Trapped With My Teacher Penny Wylder

TRAPPED WITH MY TEACHER

PENNY WYLDER

CONTENTS

Trapped with my Teacher Books By Penny Wylder 1. The Storm 2. Professor Lakewood 3. Preparations 4. A Cold Night 5. Under Pressure 6. The Morning After 7. Cleaning Up 8. Time Flies 9. Daddy's Girl 10. Dangerous 11. Rescue 12. The Truth Her Dirty Professor Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Epilogue

Excerpt of THE POOL BOY Books By Penny Wylder

Copyright © 2017 Penny Wylder All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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BOOKS BY PENNY WYLDER

Filthy Boss

Her Dad’s Friend Rockstars F#*k Harder

The Virgin Intern Her Dirty Professor

The Pool Boy Get Me Off

Caught Together

Selling Out to the Billionaire Falling for the Babysitter

Lip Service

Full Service Expert Service

The Billionaire’s Virgin The Billionaire’s Secret Babies

Her Best Friend’s Dad Own Me

The Billionaire’s Gamble

Seven Days With Her Boss Virgin in the Middle

The Virgin Promise First and Last

Tease

Spread Bang

Second Chance Stepbrother Dirty Promise

Sext Quickie

Bed Shaker

Deep in You The Billionaire’s Toy

Buying the Bride Dating My Friend’s Daughter

Big Man

1

THE STORM

As I toss my bag into the trunk of my Mazda—the cute but impractical little rolling suitcase I bought because it’s perfect for weekend getaways like this —I take in a deep breath of crisp autumn air. Finally, I’m getting the escape I deserve. Yes, it’s only two months into my senior year. Yes, I shouldn’t be feeling so burnt-out already. Normally I don’t feel this dead-in-the-brain until the end of the year, around finals time when I’m cramming my head full of every last date and detail I can possibly fit in there. But this year is an exception. I don’t know if the school sent out a memo saying “make sure every senior suffers a mental breakdown at least five times before graduation,” or if it’s just me who’s special, but something about this year is kicking my ass. And normally I’m one doing the ass kicking—at least

when it comes to my education. It’s not my fault. I’ve been stuck with the simultaneously most distracting and infuriating professor on the planet. I sigh and slam the trunk shut on my suitcase, which contains all the essentials I’ll need this weekend. No books. No computer. I’m totally offline as of now. All I’m bringing are my cellphone —which I’ve vowed to only turn on in case of emergencies—and the warm and cozy thermal outfit selection I’ve set aside for this ski trip. That, and my ski mask, gloves, and custom pair of boots I had made because the rental boots never quite fit my ankles right. As for the actual skis, I’ll pick those up on site. Daddy called ahead and had them set aside for me, so I know they’ll be waiting when I arrive. As I climb into the driver’s seat of the car, I tap on the dashboard to call him. “Just checking in,” I say cheerily as I punch the gas and maneuver out of the parking spot where my poor car has spent the last week idling, because I’ve been too busy holed up in the library to take it for a drive anywhere. “Be safe, Corina,” Daddy replies, his voice like static over the car radio link. “I always am,” I point out. I take a turn onto the main campus drive and resist the urge to flash my middle finger toward Thompson, the main

building where I’ve spent most of my time so far this semester—and pretty much all of it focused on one class. One nightmare class. The main reason I need this dramatic getaway in the first place. “And make sure you’re back before Monday,” Daddy continues, his voice going stern. “I already don’t like the idea of you taking time off this early.” “It’s senior year, Daddy.” I try to keep my voice lighthearted. I didn’t let him know exactly why I wanted to use my once-a-school-year getaway card so early this year. I pretended it was because I was impatient to hit the slopes. “I just don’t want you losing your focus.” That, at least, makes me grin, if only sarcastically. “Daddy,” I say, “I’m a Driver. I’ve never lost my focus in the twenty years since the day I was born.” He laughs, if reluctantly. “I gotta give you that one, Corina. Well, fine. But be careful out there. There’s a storm headed in later tonight—make sure you beat that to the resort.” I roll my eyes. He’s always been overprotective. I was born and raised here in Colorado Springs—it’s not like this would be my first snowstorm. “I know, Daddy.” I hit end call and allow myself a small smile of amusement. Hard as he may be on me at times, I really can’t fault my father for anything he does. I understand why he

wants me to be successful. He didn’t find his focus in life until the day my mother passed away, when I was still too young to remember her, and my older brothers were both off at college already. In that moment, he says, he realized all the mistakes he’d made. Now he wants me to succeed where he failed; to push myself to work harder, the way he does now. “It’s the only way I can be sure you won’t fall down the hole that nearly trapped me,” he always says. And I believe him. I just wish certain other people would believe his advice, too. Other people like Professor Tony Lakewood. I tighten my grip on the wheel and lay into the gas pedal ever so slightly harder at the thought of him. Tony Lakewood. He’s the entire reason I’m speeding off into the mountains for a ski break this weekend in the first place. Without him, I assume, my senior year would be proceeding the exact same way the rest of my years at university have gone. I study hard, I play just as hard, and I come out on top every semester. Yes, my friends and I like to have fun, but I never let it get in the way of acing my classes. I’m on track to graduate at the top of my class—not valedictorian, no, but with an outstanding GPA and plenty of great references from the professors I’ve impressed along the way.

All the professors except for Lakewood. What’s irritating—no, infuriating—is that Professor Lakewood is also hot as hell. He makes every girl in class freeze every time he walks into the classroom. I’m not even sure he notices. He stands up there lecturing, glaring down at us like we’re his worst enemies, and all I can think about —in between being pissed at how harshly he judges me of course—is how fucking hot that look would be in another setting. Like, say, if nobody else were in the classroom but me, and he was stripping off that primly ironed shirt of his, loosening his tie as he walks toward me, those piercing eyes locked on mine so intensely I couldn’t even blink as he orders me to strip… I tighten my thighs as I take a turn higher up into the mountains. Damn him. I’m already starting to get turned on just thinking about him. The way his arms ripple as he tightens his fists on the lectern while speaking, or when he pushes up his sleeves angrily when the class misses a point. His deep voice is commanding and sexy, even when he’s telling me I’ve gotten something wrong again. I can’t help wondering how he’d sound talking dirty to me. Telling me to bend over the desk and spread my legs while he ran his hands up the back of my thighs to grip my ass, leaning over me, his breath hot on my neck. I imagine him grabbing my hips, pulling me

upright, shoving my back against the blackboard he usually scrawls terrible reviews of my work across. He’d pin me against it as I wrapped my legs around his waist, then he’d rip my skirt off, tear down my panties, and circle his thick cock around my entrance until I was gasping and begging him to fuck me. I can feel my panties getting wet and my brain getting distracted from the road. I sigh again and check my speedometer. Slow myself a little through sheer willpower. Driving too fast won’t help anything except make these winding mountain roads more treacherous. I’m on this trip to forget about Professor Lakewood. Professor “I know everything” Lakewood. Professor Too Fucking Hot for His Own Good Lakewood. Yes, I’ll admit it, on the first day of class my jaw dropped along with all the other senior-year girls. Tony Lakewood isn’t exactly your average middle-aged balding professor. He’s more like the version you find in an unbelievable rom-com movie. The one who wears turtlenecks unironically and manages to pull them off. The tall, dark, and handsome as fuck nerdy guy with cheekbones that could cut glass, and who, with glasses on, could pass for Clark Kent. But you can tell just by looking at him that Superman is behind those spectacles. No idiot in the world except Lois Lane

ever bought into the whole “Clark Kent is so ugly with glasses no one can tell he’s a superhero.” The first time our class saw him, I swear to God, every pair of panties in the room hit the floor at once. But that was before he spoke. That was before he called me out in front of a whole classroom of my peers and read aloud an essay I wrote last week, detailing every sentence and fact I got wrong. And okay, yes, I made some mistakes. But that’s no excuse to call me out specifically. To humiliate me in front of twenty-four other classmates. To taunt me as though he were enjoying my failure. “You can do better, Corina,” I mutter aloud to my car, mimicking his thick German accent. Like he fucking knows. He graded me a 30/100 on that essay. Thirty. Out of a hundred. I’d never gotten a grade that low in my life. Not even back in middle school when I still had to take math classes—my least favorite subject. I realize I’m speeding again, and force myself to slow. This isn’t working. Twenty minutes into my drive and I’m already stressing. I flip through radio channels to find music I like. That distracts me for a while—at least until I get far enough outside of town for the radio to start getting choppy. Then I sigh and switch it to another station, because the

static between songs is getting to be too much. Most other stations are static now too. Every one, in fact, except the emergency channel. That one comes through loud and clear. Bored of the static scraping at my eardrums, I pause on that one. Then I have to re-focus on the road ahead, because suddenly, big fat snowflakes are falling on my window shield. I turn on the wipers and keep both hands planted at ten and two as the radio babbles on. “—storm warning in the Buena Vista area,” it’s saying. I zone in, squinting through the thickening white flakes. Buena Vista. That’s about where I am now. Little farther west. “This plans to be a big one—the biggest we’ve seen in western Colorado since the 2003 blizzard, which dumped almost thirty-two inches of snow directly onto Denver in March of that year…” I reach over and turn up the radio, eyes on the sky above. I didn’t notice the storm clouds earlier —I was too absorbed in my own head. Now I see them. Now I realize what a mistake I’ve made. Colorado can be like this. Perfectly sunny and clear one minute, and about to dump a recordbreaking storm on your head the next. I bite my lower lip and listen to the radio, even as I feel my snow tires skid on the increasingly icy road.

“Anyone currently on the roads, especially up in the mountain passes, please, we urge you, find a safe turnoff to wait out this storm. Doppler radar suggests that snowfall will last well into the night, with no telling when or how high the snow will pile this time. In downtown Colorado Springs, three accidents have clogged highways—” I zone back out again, then reach over to click the radio to off. No use listening to it predict my doom now. I know better than to test the roads in conditions like this, but I do need to find somewhere safe to pull off. I’m high up into the mountain passes now, with steep cliff faces off to my right side, and sheer rock mountain on my left. I haven’t seen another car in at least half an hour. I need to find a spot to pull over, yes, but not just any location will do. I’ll be trapped in this car if I choose the wrong spot to pull over. What I need is somewhere habitable. Somewhere that has a structure, housing or apartments or just a little cottage I could claim as my own for now, until this storm blows over. Bonus points if it has a full kitchen and running water, but at this point, any kind of shelter is preferable over the idea of being stuck sleeping in my car while a blizzard buries me. I have a few emergency blankets in the trunk, but that’s about it. And nothing in the way of food at all. I turn my windshield wipers up higher and

squint through the heavy downfall. Nothing. For a moment, I pull over to the side of the road and check my phone. No Service. That’s to be expected this high up in the mountains. I’d hoped I could make it to a town where I’d get some reception before I got completely snowed-in, though. Then, finally, a few more miles up the slopes, the snow coming down more heavily now, I finally spot a turn off to road creeping up into the mountains. I take it, and wind down a long driveway to what appears to be someone’s weekend getaway. A cute, cozy little cottage, probably one or two bedrooms at most. Someone’s private ski lodge, even equipped with a porch out back flush with the mountainside. I can imagine the family here probably skis in and out of that porch in winter, when they cozy up here for winter getaways. To judge by the lights in the living room window, candles glowing behind fluttering curtains, someone is home, anyway. There’s a single car parked in the long driveway leading up to the cottage. In this snowfall, I can’t see anything else for miles around. Nothing but this place. Here’s hoping the inhabitants are friendly. I park behind the only other car in the driveway, zip my coat up to my chin, pull up my hood, and fling open my door, ready to sprint to the front door and face whatever awaits me on the

other side.

2

PROFESSOR LAKEWOOD

My first knock goes unanswered. So do my second, and my third. Finally, I give in and try the doorknob. I’m getting desperate with the cold sinking slowly into my bones. To my surprise—and delight—the doorknob turns easily. I push it open and stumble across the threshold into a warm, cozily lit living room. There’s a fire already burning in the hearth, merry and bright in a space this small. Despite the threat of the snowstorm outside, there’s something instantly homey and comforting about the sight of flames dancing across wood logs. It reminds me of cozying up with Daddy and my big brothers around the fireplace at the ski lodge we normally rent every Christmas. I pause beside the hearth, warming my hands as I glance around the living room. There aren’t a lot

of revealing details—a few picture frames of a man and woman, both blondes, grinning at the camera. Other than that, just a lot of squishy plaid couches and shag carpets, plus some standard deer antlers decorating the chandeliers. Someone’s weekend ski cabin, clearly. I’m still studying the photos when I hear footsteps in another room. My heart leaps, but I force it to slow again. I’m the intruder here, not this person. “Hello?” I call as I move away from the fire, toward the sound. There’s another room directly off the living room—the kitchen, to judge by the scent emanating from it. Bacon and another open fire. “I’m sorry—I don’t mean to intrude. It’s just, the front door was open. I got caught in the storm, couldn’t drive any farther…” I step into the kitchen fully. That’s when I stop dead. No way. No fucking way. This is impossible. This is just your luck, Corina, my subconscious points out. It has a point, I must admit. Because standing there, in the middle of the kitchen, like the most impossible specter you could imagine, is none other than Professor Tony Lakewood himself. I rub my eyes for a second, just to make sure

they aren’t playing tricks on me. Unfortunately, Professor Lakewood remains standing right where he was a second ago, with a fistful of kindling in one hand, and the other poised on the oven door, which he’d clearly just opened in order to restock the fire. To judge by the way his eyebrows shoot upward and his gaze drops over my body, as though double-checking to ensure I’m real, I can guess I’m every bit as unexpected and unwelcome a sight to him as he is to me. He finds his tongue first. “Caught out in the cold, Corina?” He tosses the rest of the kindling in into the oven and slams the door shut. The kitchen seems to warm instantly—though maybe that’s just all the blood rushing to my face as I blush. Damn him. Somehow it’s more irritating to me how attractive he is. His sharp-cut cheekbones and the dark stubble dusting his strong jaw, below his thin-frame glasses and his dark hair, tousled like he’s just rolled out of bed but in the perfect I-wokeup-this-way manner, make him even more infuriating. He would be exactly my type if he weren’t a) my professor, and b) the worst, most aggravating man I’ve ever known. “Guess that makes two of us,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorframe. “What brings you all the way out here in the middle of a blizzard?” “I could ask the same of you,” he points out.

“Though I won’t. I can already guess what brings you here. Escaping to some glamorous ski holiday rather than actually committing to your studies again, I assume.” “To assume makes an ass out of you and me,” I retort with a scowl. Even though he’s right. Only partly, I remind myself. It’s not like I normally escape on ski weekends. And he’s the reason I need to right now. “If you spent the time you took to run away like this on your work, you might actually have a passable grade in my class at the moment,” he laments while turning to reach up and check that the flue is open. Doing so exposes his lower abs for a second—a flash of tanned, perfectly muscled stomach that makes my belly clench in response. I can’t help ogling his washboard abs, or the way his jeans hang low on his hips, so different from the formal outfits he normally wears to class. His jeans sag low enough that I catch a glimpse of his boxers, and the V-line pointing below them, directly at… My cheeks flush even brighter, and I tear my gaze away. Only to find him watching me with a self-satisfied smirk. “So easily distracted, Corina.” I clear my throat hard. “If by easily distracted, you mean concerned about how much wood we have for that fireplace, then yeah, sure. Call me impractical, but I don’t fancy the idea of freezing to

death out here. And you’ve built that fire pretty high for the time being.” I nod my chin in the direction of the chimney. That, at least, quiets him for a moment. He steps back to study the fireplace, arms crossed. “There’s a wood pile out back. Plenty of supplies.” “Let me see,” I reply, not trusting the unsure note in his voice. With one last scowl, he leads me through a narrow kitchen—gas stovetop, that’s good, in case we lose power—and out back. Sure enough, there is a wood stack, complete with a tarp over it to keep the wood dry in the snow. Still, I cross my arms and lean back to study the sky, assessing. “We should bring more of this inside,” I say. “Just in case it really starts to come down. We’ll want to have enough dry wood so we can use it to dry off any wet wood if we need to delve into the deeper reserves later.” He casts a sideways glance at me, assessing as well. But if he wants to argue, he bites his tongue over it for now. Tony pulls the tarp back a little, and working together, we carry armful after armful of wood into the little mudroom off the kitchen. Every now and then as I pass him squeezing through the narrow back door of the cabin, our arms brush, and a fresh riot of tingles shoot along my skin. I ignore that and keep my face expressionless, my attention focused on the task at hand. I don’t

have time to be distracted by anyone right now, much less him. I need to make sure we’re prepared in case this storm gets as bad as the radio claims it will. Once we’ve brought in enough wood to last us at least three days, just in case it’s a really thick blizzard—it’ll take the snowplows a while to make it this far up into the mountains—I fix the tarp over the remaining wood and head back into the house to assess the rest of the cabin. For his part, Professor Lakewood just leans back against the gas stove and watches me move around the cabin. Right. So there’s a tiny little living room with a small couch—not big enough for anyone to sleep on unless they curl up into fetal position. Aside from that and the wood-burning stove, there’s the kitchen—really just a galley kitchen with the stovetop, a tiny sink, and a little icebox with some basics inside. I find a few jugs of water, some dry goods—mostly cereal and preserves, so that’s something. Aside from that, some frozen meat and fish in the tiny fridge—hard to judge how old it is, but when I scrape off some ice patches to read the sell-by date, it still looks good. And we can stick that out in the snow to keep if the power fails. Beyond the kitchen is the real dilemma, though. I stop short on the threshold and stare a moment at the bedroom. It’s tiny, even smaller than the

kitchen. “Bedroom” is a generous word for it, really. More like “sleepable closet.” Professor Lakewood steps up beside me to peer over my shoulder. “Going to be a cozy fit,” he points out. That’s putting it lightly. The bed takes up the entire “room,” and it’s a single bed. Plenty of fuzzy blankets to keep warm, and a cute little reading nook beside it stacked with books and a lamp. But definitely not made for more than one person. Let alone two people who currently hate each another. “I’ll take the couch,” I say. He scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. A child could barely fit on that couch.” “I’ll make it work.” I spin around and brush past him. Our shoulders collide, and damn him, that distracts me all over again, because I can’t help thinking if we shared that bed, what it would feel like to have his warm, muscular body curled up against mine. How would those washboard abs feel against my backside, with his strong arms wrapped around my waist? And if I arched back against him, pressed my hips to his, would I feel something else? Feel him getting excited by my proximity, growing hard against my ass? How big is the cock he’s hiding in those loose jeans? I shake myself. Stop it. You hate him, remember? Luckily, he doesn’t make it easy to forget. “I

know problem-solving isn’t your strong suit, Corina, but you have to admit we’ll both need to share the bed. Especially if the temperature drops more than it already has. We’ll need to conserve body heat.” I grimace with my back still turned. He’s right. That doesn’t mean I need to admit it yet. “Well we’ll just have to wait and see what the temperature does,” I reply. Then I step into the kitchen and eye the wood stack. About a quarter of it is smaller bits and pieces—kindling we’ll be able to use to get the fire started. The rest are big logs. They’ll be good for once we have the heat roaring, but we’ll need a little more in-between pieces. I grab one of the logs. “I’m going to go chop this,” I say. I let the back door slam behind me, cutting off whatever reply he might have.

