CHAPTER 12
Nate
I threw open the doors to the lecture hall, taking two steps at a time down to the pit. The hall was full, the murmurs falling to a hush replaced with the shuffle of books and bags and pens and laptops. At the podium, I removed my notes from my briefcase. I glanced up, my gaze cast over the room. Mara was not in the front row, closest to the podium, her usual spot. My gut twisted into a gnawing deep defeat, but it was fine. If she no longer wished to indulge in these forbidden desires with me, I didn’t blame her. We would resume a professional, academic relationship. It’s what we should have been doing in the first place.
But then I saw her: in the center of the rows, but still in front of the podium, in my direct line of sight. I continued—unusual for her to sit there, yes, but I had a class to teach.
I began lecturing on autopilot. The luxury of teaching the Las Vegas literature class was that I had taught it almost every semester since starting here. It was a popular class, both for majors and for general education students. I didn’t have to think about what I was saying.
I spouted off a tirade on the casino as a setting, how that translated into a dynamic landscape ripe with possibilities for the human experience, but my mind went over my counter-response to Mara’s essay for the Crossing Collaborations Contest. It was hard to say how deeply integrated other professors were in their partnerships, but when it came to Mara and me, it washeressay. I wasn’t about to mansplain anything to her or force her to research my views. I hardly had the drive to finish the counter-argument. And if I did finish it, I would use it to push Mara’s theoretical discussions to another level.
I stole a glance at Mara. Mara usually wore long sleeves, pants, the occasional tight shirt with a blazer. But this time, her outfit was a deliberate choice. She was wearing a skirt, loose around her, pooling at the sides, the skin of her thighs and knees exposed, thick, pressed together. A cardigan on her shoulders and arms. An uncharacteristically low cut top, designed in a V, drawing the eye—my eyes—to her cleavage. A necklace, wound tight around her neck, almost like a ribbon. Her cheeks tinted red. She locked eyes with me, then hid her face, pretending to look down the aisle at the other students. Then Mara touched her cheek, dragging one finger to her lips, then inched her finger down her neck, her fingertips grazing her skin, a freckle on her collarbone, her fingers dragging down, and down, and…
Her movements were lazy, gentle, as if enticing herself, imagining it was me. Teasing me. Making me want more. The sleeve of her cardigan fell, exposing her wrists, bound in metal cuffs.
Holy fucking hell.
I ran a hand through my hair, my cock twitched, and I stared at the clock at the back of the classroom, willing it to go faster. What were we talking about again?
“Dr. Evans,” a student said. A hand shot up, and I turned. “Aren’tallspaces dynamic spaces? The human experience can happen anywhere, after all.”
Mara rearranged her shirt, then fidgeted with her necklace.
Not a necklace. A collar.
My collar.
“Dr. Evans?”
Though that student was near Mara, I turned to the opposite side of the lecture hall. In an uncharacteristic move, I asked the class, “Thoughts? Responses?” This wasn’t a discussion section. This was a lecture course. I usually relished in shutting the know-it-all down with intellectual prowess. To show that they weren’t asking a question, but showing off.
But I could hardly concentrate. Not with Mara teasing me. The damn minx.
The classroom erupted into a discussion, and I pretended to listen. Mara was adjusting in her seat, her chest moving, rubbing against the fabric, and her nipples were obviously hard, with no bra to cover them. I licked my lips.
“Pop quiz,” I said. “Blank piece of paper.” A shocked gasp went through the room. Another surprising move. I hadn’t mentioned pop quizzes on the syllabus. But I shouldn’t have had to. I needed everyone to stop talking so I could focus on anything, but her.
But it was her. Only her. She was all I could think about.
Mara pretended to be a student, getting out a notebook. Her thighs squeezed shut. I rested my arms on the podium, hiding my growing erection. It was like being a teenager, unable to control my desire, but at almost forty-three, it was aggravating. I didn’t have time for this. I needed to taste her lips.
“Short essay,” I said. Mara’s punishment would be grading these after I spanked the hell out of her for teasing me. “Discuss the different aspects of Las Vegas as a setting for literature, and as a place you interact with on a daily basis.” The students scrambled to write.
Mara sat up, her fingers interlaced with the collar, pressing her breasts together, watching me. Waiting for my next move.
Fuck it. I needed hernow.
“On second thought, take it home,” I said. A wave of relief sounded through the class. “Class is dismissed. Take-home essays are due next time.” The students made moves to leave, and in my loud, teacher voice, I said, “Mara Slate, please stay after class.”
A few students came down to the pit to ask questions. Mara made her way down, hovering to the side. My erection was gone, and with the swarms of students, I couldn’t see Mara, and was, therefore, able to actually answer their questions decently.
Once the last student left, I went to the top of the stairs and locked the door. A benefit of my position was knowing that this lecture hall wouldn’t be in use for another hour and a half.
Without looking at her, I gestured at the two chairs next to the table. I took the one behind it, and she took the other. We faced each other. The table between us.
Damn it all, I wanted to shove her over the table, lift her skirt and rip off her panties, and fuck her so hard she would have bruises from railing into the table. But none of that mattered until I knew she was truly consenting to this. We were putting everything on the line.
“Mara,” I said.
