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I feel overdressed. Kind of like a call girl. What the hell was I thinking wearing this thing? It’s so not me.
“Wow,” he says, blue eyes scanning the length of my body. He takes a step back to get the full picture. “That’s some dress.”
I feel really stupid right now, so I try to make light of it. “This old thing? I wanted to keep it casual, you know, just in case I decide to hit the gym after.”
He huffs out silent laughter and opens the door wider for me to enter. “I know what you mean,” he says, “I always keep my mini red dress in my gym bag.”
I smile and roll my eyes as I walk in.
A few silly words exchanged and I’m feeling more at ease. I look around the large room, taking it all in, trying to learn about what kind of person Mr. Johnson is outside of the classroom.
The first thing I notice, besides a serious lack of décor, is the smell of rosemary and basil. He’s cooking something, and whatever it is smells delicious.
The house is a total bachelor pad. From the ratty recliner that’s obviously his favorite piece of furniture, to the posters and signed hockey jerseys on the walls. The place is all male. He’s definitely not married.
Taking it all in, I realize just how big it is. The living room itself is three times the size of my dorm room. It’s a lot of house for just one person.
“You live here by yourself?” I ask.
He looks around and shrugs. “Yep, just me and the cat. He’s around here somewhere.”
Another surprise. I didn’t picture him as a cat person. I didn’t picture him with animals at all, but if I had to guess, I would’ve thought he’d own a bulldog or mastiff. Something macho to complement his size.
“I can’t picture you with a cat,” I say, unable to contain my smile. He’s just so incredibly adorable, and nothing like I was expecting outside of the classroom.
“He’s not mine. He just comes around when he wants food.”
“I don’t blame him,” I say, sniffing the air. “Smells good in here.”
“Good. I hope you’re hungry. I made fresh pasta.”
And he can cook? Jesus, this man is perfect.
“Starving,” I say.
He leads me to the kitchen nook. The kitchen too is just as spectacular as the rest of the house. Custom everything, including a fridge that matches the dark wood of the cabinets, glass tile back splashes, and granite countertops. I’m not much of a cook myself, but my mom would’ve sacrificed me to the nearest god for a kitchen like this when my siblings and I were growing up. She always complained about not having any counter space. The counters in here are big enough to land a plane on.
The table has already been set for two. Champagne on ice, candles lit. When he gave me his address, I was just expecting a longer version of the preview I’d seen earlier in the classroom, and most likely—if I was lucky—an awkward quickie. I’d satisfy my curiosity and that would be that. What I wasn’t expecting was a romantic dinner. Not that I’m complaining. I’m just confused about what all this means. I already told him this wasn’t a blackmail situation, so he didn’t have to go to all the trouble.
He pours the champagne. I’ve had champagne once, at a wedding. It was gross, like dry ginger ale, but worse. I try a sip. This isn’t gross, not at all. It’s sweet and tickles the back of my throat. I want to down the entire glass, but hold myself back, not wanting to be obvious about just how nervous I really am. So far I think I’m really pulling off this whole confidence thing—to the point I’m actually starting to believe it myself.
He pulls my chair out for me and I sit.
“Help yourself,” he says, pointing at the food on the table in bowls.
There’s salad, pasta with red sauce, and breadsticks that also look homemade. I take a little of each.
“You’re not one of those girls, are you?” he asks, smirking at me from across the table, the candlelight doing beautiful things with his face.
“What girls?”
“The ones who eat like birds on a date, then scarf down a pizza when they get home.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Is this a date?”
The corner of his mouth twitches into a half smile. “No.”
“Well then, no, I guess not.”
I reach over and grab a heaping spoonful of pasta and plop it down on my plate. He laughs and starts to fill his own plate.
He eats much quicker than I do. I’ve always been a slow eater ever since I choked on a Red Vine in a dark movie theater; it put the fear of God into me.
“So, Mr. Johnson,” I say, trying to fill the room with sounds other than my chewing. “Why’d you get into porn?”
His champagne glass stops on its way to his lips. I think he’s blushing but it’s too difficult to tell in the dull glow of the room. “Call me Loche,” he says. “And I did it out of necessity. I was a struggling student and I saw an opportunity to better my situation and I took it.” He looks pointedly at me over his glass.
“I know what that look is for,” I tell him. It’s so obvious that he’s suspicious, like he can’t believe I have all this information on him and all I want out of the deal is to see his dick. “I’m still not blackmailing you, s
o stop looking at me like I’m a criminal.”
His smile beats me over the head, leaves me breathless and incapacitated for a moment. He’s so insanely handsome. He might even be better-looking than Tom Hardy, if that’s even humanly possible, or maybe it’s just the champagne going to my head. I don’t think so, though. I think I closed myself off to men because of my workload for so long that I just forgot to look. Well, not anymore. I’m definitely looking now.
My body’s reacting, but my mind is telling me if I go too far, it’ll ruin everything. I want at least one mind-blowing porn scene of my own with him, but how will we ever go back to our student-teacher relationship after that? How can I ever look at him the same again? Things would get awkward. I’d have to switch classes and teachers. What a pain in the ass. Actually, I probably wouldn’t even be able to switch. I’m sure this far into the school year classes are full. I groan quietly enough so he doesn’t hear. I’ve really got myself in deep this time, but there’s no turning back now.
Loche stands and walks toward me. There’s something very commanding about the way he moves. Apparently his authority isn’t reserved only for the classroom.
My fork still hovers in front of my mouth, but I struggle to move, mesmerized by his every step as he gets nearer. With my empty hand, I reach for my champagne glass and chug what’s left in it.
“More?” he asks, standing right in front of me now.
I nod because words fail me. He fills the glass and I chug it too.
He breathes out silent laughter. “Am I making you nervous?”
I try to roll my eyes and laugh it off, but I have no idea what my face is doing because it’s completely numb. “What? No,” I say. He takes another step closer and my voice starts to warble. “What’s there to be nervous about?”
I have a good buzz going and a slight headache. So much for feeling confident. I shouldn’t still be this nervous.
“Are you still eating?” he asks.
I look at the fork in my hand. How could I possibly still think about food at a time like this? I put it down on my plate. He pushes it off to the side and sits on the edge of the table in front of me.