3

PREPARATIONS

I find a little shed past the woodpile. There’s a locked door in the back of it that I don’t bother opening. The front of the shed contains the basics I need for now—snow shovel, a couple axes, one is duller than the other. I take the sharper axe and trudge to the chopping block set up between the shed and the cabin. Squinting at the sky tells me we have maybe another half an hour before the storm really starts to bring it down. Already the snow is thickening in the air, coming down in fat, sticky flakes. My feet sink up to my ankles when I cross the yard, which makes me a little nervous. Only a few minutes ago, when we were bringing the wood inside, it barely came halfway up my boot. This is going to be a bad one, every instinct in my body is shouting. I’ve been through enough storms with Daddy, when we came up here for ski

season, to recognize the signs. Normally, though, I have Daddy and my older brothers to help prepare for the weather. Today, I just have to hope I remember everything I’ve learned from them over the years. I settle the first of the couple bigger logs I’ve brought out on the chopping block and heft the axe. At that moment, I hear footsteps behind me. I glance over my shoulder and find Professor Lakewood settling another log on a makeshift chopping block he’s made out of a dusted-off tree stump. He has the other axe, the duller one. He smirks when I stare. “What? Did you think you were the only one with any survival skills?” he comments. Then he sets a hunk of wood on the block, positions himself, and takes a swing. The wood splits on the first hit, even though it’s a dull blade. I can’t help watching his body move. His arm muscles, especially, bulge as he sweeps aside that wood and lifts another piece to split. I watch him swing the axe twice more before I remember I have wood of my own to chop. “This generally goes faster if you don’t spend half the time drooling over your partner,” he points out. I scoff aloud, shoulders tensing as I lift my own axe. Aim for the center of the wood, swing hard… I bring it down and grin a little as it splits with a loud crack. “What were you saying about faster?” I call

over my shoulder. He cracks another log in response. “Going to have to be faster than that to beat me,” he responds. My grin widens. “You’re on.” Soon we’re both in the swing of it. I lose track of time, lost in the rhythm. Set up, swing, crack, and repeat. Before long, I’ve gone through all my wood—halved most of the logs, and quartered some others that we’ll need to stoke the flames back up if they dwindle. Only once I’ve finished do I wipe sweat from my brow and glance back at my professor again, a triumphant grin on my face. It falters a little when I notice that he’s already done—probably has been for a while. But at least he seems every bit as distracted as he accused me of being. His jaw snaps shut when I meet his eye, though not before I catch a glimpse of him ogling me right back. And his eyes are still wandering, all over my body, lingering on my arms and the axe dangling from one hand. “Where did you learn how to do that?” he finally asks. I just smirk and start collecting my wood pieces. “There are some advantages to growing up the only girl in a house of boys.” I make a point of bending over real slow, just so his eyes will linger on my backside as I collect the wood. It works. One glance back shows me he’s too busy staring at my

ass to even notice me looking at him. Is he thinking the same thing I am? Is he wondering what it would be like to bend me over this chopping block right here, tear my jeans off and fuck me across it? When I straighten, arms full of wood, Professor Lakewood finally manages to force his expression back to one of bored neutrality. “It’s a shame you can’t put that kind of effort into your classes,” he comments, with a glance at the wood piled in my arms. I roll my eyes. “You know, none of my other professors complain about my work ethic,” I reply as I elbow past him toward the cabin. “Then your other professors aren’t pushing you hard enough.” “Oh, is that it?” I snort and kick my way into the cabin, then dump the wood back into our little mudroom pile. “You’re a complete ass to me because you want to push me harder?” Then I realize how that sounds, and my cheeks flush. He notices too, his smirk widening as he drops his pile of wood beside mine. “Yes, Corina, I must admit. I do want to push you harder. Because you’re better than the work you’re putting out currently. And if people didn’t spend their whole lives bending over backwards to give you everything you want, then you could be so much farther ahead in your studies than you are now.”

I frown, tilting my head. “What are you talking about?” He holds my gaze for a long moment. I never noticed his eyes before. They’re dark green behind those glasses, flecked with tiny bursts of gold around his irises. He holds my gaze long enough for me to forget what I just said, to feel my body starting to tilt forward, unable to resist his gravitational pull. Then he blinks, and the illusion snaps for a moment. I shake my head, pull myself backward. “You don’t think you’re spoiled, Corina? You don’t think you get everything you want, whenever you want it?” I laugh once, harsh. “You don’t know me, Professor Lakewood.” “Please.” He rolls his eyes, and I think he’s going to retort that he does know me, somehow. Though I don’t know how he possibly thinks he does, after just two months of torturing me in his classroom. But instead, he gestures at the cabin around us. “Although I never tire of being called professor, I think in a setting like this, Tony will do just fine.” I set my jaw. Is this his idea of a peace offering? Screw that. “You don’t know me, so quit acting like you do. My work ethic is just fine. If I’m distracted at all, I’m distracted by you constantly picking on me, calling me out in front of the whole class, when I’m doing the same work as everyone else.”

That infuriating smirk of his widens. “So you’re saying I’m the reason you’re so distracted in class?” His eyebrows lift, and he takes a step closer. I hold my ground. Lift my chin to glare up at him. We’re barely a foot apart now. The air between us warms, and I can tell my cheeks are flushed again. I don’t care. I narrow my eyes. “Sure, Tony. You’re distracting in that you’re unfairly critical.” “I just expect the best performance from my students.” His gaze drops, lower than my face. I can feel him studying my body, my curves. I tilt my head to the side to allow him a better view. Let him be distracted for once. But his gaze snaps back to my face, every bit as focused as it was a moment ago. “And you, Corina, are smarter than the work you put forth. You’re smarter than most of the other students in that classroom. So yes, I am going to push you harder than any of them. Because you can take it.” I swallow hard. There’s barely any space between us anymore. When did he get so close? I’m staring into those gold-flecked green eyes again, tilting forward, unable to resist. My heartbeat pounds, and my limbs feel tingly, my stomach tight with desire. The flash of fantasy I had earlier about him bending me over outside returns, even harder now. I imagine him pushing me back against the kitchen counter, lifting me onto it and tearing my

shirt open. Tonguing my nipple as he peels off my jeans and slides his thick cock between my thighs… “Then again, maybe I’m wrong.” He breaks away, steps back. All the air rushes back into my lungs at once, making my knees feel weak. I reach back and grip the kitchen counter, this time just to keep myself steady on my feet. Dammit, Corina. I can’t let him get to me like that. “Maybe you can’t take it. Maybe you’re just as big a failure as most of the other students I’m stuck teaching.” He shrugs and turns, brushing past me into the living room. I glare after him, still too breathless to form a reply. By the time I think of one, I can hear the distant creak of the fireplace door, then the sound of him stacking another piece of wood onto the fire. I shake my head, square my shoulders and turn back to the kitchen supplies instead. Screw him. Tony Lakewood doesn’t know a damned thing about me. He can take his assumptions and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine. As for me, I’m going to prepare for this storm as best I can. I organize the supplies in the kitchen, then take inventory. We’ve got enough food to last us a week —though I really, really hope we won’t be stuck here that long. It would really take a recordbreaking storm to do that. As for the meat and fish,

that we should probably eat first. There’s only enough for a few days, whereas there are plenty of dried goods. I find a little notebook beside the stove with what appears to be guestbook notes. I guess this place is an Airbnb or something in regular season. It’s cute. I could see renting this place out for a private solo getaway. Holing up to do some schoolwork undisturbed and go skiing in the afternoons. It would be cozy—positively homey— if I didn’t have to share it with someone who makes my blood boil. For more reasons than just because he’s irritating, my brain unhelpfully points out. I ignore that. I tear a spare page out of the guestbook and list our supplies. One way or another, I’m making it through this storm. And if I have to rescue the most frustrating professor in the world alongside myself to make it, well then, so be it.

4

A COLD NIGHT

I find Tony sprawled across the couch when I finally finish my preparations in the kitchen. “What were you saying about productivity earlier?” I ask with an eye-roll as I stride past him and reach for my bags. “I’m being productive,” he replies. Then he holds up his cell phone. “Trying to reach civilization is a productive pastime.” “Yeah?” I withdraw my own phone and eye the corner. No Service. As I expected. It still hasn’t found any signal. And there’s no Wi-Fi in this cabin —I guess that would be a little too much to ask from this ski bungalow in the middle of nowhere. “How’s that going?” “Not well,” he admits with a groan. “Got any bars at all?” “Nope. You?”

“I’ve had no service since I left Buena Vista this afternoon.” He heaves a sigh. “Guess we’re in this for the long haul. You seen a radio anywhere?” “Not in here. We can turn on our cars to check for updates, though I think we should only do that sparingly. If the roads clear up at some point, we’ll want to have enough gas to make it out of here.” When I turn around, I find him watching me again, this time with a more assessing gaze. “You get stuck in snowy cabins often, Corina?” “More often than you, apparently. Happens when you’re born and raised in the mountains like this.” He laughs. “Guess that’s me called out.” He leans back on the couch. There’s space beside him. Just enough that I could squeeze in, though our bodies would be pressed together. I debate taking that seat. It’s the only one in the house… “I’m from California originally,” he says. “That explains a lot.” He laughs again. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh before. If he did that more often, he might not be so irritating in class. I find myself watching his throat as he swallows, then his mouth when his lips quirk into another grin. “Yes, just another West Coast invader into your poor flooded city. My apologies.” “Why Tony, that almost sounds genuine.”

“I’m always genuine,” he says. “Just usually I’m genuinely disappointed in people.” “All people, or just your woefully performing students?” I raise a brow. He searches my gaze, his smile suddenly dropping. “All people. Or, most of them, at least.” “You sound awfully picky, Professor.” “I have high standards. Is that a crime?” “Only when you take out your standard complex on innocent bystanders.” I cross my arms and lean back against the wall of the cabin. “Or students.” His gaze rakes over me again. “Oh, I doubt you’re innocent, Corina.” My cheeks flush again, and I’m far enough away from the fire that I can’t exactly pretend it’s from the heat of the flames. To cover up my fluster, I push off the wall and storm into the kitchen. “As if you know me,” I call over my shoulder. That, at least, he has no answer to. I make myself the strangest dinner combination in history. Porridge with some of the grains I found, mixed with a little bit of the bottled water—I’ll stick to that until we have to resort to melting snow. For a side dish, I fry some of the chicken I found in the freezer. About halfway through cooking, the power flickers and dies. I ignore it. Like I said, thank God for gas stovetops.

A few minutes after it dies, though, I hear the floorboards creak as Professor Lakewood—no, Tony, definitely after the way he’s teasing me now —steps into the kitchen. “Want some dinner?” I ask. He steps up behind me, so close I can feel his body heat radiating in the narrow cabin. It’s starting to get cold here in the kitchen. Pretty soon we’ll have to close off the door, hole up in the living room with the fireplace and hope that provides us enough heat for the night. It’s positioned right between the living area and the tiny bedroom, so it should warm both of those well enough, but I doubt it will reach as far as the kitchen. The cold is what I’d like to blame for the way I shiver and catch my breath. Really, it’s him. Thinking about his body so close to mine, those taut muscles I glimpsed earlier as we chopped wood together. His know-it-all smirk. So infuriating, and yet… I swallow hard and tighten my thighs. And yet, I can imagine how that smirk would look as he pulled me into a kiss. How his tongue would invade my mouth, and those strong arms of his would circle my waist, pull my soft body against his hard one. I wonder what kind of cock he’s hiding in those jeans… Stop it, Corina. I can’t do this. He’s my professor.

“What are you making?” he asks. His breath ghosts against the back of my neck, making the hairs rise. “Whatever we have.” I eye the stove. “Chicken and porridge.” He laughs softly, breath feeling hotter now. “Regular Martha Steward here.” I snort and step aside, mostly so I can move my body away from his, breathe again without thinking about stepping backwards, bending over to push my hips against his and see what he’d do. Instead, I pass him the spatula. “Let’s see what you can do, then.” He sizes me up—and takes his time about it, too. His gaze drops to my chest, lingers for a moment, before he spins around and starts digging through cabinets. I let out a faint sigh of relief when his gaze leaves my body. Whenever he looks at me, it makes me want to jump his bones right then and there. At least when he’s paying attention to something else, I can focus somewhat. To my surprise, Tony starts pulling out spices and sauces I didn’t even notice when I did inventory earlier. It’s not like those spices add any calories to a meal, so I didn’t bother to note their nutritional value. But he uncaps a few and splashes them across the chicken, and suddenly the smell wafting through this narrow kitchen isn’t boring anymore. In fact, it smells almost… good.

“What are you doing?” I ask. Unconsciously, I lean a little closer to him. He casts me a sideways, knowing smirk, then gestures for me to hand him one of the spices. I pass it over. “You might be the survivalist, Corina, but you still cook like a student. Try adding a little spice to your life once in a while.” My cheeks flush once more, and not from the heat of the stove as he tosses the chicken. “I have spice!” I protest. “I do lots of spicy things. Just not cooking at home.” “Cooking can be fun when it’s not only for yourself,” he points out with a casual smile. My eyes narrow. I know he’s not married. Every girl in class made sure to research that the first day we walked in and saw him smirking up there by the blackboard. “Why? Do you enjoy cooking for your many hookups, Professor?” “Not as often as I’d like.” His gaze darts to mine, catches my eye and holds it. “I enjoy cooking for two.” “Well lucky you, now’s your chance to change that,” I say without thinking. Then my eyes widen when I realize what I just said. Enjoy cooking for your many hookups? For his part, Tony just laughs. “Lucky me indeed,” he says, and I expect him to follow it up with some sarcastic comment about being trapped in this cabin with his least favorite student. But he

doesn’t. He just turns back to the stove and keeps cooking. A few minutes later, he dumps the chicken onto a plate and passes it to me. Our fingertips brush again, and I bite my lip to contain the gasp that wants to escape. Because fucking hell, the electric sparks that set off in my belly every time our skin touches… I clamp that down. Accept the plate and try a bite. Holy shit. “Good?” Tony’s watching me with a knowing smirk, not having tasted any of his own yet. “You must have a lot of hookups to cook for,” I say when I’ve swallowed. He laughs aloud, then picks up his own plate. Takes a single bite and grimaces a little. “You must not be treated properly by your hookups, Corina. This is hardly impressive.” “College boys aren’t exactly known for their culinary skills,” I reply, swallowing another huge bite of the chicken. “And college boys are still to your taste?” He doesn’t meet my eye, not now. He’s studying his plate, a little too carefully. But I can hear the unasked question in his voice. The thin ice we’re treading on. Much as I know I ought to back away from it, I don’t want to. I want to skate right out there and

fall through, thin ice be damned. “Usually,” I say, my voice lighthearted. Smooth. “Lately, though, I’m starting to think about trying more complex dishes.” He glances up at that, startled, but I’m already moving away, into the living room. It’s too cold in the kitchen. Tony follows me, and when I ask him to, kicks shut the kitchen door behind him. Now we can confine what heat we have to the living quarters, at least. For a few minutes, we eat in silence. I remain standing, refusing to sit by him on the couch. Not when it’s so small I’d practically be in his lap. I just keep eating to distract myself. Flirting aside, both of us are clearly hungry, which causes me my first slight pang of worry about this situation. One glance out the window shows me the storm hasn’t let up. If anything, it’s gotten worse, fat flakes of snow building up along the windowsill. There’s not a lot of light outside, with all the clouds, and with us being so far up here in the mountains. From what I can see, though, the snow has already built up at least a few inches. “The plows will start clearing the roads in the morning,” Tony says, reading my mind. “No use worrying about it now.” He’s right. I finish the rest of my meal in a few bites. “I just wish we had some kind of phone

signal. Some way to figure out how long we’re going to be holed up here.” “I think it’s safe to say at least overnight.” He checks his phone again, shows me the screen. Still no service. Then he scoops up our empty plates and disappears into the kitchen a moment. When he returns, he’s got a fresh stack of wood with him. “If it doesn’t pass tonight, we’ll need to start conserving our supplies,” I say. “Let’s worry about that after we get through the night,” he replies. He kneels beside the fireplace to stoke it once more. Once he’s finished with that, he stands, hesitates. He grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and takes a seat, spreading it across his knees. I keep standing. For a few moments, I pace. Then I crouch beside the fire, rubbing my hands. Finally, Tony rolls his eyes and slaps the cushion beside him. “Sit down, Corina.” Still, I hesitate. “You’re going to pace yourself to death. That or freeze when you pass out in the middle of the floor. Sit down.” His green-gold eyes catch mine. Pin me in place. “Unless you’re scared of what will happen if you do.” I raise my chin at that. Step over, defiant, and drop onto the cushion next to him. “I’m not scared.”

