Page 31 of The Professor
“There’s a bus, twenty-two—”
“I’ll use my driver.”
“No!” He frowned. “Don’t do that, we have to be secretive.” He glanced left and right. “Get the twenty-two. When you see the Waitrose in Dean Court, get off. I’ll meet you at the pub just behind it. The Sticky Vicar.”
“The Sticky Vicar?”
He kind of grinned. “You can’t miss it. Eight o’clock, okay. Alone. You gotta be alone, Chelsea. We…” He stepped back and flicked his finger between our bodies. “We need it that way.”
“Okay.”
In a flash, he’d picked up his briefcase and was heading out of the door at the end of the corridor.
I let my legs give up and I slid to the floor, knees folded, slumped. What the hell had just happened? It hadn’t been my plan, none of that. But I wasn’t complaining even though I now had to wait a few hours until we fucked.
And fuck we would. I knew that with absolute certainty. The professor was going to use my body to his heart’s content, and I’d adore every minute of it.
“Later.” I smiled at the word and touched my lips, remembering his passionate kiss. Later couldn’t come soon enough.
I’d never been on a bus in my life and so I was surprised that the twenty-two actually did take me to Dean Court. I sat near the front, my eyes peeled for the green Waitrose sign and clutching the strap of my small handbag. When I saw my stop, I rang the bell as I’d seen other passengers do to halt the bus, then I hopped off.
It was still light, though the sun was slipping behind the buildings. People were going about their business, heading home from a day’s work or rushing out to meet friends. A few cyclists whizzed by, and I had to step out of their way.
Andrew had told me The Sticky Vicar was just behind Waitrose, which made sense because the small supermarket was on a corner. I headed that way, leaving the flow of pedestrians behind.
The pub was easy to spot. Its huge sign, hanging high on the side of the old stone building, was a picture of a grinning vicar holding a pot of dripping golden honey. Beautiful baskets of fuchsias waterfalled along the front, and two wide steps took me up to the door that was propped open.
It was busy, crowded even, and I searched through the throng of people for the man my body yearned for.
“Damn it,” I muttered. Being only five feet four was a hindrance at moments like this.
But I had no doubt he’d be there. I’d seen the desire in his eyes, felt the way he was harnessing his self-control to not fuck me there and then in the university corridor.
Pushing through the drinkers, I circumnavigated the room. The lights were low, and I had to peer into every booth and then into another drinking room at the back. No luck. And then I turned around.
There he was.
I’d know him anywhere.
But he was heading out of the pub. He’d obviously given up trying to find me. I should have stayed in one place, by the entrance.
“Andrew!” I elbowed past a group of guys. One spilled some of his beer. “Sorry, sorry.” I threw him an apologetic smile and rushed on.
Where the heck was he?
I reached the door and practically fell out on the street, my heart racing. I looked left and right. There he was, to my right, heading farther into the long row of big Victorian houses.
“Andrew!” I called again and broke into a run.
But he didn’t hear. I couldn’t understand it. He must have headphones in.
And then he crossed the street and went toward a large Tudor-style house that was set back from the others.
I, too, crossed. He’d gone from view behind a glossy green laurel hedge. But he wouldn’t get far. I’d catch him. I’d knock on his door and find him and fuck him.
A cat darted in front of me. I stumbled but held my footing. Going onto the property, I saw him again, just turning around the rear.
Relief washed through me.
