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As I scan her email, I don’t know why seeing the words TA to Professor Winslow urges a smile to my lips, but it does.
Silently, I add Curvaceous Goddess and Sexy Panty-Giver to her list of attributes.
Bro, you have got to stop it.
In my defense, for the past few days, I’ve been good. I’ve kept any conversations with her to class discussions and her TA-related duties and abandoned my wily ways from the first day of class. And trust me, that’s taken some real fucking effort. The whole panty coup is the kind of thing dreams are made of for a guy like me. Not messing with her again after she left the panties in my drawer and silently—and with extreme confidence—pressed play on this little game? Nearly impossible.
Because mentally? I’m obsessed.
Rachel Rose and her panties are quite literally one of the only things I think about.
Fingers to the keys, I shoot her a quick response.
To: Rachel Rose
From: Professor Winslow
Rachel,
Since I’m not the easiest to get ahold of by email, here’s my cell: 555-134-6879.
I have the short essays and grading rubric for you. If you’re still on campus, shoot me a text.
Professor Ty Winslow
English Department NYU
Frankly, I’m just as easy to get ahold of by email, and I know I already gave her my cell, but a nudge to use it proves too hard to resist. All of my willpower has apparently been triangulated to a very specific area—my dick.
A few minutes later, my phone pings with another text message from an unknown number.
Unknown: It’s Rachel Rose. I’m still on campus. Meet you in the lecture hall?
This time, however, it’s a number I’m happy to program into my phone and respond to the sender. I know she’s avoiding my office for a reason, and I’m just enough of an asshole to push the limit. It’d be easier for both of us if she came here—to the lecture hall—where I already am. But some things aren’t meant to be easy.
Me: My office work for you?
Rachel: I can be there in about 10 minutes.
Her response is quick and accommodating, and I find myself impressed with her once again. She’s in a whole other league than any other game player I’ve ever met.
Me: Great. See you there.
Without hesitation, I toss my laptop into my leather bag and shut off the lights of the lecture hall.
In a matter of minutes, I’m jogging up the last few steps of the stairwell and heading down the hallway of the second floor. I unlock my office door with ease, flip on the lights, and step inside.
The small box of files I have for her sits in the corner of the room, and I pick it up and set it on my desk, my gaze flicking down to my desk drawer, where those infamous pink panties still remain.
I open the drawer with the intention of just taking a look, but before I know it, her panties and the note I left her the other day are sitting at the top of the box of files.
Fuck, Ty, my more responsible inner voice chastises. What are you doing?
Attempting to return these panties to their rightful owner, I argue back instantly. I’m trying to do a good deed.
Every working brain cell inside me knows that’s horseshit. But the blood supply for those cells is currently headed elsewhere, and yeah…I’m a kind of a fucking douchebag, but I can’t seem to help myself. The woman challenges me beyond my greatest fantasies, and I’m becoming an addict to her reactions.
After a moment of hesitation, I leave the panties where they are, still snug in the box of files, and brace for impact.
“Knock, knock.” An all-too-familiar female voice fills my ears, and I look up to find Rachel standing in the doorway. Oh shit. It’s time.
She’s far more casual today, dressed in jeans and a cream sweater and a pair of brown boots. However, the fit of the sweater and the jeans is so perfectly snug that my gaze can’t help but home in on the way her clothes show off her delicious curves.
This shit is becoming painful.
But it’s as if God himself sculpted this woman with only my desires in mind, and the kind of arousal that produces is unavoidable. It’s literally heaven-sent. Which, considering the fact that she’s Nathaniel Rose’s daughter and I’m not supposed to touch her, makes me wonder if this is some form of punishment for all the bullshit I put my mom through when I was an asshole teenager. Penance, I suppose you could call it.
Her eyes steal a quick once-over of my face and then my body, and my suffering grows even deeper.
I know that look in a woman. I’ve seen it hundreds of times. It’s the look. The subconscious one that can’t be controlled and tells me she likes what she sees.