“Good.” He spreads the blanket across us both, and my breath catches. Our legs are pressed together now, his skin hot against mine, even through both of our jeans. “Because really, I’m the one who ought to be worried here.” “Oh really?” I catch his eye, lift a single brow. “Why is that, Professor?” “Some might call this a compromising position.” His gaze drops again to my mouth. On purpose, I slowly lick my lips, and have to resist a grin when I see the way it makes his pupils dilate and his mouth part. It’s making me hotter, too, knowing the effect I have on him. “Corina…” “Yes, Tony?” I shift against him. My whole body seems to catch fire with that, just the brush of my thigh against his, the sensation of his warm, strong body pressed against my side. “You’re breathing very fast,” he says. His gaze lifts back to mine, and his eyes shift back and forth as he studies me. Reads me, in a way no one ever has. “Your pupils are dilated.” “So are yours,” I reply. My voice comes out too faint, too uncertain. His smile widens. “One might almost think you were having a reaction to sitting this close to me.” “One might,” I whisper. My gaze drops to his mouth. His lips, curved in a smirk, perfectly

shaped. His cheeks dusted with dark stubble, below razor-sharp cheekbones. He lifts his arm, brushing against mine—both our arms are bare, and that contact is enough to make me gasp aloud, though I try to cover it, to clamp my mouth shut. “I must say, Corina.” He raises that arm. Brushes a strand of my hair back from my cheek, across my shoulder. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to shiver with delight. “You seem fairly distracted from our predicament just now. Is there something else on your mind?” I glance down farther. Along the smooth plane of his chest, down his abs, currently hidden under the blanket, though I can still picture the perfectly cut shape in my mind. My eyes drop right to his crotch—and to the bulge there now, visible even through the blanket and his jeans. “It seems I’m not the only one with something else on the mind, Tony.” He raises a brow. “So you are distracted.” “So are you.” His smirk widens. “Whatever can we do about that, I wonder…” I push myself upright, a little closer to him. Half my body is pressed against his side now, and our faces are an inch apart. His breath dusts my lips. “I wonder, indeed. Don’t you have any ideas, Professor?” “You’re the one giving me all my ideas right

now, Corina.” His hand drops down my arm, and my nerves light up, my skin burning at his touch. “Tell me. Which one should I pursue?” “Depends. What are the options?” I lean a little closer, half sitting up so I’m kneeling above him, looking down into his eyes. Our noses touch. “Well, there’s this one…” Suddenly, he grabs my waist and swings me over him. My other knee lands on his far side, so I’m straddling him on the tiny couch, thighs clenched around his waist. I can feel the hard press of his bulge now, right against my crotch, and fucking hell, I’m already so wet I can feel my panties sticking to me. Without thinking, I arch my back, start to grind against his stiff cock. He groans, and I run my hands through his hair, pulling his head back, pinning him in place looking up at me, as I twist my hips to position his cock right against my clit. I moan softly as I grind again, slower and harder this time. Then Tony grabs my hair in his fist and kisses me. Fuck.

5

UNDER PRESSURE

“You like that, Corina?” He breaks away from the kiss, but stays so close his lips move against mine as he speaks. “Well, I haven’t seen… the other options,” I manage to whisper in reply, my heart pounding so hard I can barely think. My clit is still pressed against his cock, and my pussy feels tight and wet with desire. Tony grabs my thighs, then lifts me up. I gasp and tighten my legs around him. But he’s only flipping us down, lifting my legs off the end of the couch so we’re lying along it, him on top of me, his cock now between my thighs, the hard length of it resting along my slit. He arches his back and begins to grind against me in slow, controlled thrusts. “There’s this option as well,” he says, a laugh in his voice as he catches my eye. “Or…” He grabs me,

lifts me completely off the couch now, and spins to pin me against the wall of the cabin. I cry aloud with surprise and wrap both legs around his waist, abandoning all sense of control, letting my hips buck against him. “Hmm, you seem to like this option.” His eyes search mine another moment, and for a second I seem to glimpse something hard there. Something under the desire. “Do you want me to fuck you right here against this cabin wall, Corina?” “I… I don’t… Fuck.” I breathe the last word when he releases my legs, dropping me back to standing, and moves back a step. “Or would you prefer none of the above?” He raises an eyebrow, studies me. All I want is for you to touch me again, I think. I can’t say it though. I won’t. It feels too much like giving in. I tilt my head and consider him slowly, as though weighing my options. He watches me back, impassive. If not for the larger-than-ever bulge in his jeans, I’d think he wasn’t even interested. “You choose,” I say. “I’m easy.” He smirks. “Your words.” My cheeks flush, but he’s already grabbing me and spinning me around. Without warning, he pushes me forward, bends me over the back of the couch. “My choice, Corina?” I turn to catch his eye over my shoulder and

hold his gaze for a long moment. “Fuck me however you want to fuck me, Professor.” “Very well.” He grabs my jeans and rips open the button. Pushes them down my hips as I squirm against the couch. “But you asked for this.” He spreads my legs, and I gasp at the sensation of his hot fingers exploring my skin. “Don’t expect me to be gentle.” “I hope you aren’t,” I shoot back, eyes still on his. He runs his hands up my inner thighs, then presses one finger along my slit. Delves just deep enough to feel my wet pussy. Then he chuckles, softly. “You’re already nice and wet for me, I see.” He pushes that finger inside me slowly, an inch at a time. I moan and twist against the couch. “Fuck,” I gasp. “And tight as well. Hmm.” He presses another finger against my entrance. Pushes it into my pussy, and I cry out softly. “I hope you can take me, Corina. Do you want to try?” He adds a third finger. Slides it into my pussy until I feel stretched and gasping for breath. “Do you want my fat cock inside you, Corina?” “I can… take you,” I manage to say, reaching down to grip the couch with my hands. “Give me all you’ve got, Professor.” I hear the sound of his zipper, then the crinkle

of a condom wrapper. Before long, I feel the slick sensation of his cock between my thighs, running up the back of one leg and down the other. “Are you sure about this? I warned you. I’m not gentle.” “I don’t… want gentle.” I spread my legs wider, a dare. “Fuck me, Tony.” In response, he grabs my hips with both hands, tight enough that I can feel his fingers leaving marks around my hipbones. His cock glides along my slit now, back and forth, slowly, as he coats himself in my juices. “So impatient,” he says. “You’re the one… teasing me,” I protest. “I never knew you were so hungry for me, Corina.” There’s suppressed laughter in his voice. He’s enjoying himself, damn him. Loving how wet he makes me. “Don’t think too highly of yourself,” I say. “I would have the hots for anyone in this situation.” “That so?” He arches his hips; drops one hand to toy with my clit. I gasp, even as he continues to slide his cock along my slit, over my pussy entrance again and again, teasing. Torturing. “You’d fuck anyone you got stranded in this cabin with, Corina?” “N-no,” I manage. “But… Some. People.” “I’m flattered to be among the contenders.” He pauses and steps back. A cry escapes my lips at the loss of his touch, his cock between my thighs. “So you’re saying you don’t want my cock?”

A frustrated little mewl makes its way out of my mouth. I clamp my teeth over it, annoyed. “I want your cock, Tony.” “You want any cock, you just said.” “No.” I practically growl it, frustrated at him for making me do this. At myself for falling for it. But goddamn it, I’m too hot and riled up now. I can’t stop—I need him to fuck me. “I want you, Tony. Your cock.” “How long have you wanted my cock?” he replies. But he’s moving up against me again, and there’s his thick girth between my thighs, and I relax back into him, relieved that he’s giving in, that he’s grabbing my hips again, reaching down to stroke my clit with one finger. “Ever since the first day of class,” I whisper. My voice is so low, he must hardly be able to hear me. I hope, anyway. No such luck. “That’s what I thought.” Suddenly, he positions his cock directly at my entrance. I barely have time to grab the edge of the couch before he thrusts forward, driving into me. That first thrust pushes his cock halfway into me, stretching my tight walls so that I shout. He’s already pulling back, pinning my hips hard against the couch, and thrusting back into me, deeper this time. I spread my legs wider. One more thrust and I can feel his balls slap against my pussy lips, his cock buried fully inside me,

stretching me so wide it almost hurts. Almost. But more than that, it feels fucking amazing. “You like this Corina? Getting what you’ve always wanted?” He draws back, thrusts into me again. I cry out louder now, bucking back against him. “How often have you sat in my classroom fantasizing about me, hmm?” He thrusts again, and I have to grab the couch with both hands to hold on as he starts to build up momentum. “Do you think about me fucking you there? Bending you over my desk and having my way with you?” “Y-yes,” I cry. He speeds up, fucking me harder now, faster. “I…I… dream about… you fucking me,” I gasp. “Good.” His voice has dropped to a growl now. “Because I think about fucking you too, Corina.” He grips my hair, turns my head to the side, pulling just hard enough to make it sting in a good way. I gasp and glance over my shoulder at him, my belly tight, my whole body on fire with his fury. “Yeah?” I ask, trying to make my voice as steady as I can. That’s nearly impossible now, as he pounds into me again and again, his cock stretching my walls. He angles his hips to let the head of his cock drag along my inner wall, right over my G-spot. I buck and twist under him. He pins me against the couch with his other hand, continues to fuck me without stopping, merciless, hard. “Yes,” he

practically growls. “I think about fucking you right in that front desk you sit in. I think about tearing off your cute little skirts and shoving my thick cock in your tight little pussy. Just.” He slams his hips against mine. “Like.” He thrusts again, and I scream, already on the brink of orgasm, my vision spotting with color at the edges. “This.” That last thrust does it. My cry turns wordless, desperate, as his cock drives along my G-spot, sending me over the edge. I come hard, thrusting against him, desperate, feral. He loosens his grip on my hair, grabs my hips with both hands and moves faster, harder, his eyes glazed, mouth open as he nears his own finish. I clench my pussy as hard as I can, and he groans so loud I’m sure anyone outside could hear it for miles —if there was anyone around. He growls my name as he finishes, coming hard inside me, and he keeps going, keeps pumping into me as his cock starts to soften. Only then does he pull out and step back, breathless, eyes glazed, an almost stunned look in his eyes. It takes me a moment to catch my breath, stop my heart from pounding wildly inside my chest. For his part, Tony avoids my eye and unrolls the condom. He ties it expertly, pulling his jeans back into place at the same time. I’m still spread across the couch, wet pussy exposed, when he zips his

jeans and brushes past me, slamming the door into the tiny kitchen behind him. What the hell just happened?

6

THE MORNING AFTER

The next time we speak is to argue about the bed. “I told you, you take it.” Tony leans against the doorway into the bedroom, gaze narrowed at the single, tight-quartered mattress. “We can both fit,” I protest. “Look, if we sleep on our sides…” “I know we both can fit. You take it.” He steps back, toward the living room. I glare after him while he stokes the fire for a moment. Then I raise my voice. “What were you saying earlier tonight about conservation? We need to conserve our body heat most of all. We can’t do that from two different rooms.” I gesture at the couch. “And you barely fit on that anyway.” He narrows his eyes and shoves another piece of wood into the fire. “That won’t stay lit all night,” I say. “Sooner or

later it will go out. And you’ve seen how cold the kitchen already is. You can’t sleep out there in that.” He doesn’t reply. But when I finally roll my eyes and curl up on the bed, facing the wall, under the blanket, I hear him sigh. A few moments later, I feel the heavy weight of the couch blanket being draped over me. Then the bed shifts as Tony climbs in beside me. His back digs into mine, curled in the opposite direction. Not the most comfortable way to sleep, but I ignore it. I close my eyes and try to drift off. All I can hear is his voice. I think about fucking you too, Corina. I think about fucking you right in that front desk you sit in. My heartbeat speeds up just thinking about that. Tony Lakewood, Professor Hardass, my biggest pain in the ass this whole year. He’s been daydreaming about fucking me. Same way I’ve been fantasizing about him. Ever since the first day I laid eyes on him in class, his perfect body and his sculpted chest and steady, piercing gaze. I squeeze my eyes tighter. We did just fuck. He fucked me so hard that if I clench my pussy, I can still feel his cock inside me, the shadow of him there. The sweet, deep ache he left inside me. The burning throb of my clit, which wants more. I want him to do that again.

In frustration, I pull the pillow up over my eyes and try to slow my breathing. It’s going to be a long night.

I wake up to the feeling of warm arms wrapped around my waist, and a strong, muscular body curled around mine, holding me close. For a few breaths, I listen to the soft breathing behind me, feel the rise and fall of a chest against my back, and savor the warm, cozy sensation of being tucked under blankets with this warm body, when outside, on my cheek and face, I can tell how cold the ambient air has become. So warm, so snug… I could almost drift right back to sleep. Almost. Until I remember where I am. Until I realize who is wrapped around me in bed. I startle and roll over. Sure enough, I didn’t dream any of that. Professor Tony Lakewood is curled up beside me in bed, one arm around my waist like a lover’s embrace, eyelids fluttering slightly as he dreams about something. About fucking me again? asks the unhelpful part of my brain. This is dangerous. My professor isn’t someone

I can start hooking up with. And I certainly can’t wake up cuddling him, as if this… I shake myself internally. As if this is anything more than a freak circumstance. I lever myself up on one elbow and untangle myself from his arm. He sighs in his sleep, rolls over. I use that momentum to climb across him out of the bed. When I glance back, guilty at how much I made the whole small bed shift, he cracks one eyelid to look at me. For a brief second, our eyes meet. Then he rolls back over under the blankets, and I force myself to walk out of the bedroom. No more talking about that. The living room is freezing already. I stoke the fire back up—it died down over night. That finished, I dig into my suitcase and pull out a change of clothes. Luckily I packed for the slopes, so I have plenty of warm, long-sleeved clothing. I step into the kitchen to change, since Tony and I both slept in our jeans. It’s freezing inside the kitchen. So cold I hop from foot to foot, reaching over to turn on the stove just to warm things up a tiny bit. I hop into a pair of long sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt, then fresh socks and a jacket over top. My breath mists in the air as I set about making some breakfast. Outside, the snow has stopped, but my eyes widen when I peer across the yard—across several yards of blinding white snow, that is—at the shed.

Because it’s almost completely buried. In fact, when I lean forward to check below the window, my mouth drops. The snow reaches all the way up to the kitchen windowsill. If I open the little door beside the kitchen now, I’ll be staring down a chest-high pile of snow. Great. I drop the pan onto the stove rather more forcefully than necessary. All the clattering must wake up Tony. I hear shuffling in the other room and feel the cabin creak with his weight as he putters around. A few minutes later, he steps into the kitchen, yawning and stretching, his hair sticking straight up from sleep. Some wild impulse in me wants to reach out and flatten that hair for him. I tamp it down, and serve him a helping of the same chicken we ate last night for breakfast, along with a side bowl of, you guessed it, mushy porridge. I expect a snarky comment about my lack of cooking skills. Or something, anything, to break this tension. But Tony only looks at me, then away, as though scared to meet my eye. He sits at the single person table in the kitchen and eats in silence. Then he rises and starts to wash the dishes, all without even acknowledging that I’m in the same room. I roll my eyes and finish my own food, then leave him to his own devices and open the back door. Sure enough, I was right. The snow glistens

right at chest height. Good thing we brought in plenty of wood last night. I have a feeling we’re going to be spending more time in this cabin than either of us would like. We’ll be lucky if they clear the roads by tonight. Tony glances over at me, but if he’s going to tell me not to venture out there in the snow, he must think better of it when he catches a glimpse of the determined, narrow-eyed glare on my face. He just turns back to scrubbing the dishes with the minimal amount of bottled water we have left, because to judge by the lack of anything from the sink, the pipes are already frozen solid. As for me, I’m on a mission. Because I’ve been thinking about something all morning—anything, really, to distract myself from the awkward reality of being trapped in a cabin with the teacher I hate. The teacher I hate and who I just fucked. And the conclusion I’ve come to, in my search for a distraction, is this—where is the shower? There’s a tiny little water closet off the kitchen, little more than a toilet and a sink that no longer functions without the pipes working. But there’s no shower. No bath either. Which leads me to believe it must be elsewhere. And there’s only one elsewhere in this tiny little homestead. So I shoulder my way out the door into the chest-deep snow, grope around in it until I feel the handle of the shovel we brought over last night

from the shed, and start digging. It takes me the better part of the morning to make a little path for myself from the back door all the way out to the shed. At least it gives me something to do beside stand around the cabin with Tony in awkward silence. And at least, while I’m doing it, I work up enough of a sweat that I’m not cold, despite not currently being curled up in the cozy little living room around the fireplace. The living room where he fucked me last night. The living room where I screamed my professor’s name while he came. My shoulders bunch with the dual effort of forcing out those thoughts and focusing on the task at hand. Finally, after what feels like a couple of hours— and probably was, come to think of it—I make it across the yard to the little shed. Once there, I open the door yet again and face down the far wall. The locked door is still there, and, to judge by the dimensions of this shed, it should lead to a much bigger space than it’s letting on. With the bright morning sun reflecting off all the freshly fallen snow outside, it’s plenty light in here. Light enough that it doesn’t take me long to find the fake rock stuck obtrusively in the corner of the shed, and then to work the fake bottom off it to grab the key to this mystery door. I stick the key into the lock, turn it, and grin with self-satisfaction

when the door swings open wide to reveal exactly what I expected beyond it…

7

CLEANING UP

It doesn’t take me long to prepare. I’ve been ready for this—had my mind focused on it the whole time I dug my path out here. Or at least, what part of my mind I could force away from memories of Tony’s hands on my hips, his thick cock inside my pussy, making me ache and cry out for release. Most cabins like these—cabins meant for ski holidays on the weekends, not equipped for living in full-time—come with these sorts of outer rooms. I’ve seen more than my fair share on outings with my family. Daddy always claims he’s going to build one in our backyard, though he never gets around to actually doing it. Classic for him. Me, I’m just feeling more grateful than ever to whomever built this little cabin all the way up here, as I fill up one last bucket of snow, then shoulder my way back through the little shed.

