Page 2 of The Professor
He chuckled and stepped closer. His height and width seeming to block out light.
I inhaled the scent of his spiced cologne. It was always strongest in the morning.
“You know why. You’re a postgraduate, Chelsea, you’ve done this course.”
“I particularly liked this lecture.” I licked my bottom lip, tasting the strawberry gloss I’d recently applied, and smiled. “And it’s relevant to my thesis.”
“Ah yes, that.” He nodded seriously. “You’re the only student on the course who has not yet handed in a provisional outline for me to read before you get down to the bare flesh of the research.”
Bare flesh, hell yes, I could get down to that with him. I shifted from one foot to the other and had to stop myself fromsuggesting something carnal. I wanted to see his bare flesh, every last inch, trace my tongue into every dip and rise and discover his flavors.
“It’s victimology based, right?” He tapped his index finger on his bottom lip. There was a small perfectly round scar by the knuckle; it was red, the dime-sized injury gotten in the last few weeks.
“Victimology, yes.” I nodded. “It’s the area I’m passionate about.” I gazed into his eyes and drew out the word passionate.
He swallowed then cleared his throat. “How about you drop it off at my office later, I’ll give it a read through tonight.” He paused. “Ah, no, I can’t read it tonight I have something on, but drop it off anyway, I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”
My jaw clenched, teeth gritting. What did he have on tonight? I hoped to hell it wasn’t a date. I’d seen that English literature professor, Miss Slutty Shoes, talking to him the other day. If he and her were a thing I’d…
“So about five.” He checked his watch. “Come to my office. I need to make sure you have the foundation right for this piece of important work. It saves time in the long run.”
“Five o’clock.” I nodded. “See you then.” And before he could step toward the door, I did. It was always best to have him walking behind me, that way he could see my wriggling ass. He could think about fucking it, spanking it, kissing right the way over it, down my cleft to my asshole if he wanted. All he had to do was say, and I was his, all his. Forever.
* * * *
Andrew
I watched Chelsea Taylor walk ahead of me. The woman was sassy all right, sex on a damn stick, and she smelled like allof my favorite flavors of ice cream rolled into one sweet, peachy scent that hit me every time she was near.
And her ass. Fuck. What I could do with that. Each taut cheek was the perfect handful. Her flesh would be pale, too, but would it be freckled like her face? And would her pubes be as red as the curls on her head? I wanted to know, I needed to know. It was a powerful urge that I could barely keep under control…but I had to.
Following her, I pulled in a deep breath; heat was flooding my groin, and a hard-on was not what I needed when I had to walk across campus to my office. That was uncomfortable and not a good look.
“See you later,” she said in a high-pitched girly voice that seemed to strum the chords of my testosterone all the more. “Have a lovely afternoon, Professor.”
She turned right, whereas I was going left. For a moment I lingered and watched her riotous hair swing from side to side. It was in a high ponytail, thick and shiny, and dropped to the curve of her lower back.
I clenched my left fist. Fuck, it would feel good in my hand, held firmly, tugging it until she gasped. I wanted to do that from behind, as I sank into her tight, twenty-something pussy and made her come around my cock.
“Damn it,” I muttered when she went out of sight. Now I had a full-blown erection. The woman was as dangerous as she was beautiful.
There was a staff toilet opposite, so trying not to walk stiffly, I negotiated the busy corridor, swiped my key fob and let myself in.
“Thank fuck for that,” I muttered. It was empty. I needed a minute or three to myself. My senses were flooded by her. Everything about her was fixation material.
I dashed into a cubicle, dumped my briefcase on the cistern, and released my throbbing cock. This was insane, but I had no choice.
With my nostrils flaring, each breath deep and urgent, I fisted my shaft. It was a greedy fucker, my cock. I’d jacked off two days ago after seeing Chelsea from a distance, laughing with a friend, the breeze pressing her thin summer dress to her body and leaving very little to my imagination. I’d also had a wet dream the week before about her; about me and her. I’d been up close and personal with her pussy, my tongue working her clit while she bucked into my face. My bedsheets had needed changing.
I tipped my head to the ceiling, eyes closed, and worked my shaft faster. I had to bang this one out before anyone else came in to use the next-door cubicle.
I pictured her rosy-cheeked face in the Oval Lecture Theater. Had she been doing what I thought she had? Touching herself? Making herself come right there and then? I’d been able to see her right shoulder shifting.
It was daring, blatant, filthy thing to do, but I wouldn’t put it past her. Chelsea Taylor was a spoiled little rich girl who had always been given exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it.
But did she want me?
The way she looked at me, stood a fraction too close, licked her delectable lips right before she smiled at me, made me think that maybe she did.
