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“Ah, and let’s not forget the paranoia,” I said. “Why is it that men worry themselves to death over someone possibly correcting them when they’re wrong?”
Zara sighed. “I have no idea, but I do hope you aren’t that sort of man.”
“I would hope I’m not. I know when I’m in the wrong and should be corrected.”
She gave me an all-knowing look and pressed her lips together. I knew what that look represented. She was thinking about the previous night, and so was I. She was probably thinking how wrong it was for me to touch her hand that way, to look at her with so much hunger and lust. I would have been in over my head to ever think I was a saint. Truthfully, with all the dirty thoughts I had of my own student running rampant in my mind, I was far from it.
“Where’s David?” she asked, taking one of the seats while searching the area.
“Well, it’s sixteen minutes after seven, so I’m assuming David won’t be joining us.”
She paused on lifting her notebook out of her bag. “Wait, seriously? So, should I just go or—”
“Of course not. You’re already here. May as well make use of our time together.”
“Right.” She smiled and continued taking out her things, setting them on the table.
I took my seat, trying my hardest not to look at her too much. Zara was beautiful. Her lips were full and pouty, her eyes a beautiful chocolate brown. And her hair—I wanted to clutch a handful of those luscious, dark curls in my palm and hold on tight while burying my cock inside her.
Shit.
I had to stop thinking these things about her. She was my student. Just my student. My sexy, smart, sweet student.
I cleared my throat, and her eyes shifted up to mine. “Everything okay?”
“Yes.” I took my notes out again. “Let’s go over Act One.”
8
Zara
I couldn’t believe I had Professor Grant all to myself. When he told me David wasn’t going to show, I tried my hardest not to react by squealing and jumping because, earlier, I’d hoped like hell something would come up for David and he wouldn’t show, and, since this was Professor Grant’s last time slot for the night, it would mean I could stick around and stretch the time if I wanted to.
I know, it sounded obsessive, but even when I told myself that I should let my feelings for him go and forget this wild fantasy of mine, I couldn’t. He came to my mind constantly, to the point that it was distracting me from doing my assignments.
In class, I didn’t greet him in the hallway per usual. I went into the classroom and to my usual seat, didn’t raise my hand, and didn’t interact. I was being stubborn, and he knew it because when class was coming to an end and he was giving us our assignments from the week before, he left a peppermint with my paper. I tried so hard not to smile, but I did—only because I looked around and realized no one else had a peppermint but me.
I had to take him up on the offer. It would have been stupid of me not to, and I was sure I would’ve regretted it.
Before I knew it, it was nearing nine p.m. and the library was about to close. Mrs. Bale popped up at our table with her purse and keys in hand.
“I’ll be locking up in five minutes,” she announced, smiling at Professor Grant. I’d have bet women smiled at him all the time. He was so attractive and kind.
“Okay,” he said back, smiling too. “Thank you, Mrs. Bale. Actually, do you think I can lock up for you? There are just a few more things I want to run by Miss Porter here that are crucial for the essays they have due.”
“Well…” She hesitated, but then she checked her watch and looked at him again. “You know what? Sure. Just leave the keys in the book return box. I have a spare at home.” She placed a key on the table. “My husband is making my favorite potato soup tonight, and I don’t want to miss it while it’s fresh.”
She laughed and winked at him, and he smiled. “Good night, Mrs. Bale.”
“Good night,” she sang. She turned and disappeared through the towering shelves, and Professor Grant sighed.
“Look at that, a whole library to ourselves.”
“Sounds like a dream.” I laughed.
“You love to read?”
“More than love. I have so many books.”
“Who’s your favorite author?”
“I read a lot of romance,” I said, shrugging. “So, I really love Beverly Jenkins and Brenda Jackson. But I also love sci-fi, horror, and thrillers. Stephen King is one of my favorites, of course.”
“Who doesn’t love the literary king? That’s incredible. He’s one of my favorites too.”
“Really? Which book of his is your favorite?”