In the back of it, through the locked door, I hit the jackpot. Not only is there a huge claw-footed porcelain bathtub, looking like it just walked into this wood-paneled shed’s hidden room out of an 18th century castle, but there’s also a huge stove in the corner, with iron piping underneath that cradles the tub, as though the stove is holding it in a tight lover’s embrace. I found the stove already stoked with wood, as if someone had been preparing a warm bath here when they were called away. All I needed to do was light it, coax those flames to life, like I’ve already done, and then fill up the bathtub with snow. I add the last bucket I’m carrying and watch the snow dissolve into the already lukewarm water. It won’t take long now before it’s steaming. To judge by the walls of the room and the way the stove is vented, this whole hut was built as a sauna, and the bathtub was added later. Probably when whatever bachelor clearly built this cabin realized that he needed a spot to get clean if he ever wanted to bring a lady friend up here with him. That’s the story in my mind, anyway, as I stir the last bucket of snow into the water, then dip a finger into the bath to test it. Just a few more minutes until it’ll be hot enough. Eager to get started, I spin around, ready to shut the door into the shed. That’s when I find Tony leaning on the frame of

the doorway, watching me with hooded eyes, his expression unreadable. “What?” I ask as I step past him to toss the snow bucket outside. He doesn’t answer. I brush back into the shed, bumping my shoulder against his hard enough that he’ll feel it. “At least get out of the doorway,” I say as I pick my way across the toolshed toward the little sauna bath. “You’re letting all this nice heat out.” He steps into the shed and lets the door click shut behind him. For a moment, that’s the only indication I get that he’s even listening to me. Then he clears his throat, eyes on the stove. “Shouldn’t we be conserving that wood?” “We have plenty,” I tell him without turning around. “This is just extra I found in here. But if you’re worried about it, you can bring in more from the pile outside. It’s buried under the kitchen window.” He locks eyes with me for a long moment. Then he sighs and shakes his head. “Where should I put it? The kitchen’s already full.” “Bring it in here. It’ll dry off in the shed.” I turn without waiting for another response. If I wait any longer, this bath I’ve worked for all morning is going to get cold. There’s a soft click as he opens the door, then another slam as it shuts behind him. I wait a

moment, watching the outer door of the shed. Then I step into the sauna, and ease the door closed. I don’t shut it all the way. Not quite. I leave a sliver of a crack, and hesitate, debating. But I want somewhere for the steam to vent—a consideration the sauna builder doesn’t seem to have thought about when he constructed this little add-on room. That, and, I can’t deny that part of me wants to know what Tony will do. How he’ll react if he comes back in here and I’m already naked and sprawled in this bathtub. So, I leave the door partway open, and begin to strip. It doesn’t take me long to peel off the layers I donned this morning. By the time I do, the water next to me has wisps of steam rising from its surface. I step into it, and can’t help it. I let out a sigh of pleasure as the warmth wraps around my foot, my calf, my thigh. I add my other leg, sink slowly into the bath, and moan aloud as it envelops my whole body. I haven’t felt this warm since before my car started to skid yesterday afternoon. Was it only yesterday? Time flies when you’re trapped in a cabin on the edge of the world. I hear the creak of the shed door. Then a clatter as Tony drops off the wood in the shed. Next, footsteps. My heart flutters, and my belly tightens at the memory of the way he acted yesterday. How

fierce he was when he grabbed me, took what he wanted. The door creaks open. “I’m not sure where you want—” Tony breaks off abruptly, eyes locked on my body, mouth still half open. He snaps it shut, and his gaze drifts up to mine. “The wood,” he finishes, eyes holding mine tight. I can’t look away. So I don’t bother. I just lean back in the bathtub and rest my neck along the marble sill, allowing myself a small, teasing smile as I gaze up at him. “Right here is fine,” I say, my voice thick with meaning. We both know I’m not talking about that wood anymore. Still, Tony hesitates on the threshold. Lets his gaze drip over me again, lingering, full of desire. I know how to read that longing expression in his eyes now. “Corina, what happened last night…” I spread my legs, really slowly, so he knows I’m doing this on purpose. I love how easy this is. How quickly his gaze drops to my belly, then my pussy, as I open my knees as wide as I can in the big bathtub. “What about last night?” I ask, my voice low. When he doesn’t reply, I lick my lips. Try my luck. “Was it everything you fantasized about, Professor?” “Far more,” he answers, seemingly without thinking. Then his jaw clamps tight. He’s clearly annoyed with himself for revealing anything, again. His shoulders tense, and he’s about to turn, to

leave. I snap my legs closed and relent, shuffling up so I’m sitting upright on the far end of the tub. “You can join, if you want. I won’t torment you anymore.” I grin a little at that. To my surprise, he does too. “It’s a tight fit,” he says, eying the tub. “We’ve made those work before,” I point out. “Besides, the warmth will do you good.” There’s another pause. Another hesitation, as he works through whatever it is eating at him. Then, just before I give him up for a lost cause and lie back again, he grabs his shirt and tugs it up off his head. I won’t lie. I enjoy the hell out of watching him undress. The sharp lines of his chest and abs. The way his biceps flex as he undoes his jeans, then locks eyes with me before he pushes them off. He steps out of them before he tugs his boxers off next. I can see why. The moment he pulls his boxers down, his cock springs out, already hard as a rock and flushed with desire. I force myself to tear my eyes away, focus on his face instead, as he climbs into the bath across from me. Unlike the couch or the bed in the main cabin, we actually have plenty of space in here. Not enough that we aren’t touching—our legs tangle the moment he slips into the tub— but enough that we could stay on opposite ends of this tub until the

heat dies down. If we wanted to. “I’d apologize,” he says, with half a glance at his crotch. At his hard cock, still visible beneath the steamy surface of the water. “But this is clearly your fault.” I smirk. “My fault, huh?” “You did bring up some rather evocative memories. And then you spread those sexy legs of yours to show off that tight little pussy. Makes it hard for a man to keep his blood in the right head.” “Or maybe that’s your right head,” I reply, sliding my foot along his inner thigh. Up, up, up, past his knee, closer and closer to his crotch. I stop just before my toes reach his cock. “You seem to think a lot more highly of me with this than you do in class.” He sighs and reaches down. Cups my foot in one hand, his thumb massaging the sole of my foot for a moment, before he gently shifts it to one side, away from his leg. “Corina, I told you, I’m hard on you because I think you can do better than the work you’ve done so far. No, in fact, I know you can.” “I see. So you’re prejudiced in my favor, that’s why I have such a bad grade, is that it?” I smirk. “Well I certainly can’t give you extra credit for a move like this.” He strokes his hand up my foot, along my ankle, my calf. I shiver, and slide an inch closer to him across the tub.

“No?” I tilt my head, eyes alight with mischief. “Would that be very naughty of you, Professor? Handing out extra credit for how much you enjoyed putting your cock inside me?” Now it’s his turn to turn red, though his eyes seem to spark at the same time, white-hot desire flaring in them. “Corina, I’m serious. We can’t do this.” “Funny.” I push up off the tub into a kneeling position now, bending over him. His face is inches from my chest, my nipples already hardening in the cold air outside the bath. “It seems to me like we already are.” “Don’t tempt me,” he warns. There’s a warning in his gaze. A fierce, hungry look. Too bad, I fucking love that look. I run my hands through his hair. Tighten one fist in his hair and tug his head back, so we’re nose to nose now, me still kneeling over him. “What happens if I tempt you, Professor?” I whisper. Without waiting for a reply, I crush my lips to his. He kisses me back, hard. His mouth parts, and I mirror him, feel his tongue slip between my lips and invade my mouth. He wrestles with mine, even as his hands reach down to grab my thighs, tug me onto his lap. Soon I’m kneeling across him, legs on either side, and I can feel his cock, hard and pulsing with need, positioned right between my thighs. He tears himself out of our kiss, but I lean down

and start to kiss and lick and suck along his neck, loving the sensation of his harsh stubble scratching my cheek. Loving the scent of him, mingled with the wood smoke in this sauna, and the hot, desperate way his hands roam over my back, my hips, down to my ass, which he grips tight. “Corina.” There’s a strain in his voice now. Pleading and hungry and desperate all at once. I can’t tell if it’s because he wants me to stop or wants me to keep going. Probably both. I lean back just far enough to meet his eye. I expect something. More denials, perhaps. Or more assertions that this is wrong. That, or I expect the man from last night to return. The one who fucked me mercilessly over that couch. Instead, he just presses his lips together in a tight line. “I don’t have a condom,” he says. I almost laugh, breathless from the combination of desire and the heat in this tight room. “I’m on the pill,” I reassure him. With that, I lower myself on to his lap. That seems to do it. Shred any last remnants of his self-control. He grabs my hips with one hand, tugs me down onto him. With the other, he grabs a fistful of my hair and crushes my lips to his in another hard, breathless kiss. I’m helpless to pull away—not that I’d want to—as he tugs me against him. I moan into his mouth when he thrusts up, and

the head of his cock digs into my pussy. “Fuck, Corina, you are so fucking tight,” he hisses through that kiss. Just the tip enters me at first, but he positions his hips, pulls me down against him until he’s pressing in further, deeper, inch by inch. Only once he’s fully inside me does he release the kiss, turn to bite and suck at my neck now, his teeth leaving marks, he’s so rough. I don’t care. “Yes, Tony, fuck me.” I dig my nails into his back and arch my neck, crying out as he pushes me up off him, then pulls me down again, thrusting deeper into me. “You like that, Corina? You like my thick cock stretching out your tight little pussy?” All I can do is moan in response. We find our rhythm, him bucking up beneath me, me spreading my knees wide and bouncing in his lap. Soon he’s fucking me completely, desperately, wild abandon in both of our movements. He stops kissing my neck, grabs both my hips, and I grab the side of the bath to hold myself steady as he pistons into me again and again. Then he drops one hand to press against my mound, his thumb hard against my clit. I scream through gritted teeth, pleasure spiking inside me. “That’s it,” he growls. “Come for me, Corina. Come for me, dirty girl.” My belly clenches tight,

and when he begins to circle his thumb against my clit, I can’t take it anymore. I come with a wild cry, lights sparking behind my closed eyes. He just keeps going, keeps fucking me and thumbing my clit at the same time. “Again. I want to hear you scream.” The dual sensation of his thick cock stretching my pussy and his thumb teasing my already sensitive clit is too much. Before long the pressure builds once more. This time I scream his name as I finish, bucking wildly against him. My pussy clenches and releases around his cock, spasming with the force of my orgasm. That seems to do it. He groans. “God, fuck, Corina…” He grips my hips so hard I know it will bruise. Tugs me against him, thrusts deep into me, and comes. I can feel the hot rush of his cum coating my walls, and I squeeze my pussy as hard as I can, milking every drop from him as he keeps fucking me, slower and slower as he reaches the finish. Finally, when we’re both lying against the edge of the tub, chests heaving as we catch our breath, I shift back. Peel myself off him, and gasp at the rush of his hot cum trickling out of my pussy and into the warm water of the tub. “That was…” I shake my head. Catch his eye. He’s gazing at me with more in his eyes than just lust now. There’s real desire there. Want. He shakes his head too, and reaches out. Catches the

back of my neck with one hand and tugs me gently forward into another kiss. A slower one this time. Soft and sweet. When we break apart, he leaves his forehead pressed to mine, and locks his eyes on me. “I know.” We both smile, still breathless. Then I cast a sideways glance at our clothes, piled around the narrow room. “Crap,” I say, belatedly realizing. His forehead contracts against mine in a frown. “What?” I lock eyes with him, breathless with laughter. “Towels.” He laughs, too, and the tension between us finally seems to break, if only for now. If only for a little while.

“How do you know all this?” he’s asking me, back in the safety of the main cabin. We stood around the sauna drip-drying as long as we could—until the heat in the stove warming the tub faded, and we began to shiver with the onset of chill. Then we dressed again, in mostly dry clothes, and hurried through the snow back into the cabin. Along the way, I stopped to fill a bucket with snow for the sink. Our small supply of bottled water is already running low.

“Know all what?” I ask as I dump the snow into the large bottle beside the sink, packing it in so that when it melts, it’ll stay in this container and not flood the counter. “How to survive out here. How to melt snow for water, make fires, all that jazz.” “I told you,” I say, “I grew up in a house full of boys.” Then I hesitate, and shrug. “My father taught me.” “Are you and your father close?” he asks. There’s something tense in his voice, a question beyond that question. But when I turn to glance at him, he’s busy fussing with the meat we’ve laid aside for dinner tonight, not even looking at me. Maybe I imagined it. “Yeah,” I say with a shrug, as I finish refilling the water jug. “I mean, we used to go camping all the time. Me and him and my brothers.” “Used to?” I shake my head with a little sigh. “He got promoted at work. High-powered lawyer now, partner at his firm. He doesn’t really have time for goofing off anymore.” I clamp my mouth shut, then shrug. “Or much of anything, really.” “So he’s not around much anymore?” This time, when I glance at Tony, he’s watching me with a sorrowful, almost sympathetic expression on his face. “Not really,” I admit.

To my surprise, Tony’s expression shifts from sympathy into something almost… angry. “Sounds like a poor father to me.” My eyebrows rise. I blink in surprise. “He’s not. I mean—I’m making him sound worse than he is.” Tony has a point, some small, traitor part of me admits. Daddy doesn’t sound like the best father on paper. Not anymore. “But he does all this work for us. For me and my brothers, to give us the best lives he can. He gave me a lot of privileges, a lot of legs up in life. I really can’t complain. Even if it means I don’t get to see him much.” Tony’s jaw clenches. But if he has any other thoughts or opinions on the matter, he doesn’t share them. He just hmphs and turns back to the stovetop to continue cooking. Something is up. I can tell by the line of his shoulders, the tense knot that wasn’t there a minute ago. But I know better by now than to press him on it. So, with a shrug, I leave him to it, and head into the living room to restock our main fire.

8

TIME FLIES

Two days pass. Two days with no change in our cell phone service. Two more nights where it snows—not as heavily as the first night, but heavily enough to add a few more inches to the path I carved across the back garden to the shed. Heavy enough to bury both of our cars so deep that we need to dig a path out the front door and dig them out so if any rescue vehicles eventually finally come crawling up this mountainside, they’ll see the cars and realize there are people here. But I’m not really nervous. Not yet. We have enough food to last us another 4-5 days, and enough wood to last us that long as well. Not to mention, Daddy knows I’m here. Eventually he’ll reach the resort, or the ski resort will contact him to

let him know I never checked in. He’ll send out a search party. He’ll find me. Until then, I’m in this strange, not-entirely-bad alternate reality. In fact, oddly, despite the storm outside and our own impending potential lack of supplies, Tony and I have found a way to enjoy this situation. More than enjoy it. I feel happier trapped in this cabin than I have in months of suffering through his classes at school. Safe in my dormitory every night, with visions of him glowering at me across the classroom in my head every time I close my eyes. In the meantime, we certainly find ways to keep ourselves busy… Turns out Tony has a mind as dirty as it is devious. The first night, he blindfolded me with his shirt, then teased my nipples rock-hard with handfuls of snow, alternating between that and warm water to make me hot and cold and wet all over. All that before he finally fucked me against the wall of the living room, my feet wrapped around his waist, my shoulder blades digging into the wood paneling as he drove his cock into me. We had sex again in the bedroom, and then again at three in the morning when I woke up to feel his cock stiff and hard and digging into the small of my back. In the morning, he woke me up with a long, teasing, and borderline torturous onslaught from his tongue, licking and nibbling my inner thighs until I

was begging for him to suck my clit. Only then did he tongue me until I came so hard I saw sparks behind my closed eyelids. Then he made coffee. Our second day was another long bath, that only got us dirtier, then more of the same, neither of us able to keep our hands off one another, neither able to get enough. Even as we cooked dinner together (him in charge of seasoning and actually cooking everything this time, me just doing the prep work), he kept resting one hand on my hip, touching my shoulder, leaning in to rest his chin on top of my head or plant a slow, sultry kiss on my lips right before nearly burning the fish fillets we were making. Waking up this morning felt frighteningly normal. I stirred, and felt Tony’s arm tighten around my waist, listened to the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing. And I felt at home. Despite everything. Despite the snowdrifts outside, our total lack of connection to the outside world, our uncertainty about when someone will find us… I feel safe here with him. Relaxed. More at peace than I have in months. I stare at the wall, keeping my breathing slow and even so as not to disturb him. Not yet. I want to keep this moment going for as long as possible. Because I already know this won’t last. It can’t. It’s impossible.

