hell.

  He picked up the mug and smashed it to bits, enjoying the violence he released.

  He wanted to see Rosemary. But he had no good excuse. He wasn’t a friend; he was her professor and had met her barely a week ago. No reasons or excuses existed that would let him visit her without raising suspicions. Or eyebrows.

  Besides, he didn’t have a clue where she lived, or if she lived alone, or with a man. Maybe she had kids at home. Maybe she didn’t even like men. After Friday night’s attack, he wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted anything to do with his sex again.

  He recalled her cries, her pain, and ground his teeth. If it were only two hundred years earlier, he could challenge the bastard to a duel.

  He stared out the window at the cloudy afternoon. He should read. He should write. He should work on his next book. He had lots of things he should do, but none of them at this moment were what he wanted to do.

  God save him, but he wanted Rosemary. Wanted to spank her, kiss her, make love to her, protect her.

  He stopped pacing, remembering his call to Mark. He’d have seen Rosemary by now and would have news. Energized by the thought, Jonathan called him.

  Five unanswered rings triggered Mark’s voicemail, but he didn’t want to leave a phone message. Not concerning Rosemary, at any rate.

  He hung up and paced some more, considering what he could do to lessen the rage coursing through his veins.

  He could clean up the broken mug, though he enjoyed looking at it. Seeing the scattered shards took some of the edge off his frustration.

  He could drink. No. It wasn’t his style to hide in a bottle.

  He stopped walking, seized by an idea.

  The gym. Perfect.

  Slamming out of the house, he threw his Miata into gear, squealing out of the driveway the way a macho teenager would. The drive didn’t take long, but he was pissed to discover, after he’d parked, that his gym bag wasn’t in the trunk.

  Hell and goddamn.

  He stalked inside, deciding he’d work out in his jeans and oxford shirt. He nodded stiffly to the few men with whom he occasionally swapped workout information, beaming don’t ask vibes at each of them.

  They didn’t say a word.

  He set the treadmill to thirty minutes of hills, upping the pace beyond anything he’d done before.

  Run. Don’t think. Just put one foot down after the other. Run.

  Rosemary. Rosemary. Rosemary.

  He shook his head, sweat trickling down his forehead, and increased the speed another mile per hour.

  Run. Rosemary. Run. Rosemary.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, he kept up his blistering pace for the entire half hour. By the time he hit the Cool Down button, his legs felt like overcooked spaghetti.

  And still his rage burned, his desire to protect Rosemary an irrational need.

  Free weights. That’ll help.

  He knew he was damned stupid to pump iron with uncontrolled anger coursing through him. But it didn’t stop him from piling too many weights on each end of the bar before jerking it toward his shoulders.

  His body rebelled at the punishment, and he dropped the bar before he’d lifted it waist-high. It crashed to the floor, drawing everyone’s attention.

  “Jon, you okay?”

  Jonathan turned, lips in a snarl.

  “Fuck off, Scott.”

  Scott, one of his workout buddies, lifted his hands, palms out. “Hey, no harm, no foul. But don’t throw the weights around like that. You’re endangering yourself, not to mention the rest of us.”

  The weight room manager appeared on Scott’s left. “We can’t have you lifting carelessly. Pay attention, or come back another time when you’re more in control.”

  He almost yelled a retort at the manager, but he stopped himself, mouth open, before the words came out. The manager was right, and he was wrong. Jonathan felt the anger hiss out of him like air from an overfilled balloon and changed what he planned to say.

  “Hell, maybe I’d better go home.”

  “We could go for a beer, if you’d like,” Scott said. “After all, we’ve talked about doing that some day.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “Not today. Just ... not today.”

  Scott and the manager nodded. Jonathan left, stopping on his way home to pick up two six-packs of his favorite microbrew.

  Maybe crawling inside the bottle tonight isn’t such a bad idea after all. Beer and ESPN. Maybe I’ll find some extreme sports competition to stare at, or a decent game.

  He felt like the world’s biggest asshole. He knew better than to handle heavy weights the way he had. Now he’d have to apologize to both the manager and Scott the next time he was at the gym. And he hated to apologize.

  At home, he popped the top of a Harpoon UFO Hefeweizen and swallowed half of it before putting the rest of the bottles in the fridge. He finished the first one standing in the kitchen, bringing a second one with him to his recliner. On his way, a blinking red light caught his eye. He punched the Play button on the answering machine.

  “Jonathan, it’s Mark Swanton.”

  He cursed at missing the call when he heard who it was. He’d gone to the gym and lost his chance to ask about Rosemary.

  “Hope you don’t mind the informality, but you are my advisor, after all. You didn’t leave a message, but my machine saved your number from Caller ID. I’ll be home the rest of the evening, so call me if you want. By the way, Rosemary Lockhart will be in class tomorrow. A friend’s giving her a ride to school, and I’ll give her a ride home, as well as take notes for her in your class. Also, we need to set up a time to discuss my thesis topic. See you tomorrow.”

