Comfort Zone

by Missy Johnson

  Comfort

  Zone

  MISSY JOHNSON

  Copyright © JUNE 2018 Missy Johnson

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Printing: June 2018

  #4 in Awkward Love, a series of short, sexy COMPLETE standalone novels

  #1: It’s Complicated: www.amazon.com/dp/B077BBLF3Y

  #2: I Can Explain: www.amazon.com/dp/B079KSSGBJ

  #3: Too Much Info: www.amazon.com/dp/B07B1TSV1Y

  #4: Comfort Zone: www.amazon.com/dp/B07CKS1H5P

  #5 Don’t Go There: www.amazon.com/dp/B07D35QSHM

  Chapter One

  Becca

  Amy: Okay. Would you rather masturbate in public or lick Professor Sullivan’s asshole?

  I choke back a laugh and screw up my nose, not finding either of those options particularly appealing. Not that I’m going to tell Amy that. I glance up to make sure Professor Sullivan is still talking before I type out my response.

  Me: Lick Professor Sullivan’s asshole, preferably while stroking his cock. Then again, I’ve always had a thing for exhibitionism. Can I just say both? Or maybe lick his ass in public, while getting myself off?

  Amy: I knew you were a kinky bitch.

  I attempt to turn a burst of laughter into a cough, but I end up swallowing air the wrong way and spluttering so loudly that half the room turns around to look at me. I sink farther down into my seat and focus on my laptop, pretending I can’t feel everyone staring. I shoot a glare at Amy, who sits three rows away, chuckling to herself.

  “Is everything okay, Ms. Chambers?”

  I freeze as I look up right into the intense blue eyes of Professor Sullivan. We stare at each other for a moment, until his lips lift into a grin. I flush, somehow managing to nod my head.

  “As I was saying…”

  Another message from Amy pings through, but I close it, not wanting to risk getting myself into more trouble. I last five minutes before my curiosity gets the better of me and I have to open it.

  Amy: You’re such a dick. Want to hang out tonight?

  Amy and I hit it off after we were paired up for a group project earlier in the year. Like most of my peers, she’s a few years younger than me, though some of the shit I get myself into, you’d think I was the younger one.

  Me: I can’t. Jake’s bachelor party, remember?

  Amy: I still think you should’ve gone with Sacked.

  I laugh softly, because I could just imagine the look on Jake’s face if I’d arranged his party at the hot new gay strip club. Twenty guys standing around awkwardly, looking anywhere but at the cock swinging in their faces? It would have been pretty fucking funny. For me, at least.

  I’d been looking forward to planning this since Jake got engaged. He’s one of my best friends, and I’m determined to throw him a night he’ll remember. It’s not like anything I do will make his fiancée hate me any less, so what have I got to lose?

  I’ve tried everything to get along with Brooke, but she just flat-out hates me. I’m not sure why, and I’m past the point of caring. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there were times I wished he would find someone else. That sounds awful, but Jake’s my friend and I want to share everything with him, including his partners—in a totally nonsexual way, of course, because my fantasies are reserved for Professor Sullivan.

  I’m kidding…sort of.

  I fiddle with a loose thread on my shirt as anxiety shifts through my stomach. I never thought I’d be the kind of girl who had a crush on a teacher, but here I am, a twenty-seven-year-old college student, lusting after her professor. Yes, my life is that sad. I sneak a look in his direction, sucking in a mouthful of air when his eyes meet mine.

  His lips twitch, highlighting his strong jawline and the undeniably sexy layer of stubble that covers it. He’s definitely attractive, but beyond that? I have no idea. These feelings I’ve developed for him are definitely infatuation. For all I know, he might be a total asshole. Still, a little fantasizing never hurt anyone. And it’s not like he’d ever find out about my crush, right?

  The end of the lecture can’t come soon enough. When it’s over, I stand up and follow the crowd to the door, my mind preoccupied with everything I still have to do for tonight. Why do I leave shit till the last minute? You’d think I would eventually learn, but I never seem to. Just as I’m about to walk out of the hall, I hear my name. I freeze, because that voice…

  Why is Professor Sullivan calling out my name?

  I’d had this fantasy before, but we were both wearing much less clothing.

  I turn around and clutch at the strap of my backpack so tightly that my knuckles turn white, and then I saunter over to his desk, ignoring the looks and giggles I’m getting from passing students. Amy mouths good luck to me. I roll my eyes, hoping to God I look calmer and more in control than I feel.

  “You wanted to see me?” I say.

  Professor Sullivan looks up, his expression giving nothing away. Then he nods and runs his hand through his thick, dark hair as he leans back in his chair. “I did.”

  He looks at me in such a way that I feel dirty—or maybe that’s the naughty thoughts that smirk is putting into my head?

  Focus, Becca. Now is not the time to be fantasizing about him.

  “I wanted to speak with you for a moment about the internal instant messaging service you love to abuse so much.”

  My heart thumps in my chest as I force myself to swallow.

  “What about it?” I finally manage to ask.