Your professor is not someone to fall for. Not long term. His arm tightens around my waist, almost subconsciously. I reach down and twine my fingers through his, grip his hand gently as I close my eyes and try to drift back off to sleep. We don’t need to be up—we have another couple of hours before we’ll need to stoke the fire and start thinking about breakfast. And beyond that, well… We don’t actually have anything we need to do at all, beside survive. But my movement must have awoken him, because Tony tightens his grip again, shifts against me, then leans in to kiss my neck gently, right at the sensitive spot where my ear meets my neck. “Awake already?” he murmurs. Dawn has barely begun to dust the curtains above our heads. I should still be fast asleep, he’s right. I sigh and squeeze his fingertips again. “Just thinking.” He’s silent for a moment, at that. We still haven’t talked. Not really. Not about whatever this is. We have a sort of silent, unspoken agreement between us. If we talk about this situation, examine it too closely, we both know it will shatter. So we don’t. We let the illusion live, for now. Enjoy this time while we have it. His lips brush against the nape of my neck now, the kiss even softer this time. “That’s a dangerous

habit,” he whispers. His breath feels hot, hot enough to send a shiver down my spine. I lean back against him and let out another soft sigh. “Believe me, I know. This…” I glance down at our entwined fingers. “This is dangerous,” he finishes for me. “Why, exactly?” I murmur. Another long silence. Only his breathing tells me he’s still awake. Then he sighs, too, and there’s that white-hot breath again, right on my sensitive skin. “It just is.” I close my eyes. Bite the inside of my cheek to keep from shedding a tear. He’s right. This is dangerous. Once the snow clears and we’re out of here, this will end. It has to. So, as impossible as it seems from where I’m lying now, I tell myself not to get attached. Not to get used to this. Enjoy the moment, but keep in mind always: This will end soon.

Another three days. Another storm. This one buries the path I dug to the shed and completely obscures the windows. We have to clamber through the snow just to dig out the windows to let in light, and then re-tunnel our way out to the shed. We haven’t used the bath in the last two days.

Not since we took a look at the wood supply, which once seemed excessive, and now seems startlingly small. This morning, Tony spent the better part of the day out front sticking flags made from spare clothes we have all over the lawn. Just in case. Just in case someone drives by and doesn’t notice the smoke coming out of the chimney or the cars out front we’ve dug out again. Just in case someone, anyone, happens by. We started up my car last night to listen to the news. The reception was patchy, but we got the latest update. The last storm on the radar should pass tonight. Then it looks like clear skies for the foreseeable future. We listen to the cheerful weather announcer describe the blizzard downtown. All the snow, all the houses buried, all the school cancellations and cars that skidded or crashed on the roads. Even a couple stories about skiers lost on slopes who were recovered after an overnight manhunt. It all feels so far away. If I’d been at school this weekend, I would be curled up in my dormitory chatting with my friends, probably complaining about Professor Lakewood as I grumbled my way through his latest assignment. And Tony, he talked about where he would’ve been too. He grinned at me as he said he’d probably be holed up in his house alone doing

the same thing. Complaining about his students not living up to their potential, while he graded their papers. Now here we are. Everything is different between us, a whole world away from our old lives, unable to return, and yet… In danger if we don’t. I didn’t really get worried until last night. Not until we listened to the radio and I realized I didn’t hear any announcements about us. Nothing about a professor missing from the local university, nothing about a student gone AWOL during her ski trip into the mountains. Surely Daddy has called it in by now. Surely he knows I never made it to the lodge. Doesn’t he? Still no reception on our phones. And we’re down to the last couple days’ worth of food, by my reckoning. It’s time to start tightening our belts. Cut rations down to half portions to make it last longer. Time to start facing the possibility that we might be stuck here too long. Longer than we ever dreamt. Longer than we’re prepared for. As much as I’m not looking forward to returning to school, to sitting in Tony’s classroom every day and pretending I don’t know what it feels like to have him fuck me from behind, his thick cock filling me up as he drives into my tight pussy, growling my name when he loses control and comes inside me… Much as I’ll hate that, I don’t want to die here either.

Tony reassures me. Tells me it’s going to be fine. We have plenty of water, after all, since I showed him how to melt snow. He grins at that like it’s a funny joke. I smile too, going along with it. But I know him well enough by now, after these few days, to see the fear he’s trying to hide from me. Neither of us is sure what happens next…

9

DADDY'S GIRL

Dinner is unseasoned fish, the last of the real supplies. After tonight, we’ll be on a strictly grains and pickled food diet. Neither of us is particularly looking forward to that. We sit on the couch, huddled for warmth, keeping the fire low to preserve more wood. We have the blanket over our knees, and our plates balanced on top. Neither of us is eating very fast, either. We pick through our bites, one at a time, alternating between gazing into the glowing embers and forcing another mouthful of dry fish into our mouths. I finish first. Tony takes one look at my plate, then cuts his remaining fish in half and slides the portion onto my plate. “What about you?” I protest. “Just eat,” he says by way of an answer. “You

need the calories.” I narrow my eyes. “So do you.” “It’s not a question,” he replies. He finishes his last bite, then pushes upright, steps into the kitchen to drop off his plate. I scowl after him for a moment, then sigh and finish eating the fish. Not much else I can do. When he returns to take my plate in for me, I catch his wrist instead. “Why are you so nice to me now,” I ask, “when you were so mean in class?” He stares at me for a moment. He takes the plate and sets it on the little side table, then sinks back into the seat next to me. I keep my hand around his wrist the whole time. “I told you, Corina. I was just trying to push you to excel.” I shake my head. I’m tired of that answer. Tired of his half-explanation. Of him dancing around the point. “It was more than that,” I say. “I’ve had professors who were hard on me before. I’ve been given unfair grades before. This wasn’t that. You singled me out, you gave me more shit than anyone else in that classroom. Why? Was it because you were attracted to me?” I catch his eye. Hold it. I’m getting a real answer this time. He holds my gaze. Tightens his jaw. “It’s not because of that, Corina.” “Then why?” I demand. “Why did you hate me?” “I didn’t hate you—”

“Why did you treat me differently than any of your other students, if not because you wanted to fuck me?” “It has nothing to do with my attraction to you. I don’t let that cloud my judgment.” “Bullshit.” He narrows his eyes. “Is that really what you think of me?” “I think the only answers you’ve given me so far are bullshit, yes. And from where I’m sitting, that’s the only reason I can think of for you to have spent this whole semester treating me like garbage. So, yeah, Tony, I guess it is what I think of you.” Something seems to snap in his eyes. He tugs his wrist away, breaks my grip. “Then why even bother asking? You clearly already know everything.” He surges to his feet. I follow. “Because surely after all of this, I deserve a real answer, Tony. Not some bullshit platitudes.” “Of course you’ve decided what you deserve. Spoiled girls like you always deserve whatever they want, whenever they want it, don’t they?” My jaw drops. He seems just as shocked by that statement as I am, at least. He grimaces, shuts his eyes. “Corina, I’m sorry—” “No.” I grab my coat from where I’ve left it beside the front door, from when we went out to

listen to the radio last night. “Listen to me—” “Why, so you can insult me some more?” I throw on my coat. Stuff my arms into it, then zip it up. “So you can act like you know me just because we spent the last week holed up fucking in this cabin? You don’t know shit about me, Professor. That much is clear. Spoiled?” I whip around and grab the doorknob. “Where are you going? Corina, you can’t go out there.” “Don’t tell me what to do.” I yank the door open. A gust of freezing wind hits me full in the face. It makes me shiver, double over, clutch my jacket tighter. But it also hardens my resolve. I’m over this. Over this cabin, over playing house, over sleeping next to a man who’s made my life a living hell for the last three months and who clearly isn’t sorry about any of it. Who believes he’s just giving me what I deserve for being a spoiled brat. I pull up my hood and step outside. “Corina, please come back and talk to me about this.” “Talk to yourself. I’m done listening to you dance around the truth.” I slam the door behind me and storm out into the night. I know which way the road is. If nobody’s driving up here on their own, I’m going to them. I don’t care if I have to walk all the way down this mountain. I’m getting the hell

out of here.

10

DANGEROUS

A half an hour or maybe longer—it’s hard to tell time out here—I’m regretting this decision. Just like the weatherman said, tonight—the last night of this week of storms—is getting bad again. Fat flakes descend around me, sticking to my hair, my face, melting on my jacket. And I can’t even find the road, let alone follow it. I walked past my car, straight ahead toward the path I drove down to get to this cabin the day I got stranded. But there’s nothing along this road except for snow, snow, and more snow. Assuming I’m even still on the road. I can’t tell. Not with the snow several feet deep for miles around. I turn around, defeated, realizing I need to head back. However pissed I am at Tony, it’s not worth dying of exposure out here in a failed attempt to

find rescue. But then I freeze, startled. Because I’d forgotten about the fat flakes sticking in my hair. Or rather, they’re coming down a lot heavier and faster than I expected. Heavy enough and fast enough to start to bury the footprints I’ve left in the snow so far. I speed up, jogging back along my tracks as far as I can follow. But after a certain point, the tracks disappear, and despite squinting through the dark night, I can’t make out the glow of our cabin windows anymore, or see the wood smoke anywhere. My chest tightens. Panic starts to set in. What have I done? I won’t last long out here. Not without shelter. Not without some indication or way to find home again. Then I hear it. Faint, to my left, but getting louder when I hold my breath and strain my ears. “Corina!” Tony. Shouting. Knowing I’ll need it—some sound, some direction to follow home. I start to jog toward the sound. A few moments later, I crest over a hill of snow and catch a glimpse of the cabin, its cozy yellow lighting more inviting and appealing than ever. “Tony!” I call back. “Corina, come back,” he shouts. I’m running now, as fast as my quickly numbing

limbs will allow me to move. I didn’t realize how stiff they’d gotten or how deep the cold had settled into my bones until I tried to move. I reach the cabin door, panting, shivering, and nearly collapse when I stumble up to the threshold. Tony is standing just outside, in full snow gear. He holds a rolled-up magazine to his mouth to amplify his voice. The moment he sees me, he drops it and rushes to grab me. “Thank fuck,” he gasps, scooping me up into his arms before I can protest. I can’t protest, actually, I realize. I’m shaking too hard. And my throat feels dry from panting, running in the freezing cold air. I open my mouth, but the only sound that comes out is the chatter of my teeth. So. Cold. “Corina, I’ve been calling for you for an hour,” he pants as he carries me into the house. An hour? Was it really that long? He tugs the door shut behind us and carries me straight to the couch, where he piles both blankets onto me as he turns to stoke the fire. “B-but—” I manage to stammer. “We… have to… save…” Tony has a mind of his own now, though. He throws every last piece of wood we have into the fireplace, until the flames are roaring, and still I’m shivering. “I tried walking as far as the rope I found

in the shed would let me, in every direction. I used that to keep finding my way back to the cabin—I couldn’t find your tracks anymore, though, after about half an hour…” I wince. “S-s-s-so… rry…” “Don’t.” He closes the fireplace and spins to face me, his expression serious. “I’m just glad you’re safe now.” He steps over to the couch and rubs my arms. “We need to warm you up.” Now I need to speak up. “T-tony. C-c-can’t. Need to… s-save wood.” “No. We need to save you.” He sizes me up, my chattering teeth and the shivers I can’t stop. My fingertips and my toes still feel numb, but worse than that, my whole body just feels… cold. Tony can clearly see that, too. After a moment’s consideration, he strips off his shirt. “Wh-what… about… you,” I manage. “I’m plenty hot enough for both of us,” he replies, and tries for a little grin. It fails because underneath I can see how worried he is, how his eyes track my every shiver. He pushes down his jeans, then crawls under the blankets with me. I gasp at the touch of his skin, so warm against my freezing body. He starts to strip off my clothes. I’m shaking too hard to protest anymore, or do anything really but stare at the fireplace across the room. At the last of our wood going up in flames.

What are we going to do tomorrow? Tony won’t let me worry about it now, clearly. He pulls off my shirt, my jeans, strips me down to my underwear, and then wraps his body around mine, curved around me on the couch. I grab his hand, but he takes both of my hands—which must be freezing, to judge by how white-hot his skin feels on mine—and puts them under his arms, clenching tight to pin them in one of the warmest spots on his body. If it makes him too cold, he doesn’t let it show. He just keeps those steady green eyes on my face, watching me, gauging my reaction. I sink into him and let the shivering slowly pass. Eventually, my teeth stop their chatter, and I thaw enough to be able to feel the heat from the flames, the warmth of his skin. I gasp in a mix of pain and relief. Pain because my fingers and toes and the tip of my nose have all begun to burn with the pain of returning blood flow. Relief because now, finally, my bones are beginning to feel something like warmth again. Tony, for his part, hasn’t let go of me yet. He weaves his fingers through mine and he’s rubbing the back of my hand, my arm, my fingertips. He folds me into his arms, pulling my body against his warm one, and I almost start to drift off there, eyelids fluttering half-closed as I listen to his heartbeat, feel my body tingling and aching as it

begins to recover from my flight. Between that and the cheery crackle of the wood in the fireplace, the weight of the heavy blankets over us, I’m warm enough that I could sleep now, safely. Safe. That’s how I feel in his arms. Safe and protected… I’m almost asleep when his voice stirs me again. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. I blink back awake. “No, Tony, I’m sorry.” I tighten my grip on his hands. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. I should have been honest with you. I should trust you by now. I know that. I just… It’s hard to talk about because…” He pauses. Swallows so loud I can hear it. I lean back against him. “It’s okay, Tony. If you don’t want to tell me…” “I do, though.” He sucks in a deep breath. “Corina, I don’t think you’re spoiled. Not now that I know you. I had it all wrong, because… I knew your father.” Whatever I expected, it wasn’t that. I spin around to stare at him. He spreads his hands, an apologetic, regretful look on his face. “You know he’s an alum. He’s been involved in the school since long before you started attending—he’s one of our main contributors. He donates more than most of the other alumni combined, and so did your grandfather

before him. Your father, though, he takes advantage of that position. Sets all kinds of rules about who can use the money and where and when and for what. He tried to get me fired on more than one occasion simply because he didn’t approve of the direction we were taking this department.” My brow furrows. I knew my father was involved in old university stuff—alumni events, fundraisers. I didn’t think he was that serious about it though. Not serious enough to try to fire someone over anything. Tony shakes his head. “Anyway, I knew you got into the school because of him. I’m sure you had good grades too, but you’d have gotten in no matter what. And your teachers, they’ll all have given you great grades no matter what kind of work you did because your father was behind the scenes threatening them at every wrong turn.” I flinch. I didn’t know about that either. Daddy and I are going to have to have a talk about this, if he’d really done that… “So you took it out on me,” I say softly. “I’m sorry. I just, I knew everything he’d done, and I assumed you were in on it, that you’d asked him to do it.” “Of course not. I would never.” I clench my fists, my brow contracting. “I can’t believe my father would do that behind my back.” “Well, now I know that about you, of course.

But before, I… I’m sorry, Corina. I judged you. I took my anger at your father out on you. I made you a target. And I don’t know how to apologize enough.” He gazes into my eyes, his own so full of heartache that I can’t help it. I reach up and cup his cheek. Draw him closer until our lips are inches apart. “I understand,” I murmur. “This semester sucked, and I was pissed at you for treating me like that, and today I got even more angry that you wouldn’t explain why you did… But I get it. Really. And I forgive you.” He closes his eyes. “I’d understand if you didn’t.” “I do, Tony. But…” “What is it?” he asks softly, when I don’t elaborate. I bite my lip, unable to meet his gaze now. “You were right, the other day,” I murmur. “When you called this dangerous. We can’t do this anymore.” He freezes. I look up to find him frowning, eyes intense. “What are you saying?” “Tony, I’ve loved this time together. It’s been…” I shake my head. “Against all odds, being trapped in this cabin has been incredible—because of you. Because you’ve been here with me, to talk to, to help me through it. But once we leave…” I bite my lip on a bitter, dark laugh. “I mean, assuming we even get out of this alive, of course.

