It’s the kiss that has me nervous, sure. But more so, theguilt. The way I went home, stripped down and fucked my bed while thinking about that kiss. Thinking about his lips, the review he wrote, and all of the things about myself that I don’t know.
My mind is a mess, and right now, avoidance is king.
“Fine. My couple is here for the showing. Gotta go. Call me later.” She hangs up, and I shove my phone into my pocket, touch the edge of my glasses, and head inside my office.
Noah has a student when I slip in, and thank God for Bracken DiColuso and his one million questions. While he peppers Noah with questions that could be answered by reading his syllabus and talking to any other student in the class, Noah still takes his time, answering slowly, patiently.
I slip my bag off after pulling my laptop out, and quietly fiddle with the cords and my lamp as I get situated at my desk. Just as I’m about to launch into the pool of emails that compiled in the few hours I’ve been at home, Bracken DiColuso decides he’s suddenly okay, and gets to his feet.
He takes his notes and thanks Noah, and a moment later, with my eyes hovering on the same line in the email that I’ve been unable to read, we’re alone.
Noah sinks into his chair, and I focus on that same sentence, the letters illegible as my mind works overtime. His fingers skitter against the keys for a moment, and a new email pops up over the one I’m reading.
NEW EMAIL.RYAN, NOAH.
Heat flanks my forehead and back, and it seems as ifthe oxygen in this office is slowly dissipating. I click on the email. There’s one sentence.
Are you avoiding me?
I quickly type back.
No.
My response is met with a metallic click as Noah closes his laptop. Our eyes lock, and for a second, when he smirks, I think he knows what I did. He can see the guilt lining my eyes. He knows I went home and– “Okay,” he interjects, thank fuck. “So you’re not ignoring me because I kissed you in the closet.”
“Shh,” I hiss, glancing up at the door, which is closed, and there are no offices that share any of these walls, so my unfounded paranoia is just that: unfounded paranoia. No one will hear us, but still, the topic feels like it should be secretive and hushed.
Noah’s lips curl into a grin that sweeps through my stomach, and nearly pushes the air out of my lungs. “You’re not breaking any rules by talking to me about our kiss.”
I slap my palm over my forehead, which rustles the frames on my nose. I adjust them, and place my palms calmly on my thighs. “I’m not worried about breaking rules.”
He nods his head a few times, sinking back into his seat comfortably. “Okay,” he hums. “Whatareyou worried about?”
You sniffing the torrid masturbation session on me and putting two and two together.“Nothing.”
He nods some more, whiskey eyes analyzing, pulling apart seven letters to root around between them and find what’s not being said. But he won’t. I roll my lips together, resolute. “Did you read the review I wrote?”
My skin burns as his question dances over my skin, penetrating all of my most delicate senses. His soft words filter through my brain, and tug gently at my walls. “I did.”
More head nodding, more intense gazing. “And?”
I could give into this. I could tell him how very much those written words meant. How I loved them so much that I could tattoo them over my chest and trace them with my fingertips forever. And not because they’re complimentary to me but because a man like Noah Ryan believes them. He sees me, understands me, and that’s what has me considering giving in. Exploring parts of myself I’ve long since questioned but managed to push from the forefront. I could. No one would know. We could be discreet. Even if it were just a few conversations stretched over dim lights and Italian food. I could.
But I’ve made it this far. I’m maybe a few years away from a lucky, early track to tenure. This is what I’ve wanted. This is what I’ve been working for, and this—teaching at this level–it’s my purpose. Noah’s words echo the sentiment.
Anything but this is derailing what I’m doing, and where my core focus is. Noah Ryan is many things, but popular, well-loved, adored—those are the points that stick out clearly in my mind.
Could I tug his chair to mine, feel his thigh graze mine, rest my hand on his knee, stare up into his umber eyes and beg him to tell me what the kiss meant? I could. But in a week, he’d be kissing someone else. Walking someone else to their lecture, taking another to coffee.
I roll my lips together, and let my fingers trace the arm of my glasses, then slip them through my hair. “Thank you,” I say casually, tipping my eyes to my computer screen where I continue to struggle with reading emails. “I really appreciate you getting it done early.” Very quickly, I flash him my eyes, and a smile that doesn’t reach them. “Thank you again, Professor Ryan.”
He stares at me. I’m glued to the screen but I can feel him staring. He doesn’t move in his chair, and he’s stopped the incessantI’m figuring you outhead bobbing. But I feel his eyes scale down my profile, questioning, wondering,pressing.
“Professor Ryan.” He repeats my words softly, then, “Professor Ryan.” It’s almost like he’s trying to figure out a way in which they don’t sound cold and detached. But there isn’t a way. They’re supposed to be cold and detached. They’re supposed to slide a plank between us invisibly to ensure our safety. To prevent calamity and chaos at our place of work. To keep me from unfurling into a version of myself I haven’t explored just yet, a part of me that I’m not sure is safe.
“Oh,” I add, my fingers typing gibberish along the keys. I pause and look up at him, praying to Beelzebub himself that my glasses don’t fog from the extreme bodyheat ricocheting through me. “My sister redid the seating chart. She’s expecting you. The wedding is this Friday night.” I touch my collar, pinching it to allow a rush of air down my shirt.
Noah nods. “Okay. I’ll… come to your place first.” He tips his head to the side, and narrows his gaze. “Did you work out today?”
