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I’m just on time and the large room is filled to the brim with students waiting for me.
„Good morning everyone,” I greet the room, scanning the crowd quickly, before I drop my satchel on the table at the front and turn to the chalkboard to write my name on it. „Welcome to Mathematics 219 Analytic Number Theory. My name is Professor Jones, and I’ll be teaching this class for Professor—”
My voice dies, when I turn around to face the class, and I’m met with a sight that both confuses and shocks me to the core.
There she is, second row from the front, right in the middle, squeezed in between a black-haired goth girl and a very tired-looking young man, who can barely keep his eyes open:My little flower.
She couldn’t look more different than she did the night when we met. Her blond hair is gathered in a messy bun on the top of her head, her pretty face free of any make-up makes her look even younger, and she’s wearing a turtleneck sweater in crimson red—the color of Harvard University.
My workplace.
And her place of study, apparently.
Fuck.
I almost say that word out loud, as it feels like my whole world is crumbling down on top of me. She is a student, here, where I teach. She ismyfucking student.
And from the looks of it, she’s just as shocked to see me here, as I am to see her. She stares at me with her eyes wider than ever before, and her jaw drops, just like the pen that was in her hand and is now rolling across the tiny table in front of her, the sound of it breaking the awkward silence that has set upon the room.
This isn’t happening. Not again. Ican’t believethis is happening.
The students are getting restless and as I can hear the first muffled voices and exchanged whispers, I’m suddenly painfully aware of the fact that an entire room of about fifty students is waiting for me to finish my introduction—and to do my fucking job.
She breaks our staring contest, and lowers her gaze to pick up the pen she dropped, which frees me from my misplaced freeze and finally allows me to continue speaking.
„Beck, Professor Beck. I…He…sadly he won’t be able to…teach this semester, so I’ll be taking over for him.”
For fuck’s sake, I need to keep it together. I can’t think about her now, or the consequences this might have. I need to focus.
I decide to check attendance, if mostly to buy myself time to gather my thoughts and calm the fuck down. I want to be angry, because she never mentioned anything about being a student here, let alone a student of Mathematics. But I was the one who insisted on doing things this way. I was the one who built up that wall of anonymity between us. We’re in this mess because of me.
As I go through the names on my list, my heart hammers with anticipation each time I read out a name I assume to be female. Who is she? What name on this list belongs to my little flower, the girl I was looking forward to devouring this upcoming weekend?
I’m almost done with the list when just a handful of names are left, and there’s one name that scares me, a name with a little note attached to it: TA.
I take a deep breath when I read out the next name: „Claire Walker.”
My heart almost stops when she raises her hand.
„Yes,” she pipes with that angelic voice. The same voice that moaned into my ears when I teased the wetness between her legs and almost made her come.
It’s her. She’s Claire Walker. And that means she’s not just my student, it’s even worse than that: She’s my teaching assistant for this semester.
Chapter 9
Claire
He looks even more handsome with glasses.
But since this is not a Superman movie, I still recognized him the moment he walked through the door. His hair looks darker in the daylight, more like a light sandy brown rather than dark blond. But he’s just as out of this world handsome in his stylish tweed jacket, with a tailored fit that accentuates his broad shoulders, and dark denim jeans.
He stands tall behind the desk at the front, his presence just as commanding in the classroom as it was in the kink club—and I can sense that I’m not the only one in the room who is affected by his appearance. There aren’t many girls in this class—which is a core feature of this entire department, sadly—but I hear some of them whispering and huffing while throwing coy looks in his direction. I hate the ping of jealousy that comes with my observation.
I almost ran out of class when our eyes met, but I didn’t want to cause a scene. A scene is the last thing either of us needs right now, and it would only draw unwanted attention to us, wouldn’t it?
So, instead, I dropped my pen, and we stared at each other. He looked just as shocked to see me as I was to see him, and I could tell that his anguish worsened when he realized that I am his teaching assistant for the semester.
Well, I was supposed to be Professor Beck’s teaching assistant, and unlike most other students in the room, I already knew that someone else would be taking over his class. But how could I have known it would be him? How have we never run into each other on campus before? The Mathematics department isn’t that big, and this is already my second semester here.