Once we leave, if we ever do… Everything goes back to normal.” “Why does that have to be?” He asks it slowly, brows knit, as though this is a real question. I blink in confusion. “I… I’m your student, and you have your job to do, and this was just a dalliance, just some fun—” “Corina.” His eyes bore into mine. Pin me in place. “What I feel for you… This is more than fun. I care about you, I want to be with you.” He grips my hands tighter, pulls me back in close to him. I can feel every inch of his body against mine, including the slight swell in his boxers, the only thin scrap of fabric that separates us. His muscles tense against me as he holds me tight. “I know we’d have to be careful for the next few months, until you graduate, until you’re free. But I don’t care, I’ll wait. Corina, I didn’t know I could feel like this for anyone. The way I feel about you…” “I thought you’d want me to end it,” I whisper. “I want you.” His lips crash into mine, and I sink into him. Let him cup my cheek and pull me in close. I’m suddenly aware of our bodies pressed together, bare skin against bare skin. Even more so when he drops one hand under the covers and slides it along the flat plane of my stomach to my hip, my thigh, clenching my leg, lifting it up and over his waist. I arc my hips to angle them forward, until my

clit presses against the hard bud of his cock, still constrained in his boxers. He reaches down and, in one swift motion, tugs my underwear off. I reach down too, feel for the hem of his boxers, and push them down. His cock springs free, the velvet smoothness of it hotter than ever when it digs into my stomach, freed from its constraints. I tug until he kicks off his boxers, and then I let my hand drift back up to explore his cock. Slowly trace his length. He drops one finger to slide it back and forth along my slit. I’m already wet with desire, getting wetter every second as he strokes me. “Corina,” he whispers into my mouth. “I want you, every way I can have you. I’ve always wanted you, always will…” I lean back just far enough to grin, mischief sparking in my eyes. “You want me, Professor Lakewood?” I arch my hips, press his cock closer toward the entrance of my pussy. White-hot desire flares in his gaze. “Fuck yes, Corina.” “Then take me, Professor.” I spread my legs, keep one wrapped around his waist. He takes advantage of that and grabs me with both hands. Flips us over until I’m pinned beneath him on the couch, and his body weight sinks against me, a heavy, welcome pressure that only increases

my desire. I wrap both legs around his waist now, and arch up against him. We both moan aloud as he slides his cock along my slit, back to front, slowly, and then back again, coating himself in my juices. I am so wet I can’t stand it. I groan and reach down to wrap my fist around his cock, stroking him. He smirks and catches my mouth in another kiss, this one hard and fast. He nips my lower lip as we break apart. “Hungry for me, Corina?” “Always,” I whisper. That smirk widens. He positions the tip of his cock at my entrance, toys with me, little tiny thrusts against my pussy that aren’t enough to thrust inside. Not yet. “You want this? You want my hard cock?” “Fuck yes, Tony. I want you to fuck me. I’m yours.” “That’s right.” He locks eyes with me, and I cannot get enough of the hunger in them, the fire as he slowly leans down and presses his cock inside me, an inch at a time, stretching my walls wider. “You’re mine, Corina. And I’m yours. We belong like this.” When he’s fully inside me, he pauses a moment, letting me adjust to his size, and I squeeze my pussy, savoring the feeling of having his cock buried in me, filling me in a way I’ve never felt filled before. Feeling like I belong. Feeling satisfied. Right. “Tony…”

“Corina.” He stills for a moment, completely inside me. He brushes a hair back from my forehead. I reach up to cup his cheek. “I’m falling for you,” he breathes. I lean up, close the distance between us. With our lips an inch apart, I whisper, “I’m falling for you too…” His lips press into mine, soft and sweet. When he pulls back, it’s slow, so slow, and he thrusts back in to meet me again, both of us gasping with pleasure. This time, we don’t go hard and fast. Not yet. We take our time. Savor it, feel every inch of each other. My hands roam across his back, his chest, his washboard abs, along his biceps. His hands trail across my breasts, circle and tease my nipples, before he runs them down my sides to my waist, my hips, my thighs. “You are so fucking glorious,” he murmurs between kisses. “I could study your body for hours…” He draws one hand in between us to stroke my clit gently, toying with me until I’m moaning into his mouth, and then he fucks me a little faster, harder. My hips buck, and he grins down at me. “Come for me, Corina. Please…” My head falls back against the couch as I near my climax. He keeps stroking, keeps fucking me in that steady, slow rhythm, even as his finger moves faster, circles my clit, teases and toys with me. He increases the pressure, and a faint cry escapes me,

my pussy clenching around his cock at the same time. “I love the way you come,” he says, eyes locked on mine, savoring the moment. I’m still twisting beneath him, so close now my whole body is trembling on the brink of release. “You look so fucking gorgeous when you lose control.” I lock eyes with him. Let myself fall, over the edge, into the orgasm. He strokes me harder, thrusts into me again and again, adds his thumb along my clit, and suddenly, my whole body shakes. I cry out, breathless, as I come. Fire fills my whole body—I don’t even remember being cold anymore, not with him heating me like this. My pussy clenches hard around him, spasms, and that sets him off. He grabs my hips with both hands, thrusts into me faster, faster. I’m still sensitive from the orgasm. When he grabs my hips and pulls my ass and thighs up off the couch around his waist, angles himself down into me so that the head of his cock strokes along my G-spot with each thrust, I start gasping again, nearing the edge once more. He’s lost in his own pleasure now, a wild animal with lust in his eyes as he gazes at me, thrusting into me over and over. I look down to savor the sight of his thick cock pounding into me, wet with my juices. His abs

contract as he pumps against me, and I reach up to grab his shoulders, pull his face down toward mine just as he nears his own climax. The feeling of the swollen head of his cock is too much for me. I cry out with my second orgasm, and my pussy clenches hard around him. He comes then, with a guttural growl, and clutches me tight against him. We both collapse against the couch, tangled and drenched in sweat. But he stays inside me, stays lying along me, even when his cock begins to soften. We lie like that, pinned together, and I savor the feeling of being with him, having him inside me, so completely filling me. When he finally does roll off, we both laugh a little at the cum that trickles down my inner thigh. He tugs me against him, curled up on that couch together, and repositions the blankets over us. The fire is still burning bright, I think, as I gaze into the flames, my eyelids growing heavy. At least it will last the night… We’ll figure out what to do about everything else in the morning.

11

RESCUE

A deafening bang startles me awake. I gasp and bolt upright, shredding the dream I’d just been having. Tony and I were somewhere warm and sunny, a beach, playing in the sand, both of us splashing through warm waves as we watched one another, stark naked under the hot sun… But no. The moment I sit upright and knock the blanket aside, the cold comes rushing back in, crushing any dream of warmth. I squeal and collapse back against Tony. Tony, still lying next to me on the couch. Tony, blinking and rubbing his eyes and shivering, naked, in the sudden onslaught of cold air since I knocked the blanket off us both. “What—” he starts to ask. He’s interrupted by that sound again. Three bangs this time, one after another. The whole cabin rocks with the force of them, until I realize what’s

happening. Someone is knocking. By the time I piece that together, it’s too late. The door creaks, then bursts open, as someone turns the knob and shoulders it in. As for me, I’m still kneeling upright on the couch, completely naked, above Tony, who’s also naked, his stiff morning wood alert in the air between us. I shriek and grab the blanket, throwing it around myself and Tony’s waist, even as the two snow-suited rangers who kicked in the door burst into laughter. “I see you two found a way to keep warm in here,” one of them comments with a smirk. He politely turns the other way until I have the blanket more firmly tied around myself and the spare blanket draped around Tony. Tony sits up, still rubbing away sleep, while the other ranger stomps into the cabin. “Saw your cars from overhead,” he says, gaze tactfully avoiding us as he sizes up the cabin. “We’ve been in the air all morning, ever since the last storm cloud cleared.” He sniffs as he eyeballs the fireplace, now dead and cold, the last of our wood burnt up last night in warming me after my disastrous escapade. “How long have you two been up here?” “All week,” Tony says, finding his voice first. “Got trapped after the first storm.” “Christ.” The two men exchange a look. “Good

thing you had plenty of provisions,” the first one adds. “Though looks like we got here just in the nick of time. Come on, we’ll drive you back down to the hospital.” “Right, lucky.” Tony glances at me. “But first can we, er…” “Oh. Right. Of course.” The men exchange another look, this one more amused. They stomp toward the door. “We’ll be out front when you’re ready,” the second calls over his shoulder. They close the door. Only then do Tony and I burst into breathless laughter. We’re saved. We lock eyes, laugh again, and grab one another for a quick kiss before we start to scramble around the cabin, finding clothes to put on and packing up any of our remaining possessions, now scattered all throughout this place. The whole way down the mountain, we entertain the rangers with stories of how we survived. We talk about how much wood we had, how much food we found. “You really lucked out,” they say, over and over. “Finding a place like that in this storm. And both of you being able to reach it, despite the two cars.” “Right,” I say, locking eyes with Tony, then quickly looking away again. We really did luck out… In more ways than just in finding a wellstocked cabin to hole up in.

Who’d have thought that this week could have turned out… well, like this? Nobody gets lost in a blizzard and holed up in a cabin and has their life changed for the better, do they? Tony changes the subject, starts to talk about cabin constructions up in this part of the mountains instead. We don’t mention our separate arrivals, our “lucky break” again. When we reach the nearest hospital, about halfway from the cabin down to the town where our university is located, they split us up. I only have time to glance at Tony, exchange one quick look, his brow knit in concern, before we’re dragged off to separate examination rooms with different doctors. A few hours of poking and prodding and phone calls to Daddy and my brothers later, I’m still there. Alone in the hospital bed, waiting for the doctor to discharge me. Staring at the ceiling thinking about the look on Tony’s face as we parted. We’re here now. Back in the real world. Saved. But where do we go now? He said he wanted me, wanted to be with me, but that was back there. In the fantasy where we were living. In the world where all we had to do was survive from one day to the next. Things can look very different back here in reality. Under this harsh hospital lighting, where we have to deal with the fact of who we both are. That

he’s my professor, I’m his student. Neither of us can be involved, not publicly, not until I’ve graduated and moved on to who knows where. And would he even want that? Was any of what we felt real, or was it just a symptom of the situation we were in? I close my eyes and take a deep breath. That’s when the door creaks inward, and the doctor appears silhouetted by the hall light. “You’re free to go now, Ms. Driver,” he says. I push myself to my feet and grab my coat, hands only quivering slightly. Time to find out what the real world has in store.

12

THE TRUTH

I head to the waiting room first. Daddy isn’t here yet—he sent me a slew of texts explaining he’s on a business trip out west—it’s why he didn’t know about the storm, didn’t even know I’d gone missing, whereas normally he’d have been all over the news hunting for me. He’s jumping on a plane here now, but until then, I’m alone in this hospital, and I can only think of one person I want to see. That one person, unfortunately, doesn’t seem to be here anymore. “Mr. Lakewood?” the nurse repeats. I’ve already spelled it for her twice. “Yes. Tony Lakewood. He checked in around the same time as me, earlier today.” She purses her lips, then makes a soft little ah sound. “Here we go, yes. Tony Lakewood, being checked for exposure and malnutrition… Released

earlier today. About an hour ago.” An hour ago? He didn’t wait for me. Didn’t check on me. Just fled. I clench my hands to keep them from trembling. “I see. Thank you.” I turn to go, my car keys already in my pocket. The tow trucks brought both our cars down the mountainside while we were in the hospital, I was told. It’s outside in the lot now, ready to head home. That’s all I can do now, I guess. Head home. Acting like everything is normal. I square my shoulders and take a deep breath. That’s okay. Until a week ago, Tony Lakewood was nothing more than my irritating and overbearing professor. He can go back to being that again. I’m fine with it. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. It doesn’t feel very convincing. Especially not when I step outside and Tony is standing there in the parking lot, leaning against his car, a cigarette dangling from his fingertips as he waits. The moment he spots me, he drops the cigarette, stomps it out, and crosses the lot toward me with his arms spread wide open. “Corina. I just stepped out to smoke…” “Tony.” I crash into him before the word is even out of my mouth, so I wind up mumbling it loudly into his chest. Tears sting the corners of my eyes.

He’s laughing. “What’s gotten into you?” He leans back, tilts my chin up so he can meet my gaze. “Those better be happy tears, I hope.” He leans down to kiss my cheeks, my forehead, the corners of my eyes. “We made it, Corina. Can you believe it?” “I thought you left me,” I gasp, catching the back of his neck and leaning up to kiss his stubbly cheek. “What?” He laughs again and shakes his head. “Corina, what are you talking about?” “We’re here now,” I say, lifting one arm from his shoulder to gesture wildly at the parking lot. “We’re back in reality. I thought you’d rethink everything now. Realize this is madness, you and me.” “Corina.” His voice goes deep and serious. This time when he turns my face toward his again, his green eyes bore into me, more intense than ever. “If anything, this week was madness. But you and me, we’re the only reason we both survived. You mean the world to me, Corina. I would never leave you behind. I never will.” I can’t help it. The tears have built up too far already. One escapes and trickles down my cheek, even as I laugh, my face splitting into a smile so big it’s almost painful. “You dummy.” His kisses me again, slow and soft and sweet. “You clearly haven’t been paying

attention if you thought I would leave you.” I snort with laughter, then elbow him, then grab him and kiss him again, too wildly happy right now to care who sees or what it means. We’ll figure this out. If we survived a whole week in a blizzard, against all odds, together, then I’d say we can handle anything life has to throw at us. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Professor.” I grin up at him. He cups my cheek and smiles back. “I’ll forgive you this one time, Corina,” he replies jokingly. Then those eyes of his go dark with intensity. “Because now, I know how amazing you really are.”

THE END Keep reading for my special Bonus Story! Her Dirty Professor

HER DIRTY PROFESSOR PENNY WYLDER Copyright © 2016 Penny Wylder All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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1 GEORGIA

Normally I don’t pay much attention to the other students in my classes, but it’s hard to ignore people while they’re watching porn in the seats right in front of me. Two of them: a wealthy Abercrombie-type kid, and his sorority villain girlfriend. Both Barbie- and Ken-doll blonde and spray-can tan. They huddle together, eyes glued to an iPhone propped up against a beaker, snickering and whispering to each other. It’s a fairly large class with long science tables lining the room in two parallel rows. I’m surrounded by Bunsen burners, flasks, beakers, stacks of notes and flashcards, electric balances, and burets. The place always smells like rubbing alcohol. The distance between our desks make it difficult to see the little screen from where I sit, but

not so difficult that I can’t make out the two naked bodies humping away at each other. Dog-earring one of my notebooks, I glance over at Mr. Johnson, who’s lecturing about alkaloids and chemical reactions at the front of the room, oblivious to the perverts in front of me. I continue to glance between the video clip over their shoulders and Mr. Johnson. As far as I can tell, it’s normal porn. Two people in a staged room with bright lighting, going at it. So why are the couple in front of me watching it in the middle of class, laughing? Seriously, who watches porn in public? I try to stretch farther for a better look, but I’m too short and the table is too wide. They either know something I don’t, or they’re ridiculously immature. Whatever it is must be worth the risk of getting caught, which only sparks my curiosity more. For as long as I can remember I’ve always been an overachieving, overly curious girl. It’s my Achilles heel. My mom thinks it’s an asset, but for me it’s a burden. I can never seem to mind my own business. It’s great for academics, always wanting to know what happens next in books, or how someone came up with an equation. That inquisitiveness got me to the top of my class, earning me a spot as high school valedictorian before I graduated last year, but when it comes to my social life, it hasn’t helped me make any

friends. I can’t seem to stop myself from butting in where I don’t belong. I try to hold my tongue. It doesn’t stay still for very long. I’m just too damn nosey for my own good. As much as I tell myself to ignore it, I can’t help myself. I lean forward, practically on top of my desk, tapping the girl on the shoulder. She slowly turns in her seat, a glare already prepared on her face before looking at me. “What’s so funny?” I whisper to keep Mr. Johnson from hearing me. He’s wandered to the other side of the classroom with his back to us. The girl—I think her name is Serena—looks like she puts on her makeup with an airbrush, hair sculpted out of satin, nothing out of place. All of her clothes bear logos and have French names. She’s alien to me. I can’t imagine a world where I could afford a pair of shoes that cost more than my parents’ combined monthly wage. I can’t even fathom for a second being her. I wouldn’t know where to start. She looks at her boyfriend (I have no idea what his name is) as if she’s not sure if she should tell me. He gives me a once-over like he’s sizing me up, then lifts a perfectly waxed brow and nods. Serena hands me the phone. I notice her manicure is perfection like the rest of her when our fingers touch. “It’s Mr. Johnson,” she says. At the top of the screen is an advertisement for

a website called Rocket Cocks that boasts nothing under eight inches. I don’t need to whip out a ruler to see that the actor who my classmates believe is my teacher definitely fits the criteria in the size department. Only thing is, he looks too young to be him. Before I can really get a good look at him, Serena yanks her phone out of my hands. Irritated, I glance up and find that Mr. Johnson has moved back to our side of the room. He looks right at me and our eyes meet. On instinct, without meaning to, I glance right at his crotch. In a split second I’m picturing him naked, with a dick as thick as my wrist and long as my forearm when fully erect, pointed at me. I jerk my attention back to his face. It’s too late. I’ve been caught. He has this wide-open look of surprise on his face, and he stumbles on his words when he starts to lecture again, as if he’s forgotten what he was saying. He’s quick to recover and goes on to teach the rest of the class while I cuss inwardly for being so damn obvious. Serena giggles into her hand and whispercoughs, “Busted.” Her boyfriend quietly laughs along with her. Leaning back in my chair, I grumble and try to ignore them the rest of the period—which is extremely difficult when I keep hearing them say things like “biggest dick I’ve ever seen on a white dude” and “I bet he makes barn animals jealous.”

