On My Professor's Bed

Chapter 1: The Stranger Jessica’s POV Bass thumped through floorboards, resonating through my four-inch heels as I took another swig of my third, or possibly my fourth, vodka cranberry. The cranberry overpowered the drink now, water from ice that had all melted to dilute whatever little liquor remained. I didn't care. The good haze coursing through my veins tonight was just what I'd needed. "To freedom," I toasted to myself, raising my glass in silent salute before taking another swig. Three years. Three years I'd spent with Nathan. Three years of being gaslighted, always walking on eggshells so I didn't upset him, being told I was too emotional, too clingy, too much. And then there was Jessica from accounts. And Emily from the gym. And who knew how many more. Last week's incident had been the final one when I caught him with texts on his phone in the shower. Not even attempting to hide them anymore. That's when I realized that it was all over for sure—when he didn't even have enough respect for me to even try to be discreet. The tune changed to one slower with a rich, sensual beat that changed the movement of the mass upon the floor from wild to more primitive. I observed them, these temporary acquaintances in the night, and felt a sadness I hadn't allowed myself to experience in months. "Taken. Thank you." His voice came from behind me, smooth and sure. I swiveled to face him, poised to flash my default "not interested" smile, but words lodged in my throat. He was a few years older than the rest of the Vortex crowd—I'd estimate, mid-thirties but he pulled it off. His hair was cut short and neat, with discreet crescents of crow's feet framing his sharp gray eyes that seemed to absorb everything about me in one look. His face-jawline was square, dusted with the same-colored bristling as his hair. The navy blue button-down he wore pulled tight over his wide shoulders, sleeves rolled up to display forearm-hugging muscle. "It's all yours," I replied, gesturing to the vacant barstool beside me, surprised by how calm I sounded despite having just felt my heart racing. He slid onto the stool with the smooth motions of someone used to having his way, summoning the bartender over with a sweep of his hand. "Macallan straight, please," he instructed the bartender, then turned those grey eyes in my direction. "And you, then." I should have said no. Should have said I was fine with my watered-down drink. Should have said I did not need any company. Instead, I heard myself mutter, "Vodka cranberry. Thank you." "My pleasure." The corner of his mouth curled higher than the other in a slow smile. "Though I have to question how someone such as you would come to such an area by themselves." "Like you?" I arched my brow, grateful to have the liquid confidence coursing through my veins to be braver than I'd been in years. "One who seems she'd prefer to be elsewhere." He accepted his drink from the bartender with a nod. "Most patrons in this place are trying to lose themselves. You look as though you are trying to find something." I laughed, I wasn't expecting even myself to. "That's quite a line." "An observation. Not a line." He took a sip of his whiskey, his gaze still fixed on me. "I'm Ethan, by the way." "Jessica," I said, taking a big swig of my fresh drink, more than I probably should have. "So, Jessica," he said my name again for the sake of his mouth, to test how it would sound, "am I correct? Tonight, you are looking for something?" The intelligent thing to do would have been to say no. The grown-up thing to do would have been to finish my drink, thank him for the company, and call an Uber home to my vacant apartment where I could continue to lick my wounds in solitude. Three years of doing the right thing, being the responsible one, being the understanding one, had amounted to nothing but heartbreak. "Maybe I am," I replied, holding his gaze with a strange new sense of boldness. "Maybe I'm just weary of searching." His eyes turned dark. He edged forward, enough so I caught his scent—a discreet, costly fragrance, of sandalwood and amber. "Sometimes," he spoke, his voice lowering to barely audible over the music, "the best things are found when you are not trying so hard." His warmth sent shivers of awareness creeping over my skin. I couldn't remember when, if ever, ordinary conversations had felt so charged, so risky. "That's the kind of philosophy that lands people in trouble," I said, shocked by the roughness of my own tone. He grinned again, that crooked, battered grin. "The right kind of trouble, perhaps." We'd relocated from in front of the bar to a corner booth an hour or so later. I'd uncovered he was an executive guest, in for three days. A five-year split, no children. What we'd not discussed, though, was how his hand ended up resting on my thigh now, fingers tracing slow patterns that sent shiverings down my spine. Or how I'd edged in until our bodies from shoulder to knee touched. Or how the space between us hummed with possibilities I'd not even permitted myself to consider in way too long. He commanded "Dance with me" abruptly, not even as if he requested. We pushed through waves of faces in the crowded dance floor, bodies pressed tight in the dim light. Ethan guided me through all of them until we could push through to a small area of space, then pulled me in tight against him. His hands rested lightly on my hips, secure but not intimate. I let my arms drop over his neck, our bodies moving to the hypnotic beat. "You are beautiful," he breathed, his mouth in my ear, his heat on my skin. "You know that, don't you?" I hadn't felt beautiful in months. Nathan had set about ensuring that, his words precisely cut with criticism until I'd started to believe them. But Ethan looked at me in such a way—with me as something precious, something desirable—that I couldn't help but consider that perhaps, possibly, Nathan had been mistaken. "You're not so bad yourself," I shot back, emboldened by the liquor and by being surrounded by so many other faces. His laugh vibrated through me. "Always keeping me guessing. I like that about you." As the music slowed to sensual, his hands left my hips' curves to rest on my lower back, drawing me to him until nothing lay in between. I felt him in every inch, his heat, his hardness, pressed upon me. One of his hands slid along my spine to rest in the nape of my neck, his fingers knotted in my hair. "Stop me," he growled, his words drawn through his lips in hard restraint, his face mere inches from my own. I ought to have. This was irresponsible. This was precisely the kind of impulsive decision I'd vowed not to make. Looking into those gray eyes, feeling the heat of his body along mine, all I could keep telling myself was that for the first time in years, I really felt alive. "Don't stop," I whispered, bridging the distance between us. His lips pressed upon mine, his kiss hesitating at first before intensifying with his increasing insistence as I returned his kiss. I felt whiskey and need upon my lips, my hands rising to his shoulders as he pulled me irresistibly closer. The world closed in to us, to this, to the fire that increased with each second. As we pulled apart at last, both of us heaving for breath, something in his eyes undermined my knees. "My hotel is just two blocks from here," he rasped, his rough growl more felt than heard. There were over a million reasons to reject him. I had just ended something with someone. I did not believe in one-night stands. I hardly knew him. But then again, hadn't I wanted that? I didn't know his baggage. I didn't know his insecurities. I didn't know anything other than he desired me now, as I was. "Lead the way," I replied, and his smile, which brightened his entire face, was worth any moment of doubt. Stepping out of the nightclub with his hand placed warmly at the base of my spine, I couldn't help but have an overwhelming feeling as though I was leaping off of an edge into the unknown. In my case, I didn't know how far I would sink.