Page 4 of The Professor
Chapter Two
Chelsea
It was five minutes to five, and I was fifteen steps from Professor Andrew Deacon’s office.
Some stupid part of me thought I could smell him from here, not only that, I imagined I could hear his heartbeat and the sound of his breathing.
My own heart was skittering along at ninety miles an hour. I’d been inside his office before, but never alone. There’d always been a few of us called in for additional information about our criminology course.
I shoved my hand into my top and hoisted up first my left and then my right breast. Might as well have some of my best assets on show. Perhaps I’d even tempt him to let go of that fierce self-control he had—goddamn, it was like a fucking steel fist.
And he was using self-control not to kiss me, ravage me, fuck me wildly, I was sure of it. A girl knows these things about a man. The way a look lingers and personal space is invaded. And do men think women can’t feel the heat of their stare, heck, my ass was on fire earlier when I’d strutted away from him in the lecture theater. I’d bet good money my wriggling sashay had given the professor a raging boner.
I took a deep breath and walked up to his office door. His name was neatly written on a brass plaque next to it. I knocked twice.
A knot formed in my stomach, and I pressed my thighs together, a tug of anticipation attacking my pussy.
“Come in.”
Stepping inside, I paused for a moment. He’d removed his jacket, and it was slung over the back of the wide chair he was seated in. His stylishly creased gray linen shirt was undone by three buttons, showing a hint of body hair and the tip of a tattoo I’d never been able to study. The sleeves were rolled up to reveal wide, strong, tendon-rich forearms.
I shut the door and resisted the urge to lean back on it. My spine and knees were a little weak. The man was drop-dead gorgeous, and he seemed to fill more than just his physical space. The room was him. It smelled of him, his essence was everywhere—intelligence, strength, passion, bravery—and I wanted to bask in it, bathe in it, and let it seep into every pore in my body.
“Ah good, you’re here.” He steepled his hands on the desk and let his gaze slip from my face to my chest. A line appeared between his eyebrows, and he cleared his throat. “Let’s see it.”
“See it?” I took a step closer and thrust my chest a little farther forward
He raised his eyebrows. “Your notebook, Chelsea, for your research thesis. Let’s see it.”
“Ah yes, that.” I slapped the file down on his desk beside a picture of a pretty young woman.
He didn’t pick my notes up, instead he watched me.
“Girlfriend?” I asked, thinking he really did have a taste for younger women.
“Sister.” A tendon flexed in his jawline.
“She’s beautiful.”
“I know.” He nodded at the chair opposite. “Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.” I turned and went to the window. A cat had caught a bird and was batting it with its paw, teasing it, toying with it as feathers flew.
I reached up and tugged out the scrunchie that was holding my hair high. My curls fell over my shoulders and down my back, and I secured the scrunchie on my left wrist.
“Give me fucking strength,” he muttered.
“Pardon?” I turned around. Had I heard him right?
He snatched up my file. “Luck,” he said, spinning his chair away from me in a fast, jerky movement. “You can’t rely on luck to get this right, Chelsea.”
“I know.” I walked up to the edge of the desk and peered over his shoulder.
He flipped open the pile of papers.
“I never rely on luck for anything,” I said.
He didn’t answer and read my notes.