Class is over at three. Thank God. I try to get out unseen. As I’m leaving, Mr. Johnson calls my name. I close my eyes and let out a long sigh, then open them again just in time to see Serena and her boyfriend smirk at me as they leave. Bracing myself for the reprimand I fear is coming, I turn on my heel, walking slowly through the dispersing crowd until I’m standing in front of him. He leans against the whiteboard where the day’s chemical formulas are written in green dryerase ink in his scribbled teacher handwriting. He’s wearing a white button-down and tan slacks and somehow manages to make it look good—not stiff and boring like my other professors. He’s also younger than the rest of them too. Mid to late thirties would be my guess. With short cropped hair, scruffy stubble, and wide shoulders, he could be Tom Hardy’s twin. He’s tall, too. This guy really lucked out in the genetics department. Sexy and with brains to boot. After everyone leaves, he folds his arms across his chest. Here it comes, I think, bracing myself for whatever is next. Of course he has every right to lay into me for being distracted during his lecture on the dangerous chemicals we’ll be working with this year. I totally deserve it. Doesn’t make it feel any better, though. I’ve never been in trouble with teachers. They love me. In middle school I was teased relentlessly by other students for being the

teacher’s pet. I was never able to really connect with kids my age. The thought of having Mr. Johnson mad at me has my stomach turning inside out. This sucks. Especially since he’s my favorite teacher and science is my best subject. Instead of barking his disappointments, he surprises me and says, “I know you’re here on a scholarship, so if those wealthy brats sitting in front of you are dicking around, I can either move them or you. Whichever you would prefer.” Speaking of dicking around . . . My eyes slip back down to the mound bunched up beneath his slacks. If there’s enough flesh gathered there to make that big of a bulge when he’s soft, I can only imagine the prize awaiting whatever lucky girl falls into his bed when he’s hard. My gaze only lingers a second before I look down at my shoes. “It’s fine,” I say, kicking at a piece of petrified gum stuck to the floor. “Normally they don’t bother me.” He lowers his head, trying to get me to look at him. “I don’t think that gum is moving. It’s been there since I started working here five years ago.” I smile and try to stand still. “Whatever it is that they’re doing—is it anything I should know about?” he asks. When he opens his mouth I notice his white teeth overlap just the slightest bit in the front,

making his lips look even fuller. “Georgia?” How had I not noticed how incredibly handsome—and even hot—he was before? I mean, I noticed he was good looking, but I must’ve been too absorbed in my schoolwork to realize the extent of it. Guys and dating just really aren’t on my radar these days. Like Mr. Johnson said, I’m on a scholarship and I can’t afford to blow it. Relationships tend to do that. First they’re all fun and games, someone to go out to parties and grab dinner with. Then someone gets invested and before you know it, all you can think about is that person. I let it happen once in high school and ended up getting my heart broken when he cheated on me with my best friend. After that I decided to stay away. There’s no time for distractions. I have big goals. It’s not enough to just keep my scholarship. I want to be the best. If I can be the valedictorian of both high school and college, I’ll have graduate schools eating out of my hands. “No, it’s nothing,” I say. “Just dumb videos they were watching. It won’t happen again.” He presses his lips together like he doesn’t believe me, but instead of arguing says, “Okay, then. I’ll leave things the way they are. But if you have any troubles at all, you can come to me.” “Thanks.” He folds his arms across his chest again, making his shirt tight. That’s when I notice the muscles

giving his sleek arms definition. I don’t have to see him naked to know there’s a gorgeous body hiding under those clothes. Suddenly I’m breathing harder and feeling flushed. This calls for some wine and a cold shower, though I doubt that would be enough to douse the warmth spreading through the lower half of my body. Time to go. Now. Before the wet spot growing between my legs starts to show. As I’m walking out he says, “Don’t forget the assignment due tomorrow.” It’s a good thing he mentioned it because now all I can think about is Mr. Johnson and his, well, Johnson.

As soon as I get back to my dorm room, I get to my computer and look up the Rocket Cocks website. My roommate spends most of her time with her boyfriend who lives off campus, so I don’t have to worry about her showing up. It doesn’t take long for me to find the video clip I’d watched in class. The male actor—performer? I’m not exactly sure what to call him—looks a lot like a younger version of Mr. Johnson. Same broad shoulders, intense blue eyes, slightly crooked nose, and great ass—even in slacks, he can’t hide it.

The clip is only two minutes long. I watch it over and over, memorizing it. It’s not nearly enough material for me to come to a conclusion on whether or not this is my teacher. I want to see more, so I purchase the entire video. My bills still go to my parent’s house. I just hope they don’t decide to go through my credit card statements. The female actor in the video has large fake boobs, wears too much makeup, and has platform heels so tall she wobbles when she stands. She’s able to take his big cock without even flinching. She looks almost . . . bored? Her eyes are lazy, and she keeps glancing off to the side as if being instructed on what to do. Her mechanical movements and the unnatural, almost robotic, way she moves into the different positions make me think there’s a director off to the side choreographing their coupling like it’s some kind of staged interpretative dance. Without even taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of being full, she starts to ride him, bouncing with the hollow look of someone lost. Nothing about her expression tells me she’s enjoying this one bit. The moans and dirty-talk are over the top, and so obviously fake I’m embarrassed for them both. Though she has a great body, it’s doing nothing for me. The male doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it much himself, just going through the motions. The only saving grace is that he looks so

much like my teacher that I can’t help but get turned on. Watching that giant dick sliding in and out of pink flesh causes an ache between my legs I can’t ignore. I slip my fingers into my pajama bottoms, beneath my panties, and start to rub circles around my clit, imagining I’m the girl in the video and Mr. Johnson is plowing into me. When the look-alike actor gazes directly at the camera, it’s as if he’s looking right at me, teasing me. I rub faster, desk and computer shaking, until I’m covered in goosebumps and being pushed over the edge. With my other hand, I plunge my fingers inside, and that’s enough for the building pressure to burst, and my entire body floods with pleasure. Takes a minute for me to come down, for my breathing and vision to return to normal. When I pull my fingers out of my panties, they’re sopping wet. On my desk is the assignment due tomorrow in Mr. Johnson’s class. I stare at it a moment, contemplating. Then I look at my sticky hand. Should I? It only takes a second for me to decide that, yes, I should. I grab it, wipe my juices on it to give him something to think about while he’s grading. I want my pheromones to call to him, let his animal instincts take over. Force him to notice me. Drive him wild without him knowing why.

In class the next day we’re doing labs, so it’s perfectly fine for people to talk. Normally I work alone, the clink and clatter of background noise the soundtrack of my workday. You’d think all that sound would be distracting, but I actually find that it gets me in the mood to work. I have my routines and the noise is just part of it. Except today Serena and her boyfriend are waiting at my table for me. This is definitely not part of the routine. Boyfriend is in my chair. He gets up slowly when he sees me and saunters back to his own seat. He’s wearing perfectly pressed shorts that hit above his knee, a yellow polo, and white shoes that look like Keds, but probably cost ten times more. It’s an ensemble I’d imagine someone wearing on a yacht, except we’re about two hundred miles inland. To anyone without money, he comes off like a douche and looks like a character out of Dallas. Utterly ridiculous. When I sit down, all I can smell is him. All wealthy people smell the same. It’s a unique scent, a formula they’ve mastered that consists of clean pores that have never been clogged with the sweat of hard labor, rubber soles that have never touched the ground because why do anything on your own when you can walk across the backs of others? Or maybe it’s just the smell of money. I don’t know. I’m probably just being cynical because I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for everything I

have. Serena doesn’t go back to her desk. Instead she continues to lean against mine, staying far too close to my personal space than I’m comfortable with. Since she won’t move, I guess I’ll have to. I roll my eyes and scoot my chair to the end of the table. Mr. Johnson glances over at us. He knows this isn’t normal, but he doesn’t say anything, just wanders from desk to desk to see if anyone needs help. “Did you watch the video again?” Serena asks. I busy myself with my beakers and flasks, setting up my burner, trying to act all casual, like it’s no big deal. “I did. But I don’t think it’s Mr. Johnson.” “Are you kidding? It looks just like him,” she says. Serena is beautiful, but it’s an out-of-date beauty. She’s too pristine, too put together. Her blonde hair is perfectly curled, clothes pressed. Reminds me of what people in the eighties expected pretty to be. I’m so tempted to dump my beaker of water on her head, see what shape wet gel makes with her hair without the authority of a brush and comb around to put it back in its place. I seek out Mr. Johnson across the room, follow him with my eyes to make sure he doesn’t sneak up on us while we’re talking about him. Somehow I think he knows anyway. It’s like he can sense his own presence elsewhere. That old saying about ears

burning, or whatever. He continues to glance our way and I keep averting my eyes to make it seem as though I was looking at the instructions on the whiteboard instead of him. “I looked at the full movie and the names in the credits; I didn’t see his anywhere,” I say. “It wasn’t him.” Boyfriend leans into the conversation and scoffs at me. “Have you ever watched a porn before? They never use their real names.” My face heats up. I’ve watched porn before. A little. Very little. Not that I’m opposed to it at all, but when you share accounts and passwords with your parents it’s difficult to buy or search for things on the internet you don’t want others to know about. I guess I should’ve known the actors weren’t using their real names since most of them have names like “Johnny Dong” and “Lana Gnitsif”— which I thought was kind of a pretty name until I realized it was Anal Fisting spelled backwards. “The guy in the movie is way too young,” I say, doing everything I can to convince myself and them that they’re wrong about the teacher I admire so much. “Yeah,” Serena says, running her finger around the rim of my beaker. I swear if she tips it over and spills water on my assignments, I’ll break the damn thing over her head. I almost want her to, just to see if I have the courage to do it. “Because it was made

ten years ago.” “Damn,” I mumble. I didn’t even bother to look at when the movie had been made. By the low quality of the film, it makes sense that it was made ten years ago compared to some of the other movies that were on the website. I can’t get too down on myself for not paying attention to these things, though. After all, my attentions were elsewhere—a couple times that night. I look at Mr. Johnson again. Really look this time. The shapes his body makes when he’s standing or leaning. The different facial expressions. He has the best smile. Genuine. The kind that makes wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. The actor in the video didn’t have those. In fact, he looked as though he’d never smiled a day in his life. Could it really be him? I can’t imagine why someone so brilliant would resort to porn. I mean, unless he just really wanted to. Not that there’s anything wrong with porn. It’s a perfectly satisfactory profession for a lot of people, and I hear there’s good money to be made in something like that. I’m totally all for the sex-positive movement. It’s just, he doesn’t seem like the type who would put himself out there for the world to see. That’s a bell that can never be un-rung. When someone goes into a profession like teaching, there are background and credit checks to be had. Every decision you’ve ever made in your life is under

scrutiny. You basically have to be a nun or a priest in your former life. Squeaky-clean as fuck. I’m doing the math in my head. In order for him to get to where he is now, a professor in one of the best private universities on the west coast, he would’ve been in college himself back when the movie was made. He also would’ve known videos like those could eventually destroy his career if anyone were to find out. Why would he risk his entire career? “The only way to find out if it was really him,” Serena continues, “is if someone sees the goods. Also, there’s that birthmark on his hip that would totally give him away.” There’s that, but I could tell just by seeing his dick. I would know it anywhere. I watched the video several times and have it ingrained in my memory. “How are you going to do it, just walk up and ask to see his birthmark?” I ask, skeptical. Boyfriend—I seriously need to learn his name; I think I heard Serena call him Chet, or maybe Chad, once—laughs too loud, getting the attention of everyone around us, including Mr. Johnson. I look down to avoid his irritated gaze. I hate the thought of him thinking I’m fucking around in class and not getting my work done. “Are you kidding?” Chad (or whatever) says. “I wouldn’t let my girl near that summer sausage; I’d

lose her for sure.” Serena rolls her eyes and says, “I’m not going to find out, but you are,” she says to me. “He won’t show me,” I insist. I can’t even imagine how I would go about seeing it. I picture the look on his face as I walk up and say, Good day, Mr. Johnson, how about you show me that beautiful fuck-stick. The thought brings a fraction of a grin to my face. Mostly because the voice I use in my head is British. I’m not sure why. It just pops into my head like that. “He wouldn’t be willing to risk his job. He could lose everything.” “Trust me, for you, he would,” says Chad with a sleazy grin. Serena jabs him in the ribs, giving him a dirty look. “What? He would. She’s hot.” Her angry look continues to harden until he’s squirming. “But you’re hotter,” he says. The nasty glare continues far too long until both me and Boyfriend are super uncomfortable. After a minute she relaxes. The thin compliment seems to satisfy her enough to move on. When she looks back at me, there’s more heat in her gaze, as if it were my fault her boyfriend called me hot. “I dare you to find a way to catch him naked and get a look at it,” she says. “How the hell do you suppose I do that? It’s not like he has a reason to strip down in class . . .” Or does he? Ideas begin to fire off in my head. Situations.

Possibilities. Probabilities. Here’s where my curiosity will get me into trouble. I don’t back down from dares, and in this case, I kind of don’t want to. I’m just as curious as everyone else, and I actually think I have a plan on how to see him naked that might just work. I look in my backpack to make sure I have what I need, and with a nervous smile, realize that I do.

2 LOCHE JOHNSON

I’ve never been interested in one of my students. Never even been tempted. Not until Georgia. The first day she walked into my classroom I knew I was in trouble. All the typical things played into it: A sexy mane of thick dark hair, silky pale skin, eyes like bright blue planets that suck you into their world. But it was more than that. I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women in my life—been with plenty of beautiful women. With Georgia it was different. It was chemistry. Part of it was her looks. On more than one occasion I pictured brushing my fingers through her locks. The full lips I’d love to kiss, and the curvy body I want to taste every inch of. It’s everything about her. Looks, yes, but her personality too. The inquisitiveness. That might not be all that of an attractive feature for most men, but for a teacher

there’s nothing better. And the fact that she devours my every word, eyes stalking me as I cross the room. I’m used to students’ glazed-over stares as they watch the clock above my head ticking by, waiting for the hour to be over. Not Georgia. She acts as though I’ve hung the moon, never questioning anything I teach. I have her in my grasp. If she’s as quick of a study in bed as she is in the classroom, she may just be the girl of my dreams. When it comes to sex, I could bend her to my will, dominate her, and she would love every minute of it. But the distracted girl in my classroom is not the same girl I’m used to seeing on a daily basis. I’ve never seen her talk to Serena and Chad. Normally the Rockefeller wannabes talking in the corner don’t rattle her a bit. For some reason they have been for the last two days. And what was that, when she looked right at my dick yesterday? Not that I’m complaining, of course. It just took me off my guard, and I don’t like to be surprised in the middle of a lesson when I’m trying to get these thick-headed students familiar with chemicals that could easily poison them or burn their skin if they’re not careful. In the months Georgia’s been in my class, she’s always looked me right in the eye. Yesterday it was as if my cock was giving the lecture. After class I even checked the front of my pants to make sure

my zipper wasn’t down and that I hadn’t spilled my lunch down the front of me. Seeing her look at me like that, I’d struggled to keep from getting a hardon in class. Struggle is putting it mildly. I had to force Mrs. Chambers, the cook in the cafeteria— the one with the mustache and blackheads the size of pennies—into my thoughts to keep my dragon down. Because trust me, when I’m hard, there’s no hiding it. Every time I look at Georgia, she’s looking back at me with bare curiosity, as if I’ve done something so outrageous, so entertaining that it warrants all her attention in case I do it again. I try to hold her gaze but she keeps averting her eyes. Maybe I’m reading her wrong and she just needs help with the assignment, but I don’t think so. I’m not sure what she wants and it’s driving me crazy. The entire period is a struggle to keep my focus. When the class is finally over, I sit at my desk and take papers from my students as they leave the room. When the last student is gone and the door shuts, I get up to lock it. When I turn around, I realize Georgia is still at her desk and she has yet to clean out her flasks and beakers. I stand up, not sure what to do with my hands, so I shove them in my pockets. She’s looking down at the paper in front of her as if she’s really struggling. She’s my best student. She should’ve breezed through this assignment. It’s stuff we’ve

already covered throughout the school year. I’ve never known her to struggle with anything since starting this class, especially things this easy. Making my way across the room, I see last night’s assignment on her desk. Though I’m looking at it upside down, from this angle it looks complete. In fact, it looks more than complete. It looks as though she wrote out each of her answers and explained why in the margins for good measure. She’s always doing things like that, going above and beyond what I ask her to do when most students struggle to write two words. I even had a student once answer a question with “just because.” Not to name names, but his name sounds like Brad and he sits next to Serena . . . “Georgia? Do you need help with something?” I ask her. She startles at the sound of my voice, knocking over a flask full of blue liquid that splashes onto my pants and shirt. I back away instantly, sucking in a worried breath. Working with chemicals, I know just how dangerous they can be. I once had a professor in college blow up a classroom. Luckily no one was seriously injured in the accident. But that’s one cautionary tale you don’t forget in this business. Though we’re not working with anything explosive or particularly dangerous at the moment, there are chemicals in this room that could cause

nasty rashes and first-degree burns. I don’t want to take any chances. As I strip off my clothes, down to nothing but my boxer-briefs and socks, the area around me fills with the scent of peppermint. Georgia jumps out of her seat with a towel in hand, wiping off my bare chest, and spending an exorbitant amount of time on the front of my boxers. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was trying to open the flap and see inside. I stop her by grabbing onto her wrist before the effect she’s having on me becomes impossible to hide. After she calms down, I let go of her. She apologizes for being so clumsy. She is not a clumsy girl. Not in the slightest. And she’s not one to startle easily, either. There have been plenty of times when I’ve stood over her while she was deep in thought, and not once when I said her name did she flail her arms and dump chemicals on me. “God, I am so sorry, Mr. Johnson, it’s not a chemical, it’s just mouthwash.” I pause with my thumbs in the waistband of my boxers. I was starting to think I was better safe than sorry and should strip down to nothing at all and wash off. I let out a sigh of relief. “Mouthwash?” I say, confused. Her beautiful porcelain skin floods with color. “The bottle broke in my backpack so I dumped it in the flask so it wouldn’t get all over my homework.

