Page 28 of Another Life

“Just because it fits in your mouth doesn’t mean it should go in there,” we say in unison, and I swear I hear Abraham chuckle in my ear. I’d almost forgotten he was on the phone. I steal away, rushing back to the privacy of my office before I can give him a further peek into my life.

“What are they like?” he asks, and his casual curiosity is the perfect thing to keep me from wanting to continue thisconversation. They aren’t up for discussion. Not with him and not right now.

“Please,” I start, taking a beat before I continue. “Don’t…ask me about my kids.”

They’re far too sacred to be included in our awkward conversation.

I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love my daughters. Never known anything as pure as the admiration and sorrow I feel when they achieve new things.

I’m tempted to ask Abraham if he ever ended up having children, but the question is stuck in my throat. I don’t want to take it there either.

He clears his throat and presses on.

“We should continue this conversation in person.”

I roll my eyes to the ceiling, wishing that a simple phone call would’ve been enough to satisfy his curiosity so we could both move forward, continuing to pretend the other didn’t shape our lives in such a dramatic fashion.

“This is all I’m comfortable with,” I murmur, finally looking down at my bare feet as my toes press into the plush rug. I hear the girls arguing downstairs and I press my fingertips into my forehead. “I have to get the girls some dinner.”

“Of course,” he tells me, his voice quiet. “Call me when you have time again.”

I don’t say anything else, ending the call before I promise to do anything else.

I’ve already done far too much for him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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 smallinstances 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 porn video.

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 penis 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 try not to pay too much attention to. Clearly, I’m failing on that front.

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 low-cut 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.

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