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I’M AN ASSHOLE, NOT A LIAR
PAST
I’ve suffered through three more classes since I started texting with Professor Pugliesi. And in all that time, I’ve managed to escape class without being cornered by him.
It’s a dangerous volley, the way I go back and forth between my desire to experience him and the determination I have to focus on my studies and timeline so I can graduate and get back to Boston. Even determining what I’ll call him in my mind. Professor Pugliesi or Abraham?
I have people who need me back home and I can’t let them down for some self-proclaimed asshole whose classroom grows emptier and emptier with each passing class. He’d been serious about cutting students.
“Miss Milas,” he calls out just as he releases us ten minutes early. I could pretend to not hear him, but I’ve already made the mistake of making eye contact at the sound of my name. It’s near melodic, coming from him.
And I’d be lying if I couldn’t admit, even to myself, that I was craving another hit of his company. Even these small instances have created enough to get me off in the shower, the thought of his mouth on my body and those dark eyes on me making it easier to orgasm than the average sexual partner.
In truth, no one makes me come unless I play with myself. It’s a curse I’ve long since accepted. Still, I enjoy the overall experience and secretly hope I find the perfect dick to free me from the shackles of self-induced orgasms.
I’m still thinking about pleasuring myself when he stares at me, his arms crossed. I try to ignore the cords of his muscular arm, the sprinkle of dark hair that decorate his tan skin. He’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, something I haven’t seen him do during class.
Summer in the city is far too unforgiving for him to continue to wear these long-sleeved button-ups and slacks.
It does everything to my libido but nothing for his comfort, I’m sure.
“Will you come down here?” he asks, breaking me from my thoughts.
I lower my chin and twist my lips to keep from grinning at the first three words of the question. As I gather my things, I start to realize just how empty the room is. The perfect storm for his desires and my lack of willpower when it comes to my own.
“I have another class,” I warn him, heading toward him with my notebook and laptop in my hands. He stands in front of his desk, uncaring, if his blank stare is any indication. He’s silent for a moment as he appraises me and it’s like I feel his eyes as they run over my face and neck, barely glancing at the way my breasts slightly peek out from the lowcut T-shirt I’m wearing.
“Are you enjoying my class?” he asks me, his voice low like he’s asking me something dirty.
Like what color are my panties. Or how many times have I touched myself while thinking of his tongue on my pussy.
“Are there no other students available to stroke your ego, Professor?” I set my things down on the nearest desk, turning to face him as I lean back and brace myself on the edge of it. If he’s going to appear at ease, I’m going to give off the same vibe. Even if there’s a war between logic and lust rampaging inside of me.
And I can’t tell who’s winning yet.
His eyes do that dark little dance they do when I talk shit to him, and I begin to shake my head. Are we both masochists? Are we addicted to dancing so close to the flame of our attraction, uncaring if we catch ourselves on the flames?
So long as we don’t burn.
“Will you ever let me take you on a second date?” he asks, and my lips part in immediate reaction.
Maybe I’m the only one who gives a shit about burning.
“There was never a first,” I insist, watching as he deadpans in response. “It was happenstance. A date requires intention.”
“You have all of my best intentions,” he tells me, stepping toward me, even as I squint my eyes because who knows what the fuck that even means. “Come over. I’ll cook us dinner.”
I scoff because I know whatthatmeans. “Fuck no.”
He quirks a brow at my answer, and I lift my own, ready for whatever slick comment comes next.
“I only meant for privacy purposes,” he says, his voice lowering and his hands rising, just to waist level, as if I require proof that he holds no weapons. “I promise to be the perfect gentleman.”
A shame,I think to myself, remaining silent as I gather my things, shoving them into my bag.
I turn on my heel, unable to think logically when he’s standing so close to me, that familiar scent of his scrambling my brain.
It’s bittersweet, the steps I take toward my sanity that create more and more space between he and I. But I’m not ready to burn for this man.