  He stared at the phone. Mark had provided the bare bones of what he wanted to hear about most, Rosemary’s recovery. Calling to weasel more details about her out of him would be inappropriate, and there was no need to call Mark tonight to discuss his thesis. He’d see both of them tomorrow morning. Perhaps he could ask her to have coffee or lunch with him. After all, she’d need help carrying food.

  You’re acting like a lovesick teenager. Next, you’ll be offering to carry her books and asking her to go steady.

  He dropped into his chair, punching the TV’s remote. He’d make an even bigger fool of himself than he already had if he didn’t keep his emotions in check. He had no damn reason to talk to one of his first-year grad students about anything except class work, let alone offer to take her to lunch. No, he’d do what he could to help her complete her work for the class, but it couldn’t go beyond that. Though the line separating students and teachers was often honored in the breach, he’d better stay on his side of it and keep his sexual energies in check. If he wanted tenure, that is.

  Tenure meant job security, and while he loved his chosen area of study, he knew that not many universities outside of the Northeast would hire a professor of erotic literature, let alone grant him tenure. The pool of tenure-track positions for someone like him was tiny, and he’d worked hard to get as far as he had.

  So just because Rosemary was a dream walking, a woman he c
raved beyond all reason, didn’t mean he should surrender to his urges. His career and his livelihood mattered to him.

  Chapter Five

  Rosemary carefully placed her take-out coffee on the desk, exasperated with her limited abilities, even though the splints on her wrists were gone now. She happily accepted the progress elastic bandages represented, but she’d never liked feeling helpless. Though thankful she could drive again, frustration built in her whenever she attempted normal activities such as carrying a heavy book or a lunch tray.

  She managed to shrug off her bookpack and locate a notebook and pen inside it. Mark had warned her he wouldn’t be in class today, so for the first time in nearly two weeks she would take her own notes. The black-and-blue places on her face were nearly gone now, and makeup covered what remained. She recalled coming to class for the first time after the assault, embarrassed and angry that she couldn’t hide the worst of her bruising. Except for Mark, everyone had avoided her as if she were bad luck personified.

  While noticing a student leafing through an L. L. Bean catalog, she decided that she wanted to buy presents for both Faith and Mark. The two of them had kept her sane through the physical pain and the vagaries of the legal system. Thank God Steve had pled out and landed some jail time. Now she wouldn’t have to testify against him, or worry about him coming after her.

  Over the past eleven days, her friends had driven her everywhere -- school, the doctor’s office, the police station. But today she’d driven herself to class, and she was proud of her recovery.

  When Dr. Kent strode into the room, his appearance, as always, made her breath catch. She adored the way his mahogany hair fell over his forehead, and the way he brushed it back abruptly.

  He glanced up, his gaze zeroing in on her. Her stomach flip-flopped.

  “Ms. Lockhart, I see that you are taking your own notes today.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you like to record the class?”

  She stared at him. “How?”

  Dr. Kent smiled at her while placing a digital recorder on his lectern.

  “Today’s lecture will cover The Autobiography of a Flea,” he said.

  For the rest of the class, he paid no attention to her. Taking notes was harder than she’d thought it would be, and she thanked him silently for whatever impulse prompted him to bring the recorder.

  “That’s all for today. Keep up with your reading,” he said at the end of class. “And start thinking about your paper’s topic.”

  She gathered up her things before approaching him. “Thank you for bringing the recorder.”

  He peeked at her over the rims of his glasses. Something in her core thrummed in response.

  “You are most welcome.”

  He handed it to her without further comment. The pause grew awkward. She shifted her belongings in her wounded arms, only to drop them all.

  “Oh, shit, I hate this,” she cried.

  “Ms. Lockhart, such language.”

  She snapped her head up, ready to snarl, only to see the humor dancing in his eyes. She relaxed, letting him load her belongings into the backpack.

  “Better now?” he said while helping her put the pack on her back.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “I think you can lose the ‘sir.’ I’m younger than you.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she muttered as they walked down the hall together.

  “Do you have any ideas about a thesis?” he asked.

  “Thesis? I’ve been in grad school less than a month. I barely know my ID number.”

  He stopped where two hallways intersected. “I’m free for lunch today. Would you like to discuss possible topics? I’ve noticed your interest in my field of study.”

  Oh, God, he’s noticed the subject matter makes me hot.

  “I guess so,” she said, sensing the blush rising in her face.

  “Good. I’ll meet you outside the cafeteria a few minutes before noon.”

  * * * * *

  “You understand what I’m saying?” Dr. Kent asked, gesturing while he spoke.

  “Absolutely,” Rosemary said as they crossed the campus after lunch. Dr. Kent looked young enough to be a grad student himself, especially with her pack on his back. She slowed her pace to catch another glimpse of his tight, denimed tush.

  “Oh, my,” she breathed.

  “What?” he said. “Should I walk more slowly? You seem to have a problem keeping up with me.”

  She quickened her steps. “No, it’s all right.”

