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Never have I faced down the confrontation and stood up for myself like this.
And never have I ever felt so close to puking without a gastrointestinal reason.
He stares me down for several seconds and then silently rounds the desk, takes his seat, and places his glasses back atop his nose. And just like that, I’m dismissed without the courtesy of a response.
Instantly, I feel half an inch tall. Humiliated. Belittled. Un-fucking-seen.
Aggravation stirs in my gut, and a wave of rebellion washes over me so strong, I don’t know if I’ll ever come up for air. No one, not even my father, gets to make me feel this way.
No one gets to choose for me.
No one tells me what to do.
A plan is already swirling in my mind, setting up shop, and making notes on my next move. One conversation with my father and I’ve regressed ten years emotionally. Not only am I not going to stay away from Ty Winslow, I’m going to stir the motherfucking pot.
Rebellious old habits die hard, huh?
Evidently, with a father like Nathaniel Rose, they don’t die at all.
Monday, January 28th
Ty
“Everyone, make sure you turn in your essay via the link in the Google Drive, and I will see you tomorrow afternoon,” I announce to my ENG 101 class. “Oh, and Rachel, don’t forget to stop by my office to grab the paperwork I told you about.”
It’s boring paperwork that every TA in the English Department needs to fill out and turn in on a biweekly basis. Just a bunch of admin bullshit if you ask me.
She offers a little nod of acknowledgment, but that’s it, and I try to busy myself on my laptop, checking emails, while my students pack up their stuff and head out of the lecture hall.
I can’t deny, though, the entire time, my gaze flickers toward the dark-haired, green-eyed goddess in the beige silk dress and heels. Sometimes, I even tilt my head a little to the right to see her past the line of college kids exiting the room.
Time moves at a snail’s pace, but eventually, my lecture hall is empty, and Rachel is on her feet.
I’m on my feet too, and I walk briskly behind her, the anticipation of another round of our little panty war almost enough to make me rub my hands together like an evil overlord.
I’m honestly not sure why I still find it so fun after nearly two weeks of playing at it, but I can’t deny that I do. Finding ways to tussle with Rachel Rose has nearly become the number one item on my list of priorities. Honestly, it reads something like this:
Mess with Rachel.
Breathe.
Eat.
Sleep.
Generally, my interest in a woman runs its course pretty quickly, but Rachel still feels fresh. I don’t know what it is about her, but damn, she’s a fucking enigma. An exception to my normally short-attention-span tendencies.
Maybe it’s the ripe shine of forbidden fruit, but there’s something about this woman that makes me want to keep playing. If the frequency of my masturbation over the weekend is anything to go by, getting schooled by someone on Tolstoy is evidently on my top five list of turn-ons.
I’ll have to be careful with that, though—some of the other professors in the department are experts themselves. And I just can’t picture myself getting a hard-on for ol’ Kip or Adele.
Anticipation builds as she clears the threshold of my office and strides toward the shelf that I instructed her to check for the paperwork. It’s there, of course, I’m not completely sadistic, but so are the panties, almost garishly displayed like a flag. She has a tremendous ability to ignore and avoid, though—almost as good as my eldest brother, Remy. Her track record proves it.
She walks to the shelf easily, and I lean into the jamb of the door, waiting for our normal banter. I’m almost salivating like one of Pavlov’s pathetic pups, but she shocks me completely by bringing my drool up short.
“Oh, here they are,” she states so matter-of-factly as she snatches the most perfect delicate, sheer pink panties I’ve ever held in my hands.
After a weekend of anticipation—of planning and waiting—my brain short-circuits. Those are not the words I expected, nor is the expression on her face. We’ve never actually gotten to the point where she admits to being the owner of the underwear, and to be honest, I was starting to suspect we never would.
The game would either be laboriously infinite, or they would just disappear one day, no explanation given. Those were the only two possibilities I had even considered.
The ease with which she’s claiming them now almost makes me think I’m hallucinating.
“Huh? Here what are?”
“My underwear,” she says nonchalantly. “I’ve been looking for them.”
Wait, what? She’s been looking for those panties as much as I’ve been looking for a farmer to milk me from the teat. All she’s done for the last month is pretend underwear in general don’t exist. The president of the United States? As far as Rachel is concerned, he goes commando. And now she’s acting like she’s Lewis or Clark on the Great American Panty Expedition.
