The Professor I Ruined

Ivy I am going to f**k Professor Blackwell. That decision locked in the second his voice hit me during our first meeting. And I've been working really hard on making it a reality ever since. Standing outside the lecture hall, arms folded, I lean into one hip and watch him through the half open door. He is standing behind the lectern, looking like he actively regrets every life choice that led him to teaching. His dark brown hair is messy as always, like he drags an impatient hand through it dozens of times before class. His light blue shirt is crisp despite the early hour, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal those strong forearms I so badly want to run my tongue over. And every time his hand tightens on the edge of the lectern, I picture it wrapping around my throat instead, squeezing while he loses control inside me. And his voice... God. Closing my eyes I take in slow breaths and let that low, commanding timbre slide straight between my legs. How can a man sound like that and still expect me to behave? I don't usually wake up early for Monday classes. Heck, most morning I barely made it to campus at all. But here I am, not because I suddenly care about attendance but because the man does. Last week, he threw me out of his classroom for showing up late with earphones even though I wasn't registered at the time. So I registered just to watch that vein in his neck throb when he sees me. Then he made it a routine to send me out every time he enters the room. This is the fourth time. He probably thinks I will give up. Poor man has no idea who he's dealing with. A glitter bombed girl in the front row keeps beaming at him like she's auditioning for his attention. It's pathetic, especially since his attention never lands on her. I make a mental list of not so legal ways to make her disappear. As if sensing my disturbing thoughts, his gaze drifts toward the door mid sentence, and those icy blue eyes lands on me. The faint irritation already living on his face deepens into a frown. God, he's even sexier when he is pissed. I shift my weight and smile up at him. His jaw tightens in response. He looks away first and says something to glitter girl. A second later, she rises from her seat, grinning like she won a trophy and struts toward the door. When she reaches it, she grabs the handle. "You should know when to—" "Beat it, flat ass," I cut in with a roll of my eyes as I glide to the window to keep watching him. His eyes find mine again, and he holds the stare longer this time. Then, like I'm not worth his reaction anymore, he turns back to the lecture. My smile widens as I press my finger to the glass and trace a slow circle around him. "Try all you want, professor," I whispered. "I'll have you before the semester ends." The lecture ends ten minutes early. He storms out first, glitter girl trotting after him like a lost puppy. I step into her path, shoves her with my shoulder, and she hits the floor with a satisfying yelp. "What the hell?!" I don't even glance back, already following him down the hall. "Professor Blackwell." He doesn't stop. "Professor Blackwell." Still ignores me, but I can see his shoulder tense and veins bulging along those forearms . I tilt my head, a smile curling at the edge of my mouth. "Seth." He stops dead and the air shifts. When he turns, his expression is exactly what I expected, pure restrained fury. "What?" he growls. Fuck me. At six foot something, he towers over me, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Dark brows frame those icy blue eyes, and the crease between them looks permanent at this point. His nose is straight, and the dark stubble along his jaw does nothing to hide how sharp it is. His mouth is set in a hard, angry line as he glares down at me. I bite my lip, shamelessly drinking him in. God, I want him even more. "What?" he repeats, colder. "You looked at me four times today." He looks unimpressed as f**k. "You know, most professors would be flattered by this level of dedication." "What do you want, Miss Carter," he asks flatly. "Your attention." "You have it." We both know that's not the kind I mean. Taking a step closer, I inhale his clean, expensive cologne. His eyes narrows. "Do I make you uncomfortable, Professor?" A muscle jumps in his jaw. "No," he says. Liar. "Then why do you keep sending me out? I told you the first time was a wrong class." "So why do you keep coming?" "Because I enrolled." "Why?" "Because I want to." His stare tells me he knows that isn't the full truth. Looking up at him through my lashes I say, "I promise I'll be a good girl, professor. I catch the brief crack in his control before he pulls it back into place. "Miss. Carter—" "Ivy," I correct softly. "Call me Ivy, Professor." He ignores me and continues, "I don't want you in my class." I open my mouth to argue but he cuts in before I can even form a sentence. "And that's not up for discussion." Then he turns and starts walking away. I stare a his back for half a second before following. "Don't follow me," he says without turning. A naughty part of me wants to disobey him but my phone vibrating in my pocket stops me. Pulling it out a notification flashes across the screen. Sott: Ticket is on the move. Smirking, I look up to catch a final glimpse of Professor Blackwell disappearing down the corridor. "See you on Thursday, Professor," I shout behind him. ************ I spot Scott the second I enter the mall. He's wearing a bucket hat and sunglasses. He really needs to reconsider his idea of a disguise if I can recognize him at a glance. He doesn't come over, just lifts a hand and points toward a jewelry store at the end of the corridor. Inside, I find her at the counter trying on earrings. I move behind her, close enough that I can see her reflection in the mirror an attendant is holding up for her, then lean in slightly. "Those look pretty on you," I murmur. She stills, then slowly lifts her eyes in the mirror. Brown curious eyes hold mine as she says, "I don't think I know you." I chuckle, picking up another pair of earrings from the tray the second attendant is holding and bring them up beside her ear. "These too. Looks like they were made just for you." She watches me through the mirror then smiles before taking them from my hand and trying them on. "I think you have good taste." "I do." They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. But my professor’s... is through his wife.