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And I’m not sure he could handle burning for me.
“Let me take you out,” he calls after me, and I glance back to see him leaning against his desk. I swear that chair must have an impressive coating of dust, with the way he refuses to sit in it, even during class.
“No,” is all I offer as I continue on my way. His laugh, deep and full, chases me out as I try not to look like I’m running scared.
But I am,I think to myself as I step out into the hallway and take a deep breath. If he’d insisted once more, I would’ve said yes.
Nothing has ever been as intoxicating as being chosen by him.
To be wanted by Abraham Pugliesi is to be hunted; to have your most primal desires staring back at you in his dark brown eyes. It’s to be intoxicated all while he moves in like you’re his prey.
I don’t want to be his prey. I don’t want to be another student he fucked at some college he taught at when he took a break from directing.
And I deserve more than being a dirty little secret in his empty office, with his empty life. I’m not a pitstop in the journey of his life.
My phone chimes and I pull it out of my bag to see his name on my screen.
Abraham: I don’t invite women to my home. Ever.
Will he ever stop?
Do I really want him to?
I type out my response while heading to my next class.
Me: You just invited me. Am I not a woman?
His response is immediate, and it makes me stop short outside the building, staring at the words over and over. Despite my desire to be unaffected by them, I am. And it angers me.
Abraham: Before you, I mean.
I don’t need pretty lies to make me feel special. I’m not these other women. He doesn’t have to woo me.
All he’d have to do is…no longer be my professor. And shut the hell up sometimes.
Me: You don’t have to lie to me.
Another immediate response.
Abraham: I’m an asshole, not a liar.
I’m still standing outside when I peer up at the building, wondering where he is inside. But I don’t have to wonder for long.
He’s leaning against one of the hallway windows, his hands in his pockets, uncaring that he’s been caught. One of his brows lift, as if challenging me.
To what? To take him up on his offer? To give him a chance?
With anyone else, this would’ve been fucking weird. But with Abraham, it justworks. His ease with being enthralled, his lack of façade when it comes to me, the way he doesn’t give a shit if I turn him down because he knows, with every responding text message of mine, that I’m just as curious as he is.
The young men around me no longer interest me, with their faux confidence that breaks easily under the pressure of my strong personality. Their desire to appear uninterested, their want to be chased because they didn’t get enough attention in high school.
Abraham is a breath of fresh air.
I turn away, typing a response as I walk away. I press send and tuck my phone away, not wanting to second-guess my moment of impulse.
Me: I’m free tomorrow.
