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With a deep breath, I turned it and pushed the door open. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw, and my cock, stupidly encaged, began to throb as blood flowed into it.
Fuck.
Winnie spun around as she gasped, the hem of her black dress flying out around her thighs. Our eyes met and held, hers widening like a deer in headlights. Her full lips parted, and a blush rose to her cheeks.
“Professor Ashford,” she breathed, and fuck if that didn’t make my cock throb even harder.
“Winnie.” The smallest glimpse of a smile graced her lips, and she tucked her short hair behind her ear.
“You remembered.”
I blinked. “Of course, I remembered,” I said. As if I’d forget anything about her.
I felt detached from my body, like I was hovering above and watching this mind-blowing interaction with her. She was a goddess—she was the sun. She was everything perfect and pure about the world.
I didn’t need to talk to her, get close to her, learn a thing about her to know that. Just looking at her, I knew.
I felt like I knew everything. Like my soul, the fucked-up, twisted mess it may be, had been waiting for her my entire life. My entire existence, in every lifetime…
Everything that had ever happened had led me to her.
“Are these books free to take?” she asked, her voice pulling me from my thoughts.
“Of course,” I rasped, adjusting my grip on my leather bag. I should move—I should do something other than just stand here and gawk at her, but I couldn’t. “Take whatever you’d like.”
She gave me another soft smile, and it nearly killed me. Spinning back toward the books, I let myself stare at her for another moment, just taking her in. Her old, dirty shoes creased as she lifted onto her tiptoes, grabbing a book from a higher shelf. The hem of her dress rose with her movements, teasing me with a glimpse of her smooth skin.
No one else was in the room with us, which wasn’t good. If I were a good man, a smart man, I’d make an excuse to leave her alone, to walk out of this room and never look back. But I was neither of those things, so I found myself striding toward my desk, my heart a lump in my throat, reminding me I should not be doing this.
The leather chair creaked as I sank onto it, and I set my bag in front of me. I forced my gaze to stay down, to stay on my bag as I opened it and pulled out the paper sack with my lunch in it. My water bottle came next, then my laptop.
My hands shook uncontrollably as I set everything up the same way I had every day for the last ten years—food on the left side of the desk, papers in the back, laptop on the right, water by the food. I opened the laptop and stared at the lock screen, at the blinking cursor to type my password in. What the fuck was it again?
I glanced up, finding Winnie with her back still to me. Did she wear those dresses and skirts on purpose? Surely she knew the effect she had on people—on me. On all men. A girl like her screamed innocence, and every man with a working dick who saw her would chase after her like a cartoon dog; our tongues rolled out of our mouths and heart-eyes bugged out of our heads.
I shook myself. This was ridiculous. All of it. The cock cage, the rubber band, the infatuation. I knew that; I wasn’t insane. But how was I supposed to stop? My cock wanted her—no, not just my cock. Every fiber of my being wanted her.
"I found one." Her voice cut through my racing thoughts like a knife, and my head snapped up, my heart skipping a beat when I realized she was closer now. When did that happen? I hadn't even heard her move. She lifted the leather-bound book clutched in her hand, her nails perfectly painted black.
A small smile tugged at the corners of my lips as she walked closer, as if she were as drawn to me as I was to her. I read the title of the book and leaned back in my chair.
"Wuthering Heights," I said, resting my hands too high on my thighs. "A romantic at heart?"
Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink color as she pressed the book to her chest, wrapping her arms protectively around it. The movement caused her breasts to press together, and my jaw clenched involuntarily at the deep line that creased between them.
"Is Wuthering Heights a romance?" she asked, her voice soft and lilting. "I always thought it was more of a tragedy."
I huffed out a laugh and leaned forward, resting my forearms on the edge of my desk. "Isn't all love a tragedy?" I mused, watching her closely.
Her eyes narrowed slightly at my words. "That's quite morbid," she murmured.
"Perhaps," I agreed. "Or perhaps it's just the truth."
We stared at each other, the words lingering between us. Her hesitation vanished as she took another step toward me, closing the distance. My throat went dry, and I forced myself to swallow thickly.
"So why do people fall in love if it'll just end tragically?"
"It's a part of the human condition, I'm afraid," I sighed, smiling sadly.