  He smiles at me, those electric blue eyes burning through me. My skin goes hot as I shuffle on my feet, waiting for him to tell me what the hell this is all about. A horrible thought hits me. I hope he’s not cutting me off. I shudder at the thought.

  “I’m an administrator, Becca. That means every single text sent within that system pops up on my screen. Most of them I ignore, but every now and then one captures my attention.” His eyes twinkle as he stares at me. “Oddly enough, the ones that stand out are nearly always yours.”

  I stare at him, my eyes wide. Is he fucking kidding me?

  “Is that even legal?” I ask, my voice coming out a strangled growl. “Surely that’s an invasion of my privacy.”

  “No, not when you signed a disclaimer on the first day of class,” he reminds me.

  He stands up and walks around to the front of his desk, parking his ass right in front of me. He’s within my reach, which means there’s a fifty-fifty chance of me doing something stupid, like reaching out to touch him. I cross my arms over my chest, just in case, because if today has established anything, it’s that I’m stupid enough to unconsciously stroke his cock through his pants or something.

  “On that first day, I went through the terms of use in extreme detail because I wanted everyone to be aware those messages are filtered through my system. I said it twice, but you obviously weren’t listening.” He turns around and grabs a file, flicking through it until he reaches a certain page. “Your signature?” he asks, holding it up.

  My heart pounds as I nod. How did I miss that? I was probably too busy messaging Amy. I’m I drop my gaze, beyond embarrassed. It’s a strange feeling, because I’m usually the cause of this kind of humiliation. All I can think about are the hundreds of embarrassing, inappropriate, and often
downright weird messages that I’d sent Amy during his class. I close my eyes and swallow, my heart pounding, because I fail to see how this can get any worse.

  “Look, I’m not telling you to stop messaging your friends—I just wanted you to be aware that I could see them.” He pauses, the tiniest smile visible on his lips. “Since so many of them involve me.”

  “Is that all?” I whisper.

  I don’t want to stand here making small talk with him. I want to get the fuck out of here and never speak about this moment again. Ever. Only I’m not convinced that my mind is ready to let me forget about this just yet.

  “Sure.” He studies me for a moment, before continuing. “It’s the weekend. I’m sure you’ve got a very full schedule planned. Just make sure you squeeze in some study time, okay?”

  I smile tightly and then turn around, quickly making a break for the door. Just as I touch the handle, he calls out to me.

  “Ms. Chambers? One more thing.”

  I cringe and force myself to smile as I turn around to face him again. I’m so embarrassed, it’s not funny. How could I sign something when I had no idea what it was? God, how fucking stupid can I be? Who knows what else I have unwittingly signed over the years.

  “Yes?”

  “While I appreciate your commitment to trying new things, I can assure you that no tongue”—he pauses— “not even yours, will ever be going near my asshole.”

  Oh God. I want to die.

  His eyes flicker with amusement as I struggle to breathe.

  “Of course, I have no control over whether you masturbate in public, but I suggest if you do go down that path, you choose a warm night. The last thing you want to end up with is a cold.”

  This is not happening.

  The way he’s looking at me, I might as well just drop the skinny jeans it took me an hour to get into and get myself off right here in front of him. It’s obvious he’s imagining it anyway. I force myself to keep eye contact, because if I lose that, then I’m done.

  “Thank you, Professor Sullivan.”

  #

  The second I get to my car, I call Amy. I’m miffed that she didn’t wait for me, but I get over it pretty fast, mainly because I need to unload all of this on somebody who’ll understand. There’s no better candidate than the person who put me in this position in the first place.

  “So, did he throw you down on his desk and fuck you up the ass?” she teases.

  “Oh, I’m totally fucked, but not in a good way.” I groan and rub the bridge of my nose. “This is all your fault. You and your stupid games.”

  “What happened?” she asks. “What’s going on?”

  “Did you know the IMs sent through the internal system are monitored?” I accuse her. Then I cringe again. I want the world to swallow me up every time I think about it. “Every fucking message we’ve sent in that room, he’s read.”

  “Of course I knew,” she giggles. “I thought you knew and you just didn’t care. That’s why I keep messaging you, because you’re so much fun.”

  “Didn’t care?” I repeat, glaring at her. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I care?”

  The more I think about it, in all the times we’d exchanged messages, Amy had never said anything remotely incriminating. I, on the other hand, had said plenty. I sigh and force myself to calm down, knowing it’s myself I need to be annoyed at. Not Amy.

  “It’ll be fine,” she says, dismissing my concerns like she always does. “You’re stressing over nothing. By Monday he’ll have forgotten about it. Trust me.”

  I’m not so sure, but there isn’t much I can do about it now anyway.

  “I better go. I’ve got to get ready for the bachelor party.”

  “Okay. Call me tomorrow and let me know how it goes?” she asks. “At least this party will take your mind off it,” she adds.

  I nod, my mood lifting a tiny bit. She’s right about one thing, at least.

  Jake’s party will be the perfect distraction.

  #

  “For God’s sake, Becca, would you stop honking that damn horn.”

  Mom glares at me as she throws herself into the passenger seat of my car. I wait until she’s closed the door, and then slam my foot down on the accelerator while she locks her seatbelt in.