  I’ll die of embarrassment if he figures out how much I lust for him.

  “This is my building. A pleasure having lunch with you, Ms. Lockhart. You’re a promising scholar.” He stuck his right hand out, then pulled it back. “Sorry, the response to shake hands is automatic. I know you can’t do that yet.”

  “Yes, I can.” She reached out, gingerly taking his fingers. “I enjoyed it as well, Dr. Kent.”

  If you only knew how much.

  “If you enjoy Paglia’s analysis of the late Victorians, I have another book you might find interesting. I have some free time. Want to see it?”

  Depends on what “it” is.

  “I’d like that.”

  Rosemary reminded herself to breathe normally when she entered his office, which was red-blooded male in décor and atmosphere. Dr. Kent placed her backpack on a chair before heading to the bookcase next to his desk.

  “This is the book. If you’re considering writing a thesis on some aspect of the late Victorian erotic authors, start here.”

  She approached him, but stopped a short distance away.

  “May I see it?” She held out both her hands.

  “Let me hold it. Your wrists are still healing.”

  He moved closer, opening the book. His nearness electrified her senses. The deep breath she took to steady herself carried his scent, making her head whirl. He smelled soapy and musky, just like her Charlie used to.

  She met his gaze. One of his hands brushed her cheek before burying itself in her hair.

  “Rosemary,” he murmured.

  Their kiss began softly. But, after her lips parted, he entered her mouth, tasting her. She returned the favor, moaning when she felt one of his hands caressing her bottom.

  Unbidden, the image of Steve violating her body seared her mind. She froze, shoving Dr. Kent away.

  “No. I can’t.” She shuddered involuntarily.

  “As you wish.”

  His cool voice assaulted her confused emotions, triggering tears. She willed them not to fall. “I’d better go.”

  “Do you want the book?” he said.

  She couldn’t bear the grim set of his mouth another moment. What had happened?

  He got a good look at my fat, middle-aged body, that’s what happened.

  “I -- I’ll get it later.”

  She carefully picked up her book bag and left the room, managing to reach her car before the hot tears stung her cheeks.

  * * * * *

  Jonathan swallowed. One moment he was tasting her warm and willing mouth, the next, she was cold and unyielding and flying out the door. He sank into his chair, berating himself. Kissing a student -- in his office, no less. What was wrong with him? He’d count himself fortunate if she didn’t pursue a sexual harassment case, to say nothing of the fact that she’d been assaulted a mere two weeks ago.

  Not only was he stupid, he was insensitive as hell. He wasn’t even sure she wanted him. Yes, she’d responded to his touch, but a million reasons existed for that, and 999,999 of them had nothing to do with wanting him in particular.

  He grabbed his attaché case before stalking out the door. He was too rattled to work. As he neared the parking lot, he glanced around. No sign of Rosemary, thankfully. No telling what her reaction might be, now that she’d had a few minutes to think about the way he’d taken advantage of her.

  The sign for his favorite sports bar convinced him to turn the steering wheel. A couple of beers i
n some masculine company might help him think through his obsession with Rosemary.

  PJ’s, decorated all in dark wood with twelve televisions tuned to various sporting events, could have been a men’s club but for the two women eating hamburgers at one of the tables. He grabbed a seat at one end of the horseshoe-shaped bar, the better to be left alone to brood.

  “Hey, Jon,” the bartender said. “The usual?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Bad day?”

  “Bad life, Mike.” He swallowed his first taste of ale with a quick grimace. “Cold and bitterly hoppy. At least Harpoon IPA never disappoints.”

  “How could you have a bad life?” Mike asked while stacking glasses. “You’re doing work you love, and you drive a hot car.”

  “A woman’s got me screwed up.”

  “The babes will get you every time. Talk to you later,” Mike said before hurrying away to wait on a customer sitting at the apex of the horseshoe. Jonathan studied the man sitting at the bar. He was the burly, outdoorsy type, but he looked as if he’d just lost his last friend.

  He checked his own expression in the mirror behind the bar, dismayed at what he saw.

  Pathetic. Just pathetic. Damned women.

  He needed distraction. He munched some bar mix while training his eyes on a televised poker tournament. He watched T. J. Cloutier mop the floor with the other players, two of them female.

  Now there’s a man’s game. All props to T. J.’s skills.

  He’d stayed at the bar long enough. Leaving the dregs of his brew behind, he headed for home.

  * * * * *

  Rosemary decided she wouldn’t cry any more, not over Dr. Kent, but her decision didn’t stop her tears. The iron-colored clouds outside her window chilled her, body and soul, despite the hot cocoa she’d made. It grew cold on the kitchen counter as her sobs refused to end. Finally done, she removed her glasses to wipe her face. Life went on, and she’d damned well better get over it.

  Kissing Dr. Kent -- she couldn’t yet call him Jonathan, not even in her mind -- was a moment she’d thought she’d wanted. But her arousal disappeared when terrifying memories had plastered themselves across the inside of her eyelids.