“Say it.”
“I’ll do what you say, Professor McKnight.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder, the grip gentle but unyielding.
“Good,” he says, and the word is a benediction and a curse.
He leans over, and I feel his breath on my neck. “Next time, be on time. Leave the thoughts of the micro-penis at home. Or I’ll have to find a way to discipline you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it hurts. The heat between my legs is relentless, and oh god, but I’m damp already.
“Yes, Professor,” I whisper, and I hear the tiniest catch in his breathing.
He straightens, goes back behind the desk, and picks up the legal pad again. The air is thick, sticky, and electric.
“Any questions?” he says.
I shake my head, then add, “No, sir.”
He smiles, just a little.
“Class dismissed,” he says, but neither of us moves.
I sit there, heart pounding, waiting to see if he’ll ask me to stay after. If he’ll call me back.
His eyes are on my knees, my thighs, and then, finally, on my face.
He says, “I expect better next time, Miss Vreeland. Don’t disappoint me. Take some time to think about where you’ve erred, and then come back at noon.”
I nod, and get up, and walk—no, float—back to my room, every step charged with the possibility of being called back, of being stopped, of being taken in hand and made to pay.
He doesn’t call me back. Not yet.
But I know, the next time, he will.
The next “class”comes faster than I expect. It’s almost noon and already I’m vibrating with nervous energy, making fake outlines on my laptop and googling “How to be an honorsstudent in a plaid skirt.” I run through this morning’s role play in my head on a loop—his words, his gaze, the hot promise in his breath. I tell myself this is just acting, but I know I’m hoping for more. My skin is electric, my thighs slick from the anticipation alone.
I fix my hair, reapply a hint of lip gloss, and for a crazy second consider drawing a tiny heart on my ankle, just to see if he’ll notice. Isn’t that what naughty girls do? But then, I think better of it and tiptoe down the stairs again, my heart racing at a hundred miles an hour.
The room is darker now, the blinds half-closed against the winter sun. Talon’s behind the desk again, hair slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled. The notepad is out, pen at the ready. He’s reading over something and doesn’t look up as I enter, forcing me to clear my throat to get his attention.
He glances up, glasses perched perfectly, and says, “Miss Vreeland. I was about to mark you absent.”
“I’m early,” I say.
He doesn’t acknowledge it. “Sit.” He gestures to the same chair as before. “We’ll go over your latest submission.”
I sit. The desk is bare except for a pad and a single red pen. My knees knock together; I can’t tell if I’m cold or just losing my mind.
He slides a sheet of paper across the desk. It’s covered in red, every margin bleeding with his corrections. “Your argument is still underdeveloped,” he says, voice level. “Your opening is weak. Your supporting evidence is anecdotal at best. You cite no sources, and your conclusion is pure conjecture.”
What? Where did he even get this essay? But I see it’s just a print-out of something random, and nod, face on fire. This is embarrassing. This is perfect.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
Talon nods.
“But,” he says, and his eyes bore into mine, “your grammar has improved.”