  “What? We’re running late,” I say, defending myself.

  I told her I’d be home at six to pick her up. I even gave her until six fifteen before I started getting testy. I glance at her again, this time noticing what she’s wearing—her short, navy blue dress that shows more skin than mine—but I have to admit, she looks good. With her blonde hair twisted into a bun and her make-up on, you’d never guess she’s in her sixties.

  “Did Dad see you leave in that dress?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

  “Why do you think I was running so late?” She winks at me and I shudder.

  Yes. My sixty-seven-year-old mother, loyal member of the gardening club and regular churchgoer, just insinuated that she was late because she was having sex. I should be used to it by now, but the older I get it, seems the worse they get.

  My parents lead a very relaxed lifestyle, which was both good and bad when I was growing up. Having the freedom as a teenager to explore myself was fantastic, but bringing a guy home to discover your parents naked in the living room, experimenting with another couple? Not so fantastic. I was mortified. Actually, that doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  That incident took me years to get over. It wasn’t helped by the fact that the next day, the entire school referred to me as Chandelier because my parents liked swinging. That name stuck like glue right through until graduation.

  “You didn’t have to come tonight. Remember?” I say, gritting my teeth.

  “Jake’s like the son I never had.” She looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “Why would I miss his bachelor party?”

  Um, because you weren’t invited?

  I bite back on that comment, deciding it’s not worth the trouble. I don’t even know how she ended up inviting herself along. One minute Jake and I were arguing about my choice of venue, and the next, Mom was accepting an invitation that he never actually gave her. While we’re on it, if Jake is the son she never had, then it’s probably a good thing I don’t have a brother, because she really doesn’t know Jake all that well. Our friendship started in high school when Jake changed schools. Back then, my parents respected my privacy a little too much. Where other parents would want to know the ins and outs of where their child was going, mine just went with the flow. At the point of graduation, Mom had met Jake twice. Then we were both away at college, and after that, I had my own place. It was only recently, being back at home, that my parents and Jake had begun to cross paths more.

  Even before I finished high school, I knew I wanted to work with animals, but my grades were nowhere near good enough to get me into veterinary science. Still, I lucked out and got my dream job, handling animals on set for a production company. Thanks to a very well-endowed admissions officer named Barry Pumpfist, who was moonlighting as a porn star, I got an interview and a glowing recommendation for mature-age entry into a bridging course at UCLA. I kicked ass in that course and managed to score myself a scholarship into veterinary science.

  Leaving a job I loved was a huge risk, but when I walked into that lecture room on that very first day, I knew I’d made the right decision. It felt right, and not just because my professor was incredibly hot. Watching him perform chest compressions on that cat, I knew that was what I wanted to be doing. Any reservations I’d had about my career change being some kind of midlife crisis evaporated in that moment. I wanted it more than anything, and I was prepared to do whatever it took to get there—even if it meant moving back home.

  Going home wasn’t a choice; it was a sacrifice I had to make in order to get what I wanted. I couldn’t work and study, because my scholarship required me to work part of my tuition off. That left me with barely enough time to study as it was, without throwing another job into the mix. I didn�
��t love working in the president of the university’s office—technology and I have a love-hate relationship—but I didn’t have a choice. I’m pretty sure the president hates me, but I suppose I’ve given him good reason to, between wiping the entire system clean of all the mid-year results and forwarding his personal emails to the whole alumni. It took a lot of convincing that I wasn’t a terrorist, or a cheat. I was just a very talented klutz.

  Slowing down just before the exit to the freeway, I turn into the strip of shops where Sexytime Land is. If I’d known Mom was going to be running so late, I would’ve stopped here first. I park the car outside the drugstore, which is a few doors down, hoping I can fool Mom into thinking I’m going in there. It’s not that I don’t want her to know where I’m really going. I just don’t want her following me in there and embarrassing me, which is exactly what she’d do.

  “Becca, is that a sex store?” Mom whispers. “Can we go in?”

  “What? No. Well, it is a sex shop, but we’re not going in there. Isn’t it enough that we’re going to a strip club?” I grumble.

  “Then what are we doing here?” she presses.

  “I just need to go into the drugstore for a second,” I say, hoping she leaves it at that.

  “What for?” she asks.

  Jesus, is nothing off limits?

  “Extra-large condoms,” I snap. “And something to get rid of this headache.”

  The one forming at the thought of going into a strip club with my mother.

  “Just stay here, okay?” I force myself to smile as I climb out of the car. “I won’t be long.”

  I half expect her to follow me, but to my relief, she stays put. Increasing my pace, I stroll inside, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. I casually walk over to their expansive toy section, not embarrassed that I know exactly where it is. Embarrassing my friends is what I do, and nothing does it better than sex toys.

  I frown as I try to decide which option to go with: the fist or the more traditional penis-shaped dildo. My concentration is interrupted when I hear an all-too-familiar voice calling my name. I cringe and poke my head around the side of the aisle. Sure enough, there’s Mom, flailing up and down the center of the store, calling out to me.