I glance over at the sink attached to table right beside her, and the trashcan just below it. She had two options of easy disposal, but decided to dump it in a flask instead—for which she would have had to use a funnel in order to sift it through the small opening. This is a smart girl with excellent problemsolving skills, not whatever this character is she’s playing—who reminds me more of the ditzy Serena she’s been sitting behind who barely squeezes through life on a C average. I start to wonder if this has anything to do with the reason those two have been talking in class the last couple of days. “Can I see your paper, please?” I ask. I want to see if she really did need help with her assignment or if this is some game she’s playing that I have yet to figure out the objective of. Her jaw clinches, and she takes the paper in her hand, hesitating as though she might not give it to me. “Georgia? If you don’t turn it in today, you don’t get credit.” “Can’t I turn it in late?” she asks, looking up at me with those big innocent eyes. The way she bites her bottom lip has me itching to grab her by the sides of her face and bring those lips to mine. If she were anyone else but my favorite student, I would have. My voice stays firm even though I’d probably

cave if she asked me for an extension. “Highest grade you can get when turning something in late is a C.” Her eyes go bright with fear, and I fight the smile bubbling up. Little Miss Overachiever. I knew that would get her attention. She hands me the piece of paper. Even with the smell of mint still lingering in the air, the scent on her paper fills my head. I’m stunned at first, and glance over at Georgia who stares down at her desk, chin bobbing as if she’s either about to cry or scream, or maybe both. With the page to my nose, I fill my lungs with the sweet, earthy scent of female cum. I want to close my eyes and live in this moment, stick my tongue out and taste her. I would know this smell anywhere. Hairs stand up all over my body and my dick strains against my boxers. Reluctantly, I put the paper down in front of me to hide my arousal. When I finally break the hold her scent has on me, I look at the page and realize her work is flawless—like usual. So why had she been sitting there acting as if she were in need of help, unless she meant all of this to happen? I have a sinking suspicion that she was trying to get me out of my clothes on purpose, and that she had every intention of having me smell her cum on these pages. The only question that remains: is this brilliant student trying to start something with me?

I don’t know her well enough to say for sure that she’s not the kind of girl who would carelessly try to hook up with a teacher and risk losing her scholarship, but she definitely doesn’t seem like it. I would never try to do anything to ruin the limitless options of her future, only I’m really struggling not to give in to her. “Georgia, what’s this about?” I say, trying to mask the lust-heavy undertones of my voice with authority. I don’t know how successful I am at it, but I’m giving it one hell of an effort. “I know this wasn’t an accident. Does this have something to do with Serena and Chad?” She looks at me, but she can’t seem to hold eye contact. Her eyes start to wander over my body, stopping at my hip. Her gaze lingers on the small birthmark shaped like California, and her mouth drops open. “What . . .” she says, her voice trailing off as if her mind is somewhere else. I snap my fingers in front of her face to get her attention. “What is going on with you?” She hesitates. Whatever it is bears a heavy weight that makes her shoulders droop. “I can’t help you unless you tell me,” I say. Taking a deep breath, she lets her head fall into her hands. “I’m so sorry.” She looks up at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling and winces. I’m actually a little afraid of what she’s about to say.

With as much twisting and turning as she’s doing in her seat, it can’t be good. “I was sitting behind Serena and Chad and they were watching this video . . .” She’d mentioned them watching videos before, but the way she says it now leaves no doubt as to which video she’s talking about. Squeezing my lips together, I stand straight as if my vertebrae has been soldered together. It was only a matter of time before someone found the old movie. I hoped it would be long after I’d retired, but luck doesn’t seem to be on my side. At the time, when the porno was first made, it seemed like a needle in a haystack that someone I knew would come across it. It was made in a tiny back-alley studio. The company was professional enough to test for STDs prior to production and it paid well, but as these types of companies go, it was like a mom-and-pop thing. The director wrote the script, did the lighting himself, and ran cameras, while his wife and brother ran the others. I had no idea they’d have the kind of distribution to keep videos out in the world after all these years. Now it has finally come back to bite me in the ass. “Who all knows about the video?” I ask, sounding angrier than I should. It’s not like it’s her fault that the students in my class found it, and I can’t blame her for being curious enough to watch

it. If the shoe were on the other foot and I found a video of Georgia, I would definitely check it out. “As far as I know, just us,” she says. “They were hesitant to even show me, but I’d already seen enough to realize what they were watching. I don’t think they’ll tell anyone.” “No,” I say, resigned. Looking out the window at the clear sky, I see my entire career—all those years of late-night study sessions and horrible parttime jobs in greasy fast-food joints to earn tuition flash before my eyes. That’s why I’d resulted to porn, because there were no part-time jobs that paid enough. I was going through the job section of the newspaper one day when I saw the ad for porn actors. I was young and thought, fuck for money? Hell yeah, I can do that. But it wasn’t at all how I thought it would be. I showed up at the studio and met my co-star, who, at the time, was smoking a joint because she couldn’t bear to have sex with me sober. She was twenty-six years old and had already starred in over fifty movies, some of them so extreme, according to her, that they had to have a medic on set just in case. After that I was afraid, to say the least. There was nothing sexy about any of it. She immediately went into the rules, what she was willing and not willing to do. I was then instructed to lie on a bed with all eyes on me. With the heat from the lights blazing down on me, and the cold mechanics of the

whole thing, I struggled to stay hard. They made me pop a little blue pill and threated to kick me out and not pay me if I couldn’t perform. Somehow I managed, but despite my hard cock, I wasn’t turned on one bit. Once I came, I was so glad it was over I decided never to do it again, even after receiving a nice paycheck. It just wasn’t worth it. And now, everything I’ve worked for, all of it could be gone because I had sex for money on camera ten years ago. Exhaling a long, exhausted breath, I say, “I don’t think they’ll tell anyone as long as I give them something in return. Their parents are wealthy, so I doubt they’ll want money, but I’m sure they will want As in this class. But you already have a perfect grade in my class, so what will you want?” I have a hard time keeping the irritation back. I thought Georgia was different. Stupid me, I was actually starting to feel a connection between me and her. I thought she liked me. Now that I realize she did all of this to blackmail me because of the video, I realize how dumb I’ve been. “I don’t want anything,” she says. I watch her, trying to read her face. I’ve been teaching long enough to spot a liar from a mile away. So why am I not picking up on anything? I want to believe her. Those big blue eyes look sincere, and so does the shocked expression on her

face, but the way she continues to twist the straps of her backpack tells me she’s not being entirely honest. “You’re lying,” I say. She bites her bottom lip, her eyes bouncing between my face and my dick, which has finally settled down in the face of my ruin. “Well, there’s one thing,” she says. It’s probably money. Scholarship kids are always scraping by. But how much will she want and how much is this job really worth to me? “How much?” I ask. She tilts her head to the side, confused. “How much?” “Yeah,” I say, getting irritated with this innocent act of hers while she’s committing extortion. “How much money will it take to keep you quiet about the video?” She leans away from me. Irritation warps her face. On anyone else, it would be ugly, but I think it’s physically impossible for her to be unattractive. “I don’t want your money,” she says, spitting out the words as if they’ve left a bad taste in her mouth. “Then what do you want from me,” I say, lifting my hands in surrender. Shaking her head, she says, “I wasn’t trying to get money from you, I just wanted to see your cock!” She slaps her hands against her mouth, eyes

wide, as if she’d spilled a secret she’d meant to keep. A short burst of laughter escapes my lips. I can’t believe what she’s telling me. “In exchange for your silence, you want to see my cock?” I’ve never seen anyone’s face turn as red as Georgia’s is now. Seriously, is there any blood left in the rest of her body? “No,” she insists. “Not in exchange for my silence. I never planned to tell anyone. You’re my favorite teacher. I would never do anything like that. I was just . . . I bought the video and now I’m curious. It’s not blackmail. If you don’t show me, it’s not a big deal.” She scrambles for her backpack. It’s adorable the way she keeps dropping her books when she tries to shove them inside. “Never mind,” she says, anxious to escape. “Just forget I said anything,” When she tries to leave I grab her arm to stop her. “Sit,” I tell her. She stares at my hand connected to her arm. At first I think she’s going to demand that I let her go, or get pissed that I’m physically detaining her, but instead, she obediently sits back in her chair without a word or even a hint of reluctance. I take another step toward her so her face is right at the opening of my legs, just inches from my boxer-clad dick. “You stayed to see it, so take a look,” I say.

She starts to fidget. “Maybe it was a bad idea —” she starts to say, but I cut her off. “Look at it.” Her eyes shoot upward to meet mine, a look of stunned disbelief making her look younger than she is, and somewhat nervous. Her next words come out slow and methodical, as if she’s thinking really hard about what to say next. “Okay . . . aren’t you going to take off your boxers?” “No, you’re going to do it for me,” I say, my words curt, leaving no room for her to argue. I watch her, wondering if she’ll actually go through with it. She looks scared to death. She starts to laugh, as if I’m joking, but when my lips don’t budge, her laughter trails off. “You’re serious.” “If you want to see it bad enough, you get to do all the work. Now pull down my boxers and look at my cock.” I move closer so that the flap on my boxers is just a hair’s breadth from her trembling mouth. It will definitely be work trying to get these boxers off now that I’m getting hard. The fabric starts to gouge at the skin of my waist and becomes uncomfortable. She visibly swallows and reaches for the elastic waistband. Holy shit, she’s actually going to do it, I realize, and I become harder still. Honestly, I

thought she would chicken out; she seems so innocent, so virginal, but this girl is determined. I fight the smile wrestling my lips while she struggles to get my boxers over the head of my growing prick. When that approach doesn’t work at first, she reaches behind and slides them down my ass first. Always the little problem-solver. Once my boxers are down in the back, she’s able to easily get them down in the front. I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t really need to, though. The look on her face speaks volumes.

3 GEORGIA

Mr. Johnson has the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen. Straight with a slight arch toward his belly button, everything proportioned nicely. And big. Not that I’m an expert on the subject. I’ve only had sex once. I don’t think the minute it took for my high school boyfriend to blow his load while still trying to break my cherry qualifies me as a cock connoisseur, but compared to those I’ve seen on TV and in movies, Mr. Johnson’s would win the trophy. It was a formidable phallus on screen. In person, it’s downright intimidating. I can’t help but wonder if he’s hard for me, or if it would be the same standing naked in front of any girl. Pre-cum bubbles up from the opening of the tip and dribbles down its length. I’m so tempted to stick out my tongue and lick the glistening stream. I wonder how

it tastes, how this amazing cock would feel cradled in my gentle fist, nestled in the warm cushion of my mouth. I want so badly to touch him, but I don’t want to step over any lines. He’s showing me because he thinks if he doesn’t I’ll tell someone about the video. He’s not naked in his classroom, risking his career because he’s willing to give it all up for me. Though my stupid fantasies wish that were the case, it’s just not, and so I have to set up boundaries for myself to keep from going too far. Suddenly he reaches down and pulls up his boxers, cutting me off from his beautiful member. I startle from the quick movement, breaking out of my trance. I’m not at all prepared for this moment to be over. I need more time to memorize it, take it all in. “Wait,” I say. He shakes his head. “There, you saw it. Now we’re done.” I’m taken aback by his abruptness. “But—” I don’t want to beg or seem desperate, but I am desperate. I want to see more, touch it, feel the silky skin coating the hard shaft, live out all those dirty fantasies that stormed my thoughts while I was watching his movie. He starts to laugh. I must seem so pathetic. Inwardly I scold myself for being incredibly transparent, only I can’t help it. I want his cock. I want him. He steps away from me and leans over my

desk, scribbling something on a piece of paper. He hands it to me. It’s an address. “Be there at eight tonight and don’t be late.”

I go back to my dorm, unable to keep Mr. Johnson off my mind. I’m supposed to meet my study group at the library tonight. Fuck them, they’re on their own. I’m not about to pass up the opportunity to spend real time with that lovely cock for an English assignment that will barely make a dent in my grade. Besides, it’s already mostly done. I only go to study groups just to get away from the dorm once in a while, and because it’s time to get out and start making friends. Easier said than done. There are three hours until I’m supposed to meet Mr. Johnson. I go to my footlocker that houses my tiny wardrobe. When I first started college, I was dead-set against dating so I never bought anything too revealing. The closest thing I have that’s worthy of a night spent trying to seduce an older man is a 1990s-style baby-doll dress. But I’m not trying to look like a child. I want to look sexy for him. Looking at my measly collection, it doesn’t appear that’s going to happen. Oh well. No time to dwell on that. He’s used to seeing me in sweats and leggings most days anyway, so anything

I wear will be an improvement. Next I completely pluck and shave my entire body. This takes up most of my time. That’s when I realize I’ve really let myself go when it comes to upkeep. I mean, I exercise because I want to stay healthy. Sick body, sick mind, they say. I need my mind on top of its game, so a daily workout routine is essential. Unfortunately, pruning isn’t part of that regimen. I don’t think I’ve shaved above my knee since I was sixteen, and I’m starting to wonder if my poor razor is going to crap out on me before I’m done. It doesn’t, but there will definitely be some razor burn going on tomorrow. Now, back to the perfect outfit, since I have yet to pick it out. I try on my one dress. It’s cute. When I pull my hair up and add a pair of flats with it, it’s even cuter. But cute is not what I’m going for. So I opt for a pair of jeans that fit my curves quite nicely. It’s not going to knock him backwards when he sees me, but at least it won’t give him second thoughts about our hook up—I hope. As if telepathically sensing my dilemma, my roommate walks in. We’re not all that close, but she’s let me borrow clothes before, and she’s tidy, so we get along just fine. She also has impeccable style. She can throw together some of the most random things and make it work. And she definitely likes to show off the goods. She lifts a brow when seeing me standing in

front of the full-length mirror. “You have on your nice jeans. What’s the occasion?” I look down at my “nice jeans”, as she calls them. The only thing that makes them nicer than the others is that they’re the only ones I own without holes in the knees. Obviously, I’m not about to tell her about a possible hook-up with my teacher, so I keep it vague. “I have a date.” “With a man?” she says, skeptical. “Yes, with a man.” “Oh, weird. I thought you were a lesbian.” I frown, looking at her over my shoulder. “Why would you think that?” “I’ve never heard you talk about guys before.” I shrug. “That’s because no one has caught my eye until now.” “How long’s it been?” she asks. “Couple years.” She scrunches up her face. “You’re going on the first date you’ve had in a couple of years and you’re wearing that?” I look at my reflection again. I look fine, I guess, but nothing about this outfit screams “rip off my clothes.” “I don’t really have anything else to wear,” I say. “This won’t do.” She goes to the plastic mobile closet she keeps in the corner of the room. The

dorms are terrible when it comes to storage space. Or any kind of space for that matter. Our beds are practically on top of each other. Since we’d never met prior to becoming roommates, we had to learn to not be shy really quick. Privacy is not a luxury we have. “I have the perfect thing,” she says. She pulls out what I think is a shirt at first, before realizing it’s just a really short, red, spandexstretchy dress. “Try this on. The color will look stunning with your dark hair,” she says. I take off my clothes. I’ve been wearing my socks long enough for them to leave a mark around my ankle that I hope fades before I leave. The dress hugs every curve of my body and she’s right, the color really is striking against my pale skin and brown hair. It’s shorter than anything I’m used to wearing, just long enough to hide my butt cheeks. Every time I sit or stand, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t ride up. I look good, but I can’t help but feel somewhat self-conscious. I don’t wear things like this. Girls with confidence, girls like Serena and my roommate, wear things like this. “Oh, and you have to wear these with it,” she says, handing me a pair of black six-inch Louis Vuitton stilettos with red soles. It’s a good thing we have the same shoe size as well or I would’ve been wearing scuffed blue flats with it. A bold choice

that someone other than me might’ve been able to pull off. She takes in the entire package, nodding and making faces. “You look amazing, but it’s not finished.” She does my makeup next. She keeps my eyeshadow neutral, but gives me deep red lips that make them look sensual. I feel like a completely different person. I’m not sure if Mr. Johnson will even recognize me outside of my university sweatshirts and jeans. Most days I don’t even bother to apply mascara, let alone full warpaint. “I guarantee if you were to walk into a room full of men right now, every head in the room would turn your way,” my roommate says. I’m only looking to turn one man’s head tonight. “Well, yeah, because I would be fidgeting so much they’d think I was up to something,” I say. She laughs. “Shut up. You look hot. If I wasn’t with my boyfriend, I’d totally fuck you.” I laugh nervously and let out a shaky breath. That’s not the kind of attention I’m used to getting from men. Or women. I get looks sometimes, but the most attention I get at school is guys asking for my help with assignments. “Now,” she says, giving me one last once-over. “Go get laid. You deserve it.”

My cab takes me to the address Mr. Johnson gave me with two minutes to spare. It’s not a neighborhood I’d expect someone to live at on a teacher’s salary. It’s a large, two-story house with a big landscaped yard, mature palm trees, and a koi pond out front. It’s nestled among other big beautiful houses of the same caliber on the wealthy side of town. It’s a place I’d expect a politician or CEO of a small corporation to live. Then a terrible thought hits me: what if he’s married? If his wife makes all the money, a house like this would make sense. What if she’s out of town and I’m coming in like a one-woman homewrecking crew in a red dress? In the year I’ve been in his class I’d never once heard him mention a wife or even a girlfriend. He doesn’t have a picture of anyone on his desk like my other professors do, and he doesn’t wear a wedding ring. I decide to let it go for now. Once I’m inside I’ll know. It’s impossible to hide a woman’s touch. Walking up to the door, I feel the warning signs of panic pushing down on me: heart racing, blurry vision, shortness of breath. I’m bombarded with questions and worries. What if he doesn’t even live here and he gave me the wrong address to embarrass me and put me in my place? I’ll get back

to school and he’ll be like, that’s what you get for blackmailing me, even though it definitely wasn’t blackmail. I start to regret sending the cab away. I guess if this doesn’t pan out, I’m close enough to campus to walk. Or, if these miserably sexy shoes destroy my feet, I could just call another cab. A squeaky porch swing sways with the wind, and next door I hear the trill of chimes. These sounds distract me from my rambling thoughts enough for me to focus on the task at hand. Taking a deep breath, I fix my dress, check to make sure everything is under wraps, and smooth down my hair. Then I knock. The door is painted red and has a brass lion knocker. It’s a really pretty door. I’m terrified it won’t open. Yet, at the same time, I’m terrified it will. Feels like forever before the door opens, but it’s probably only been ten seconds or so. The tension in my shoulders eases up just the slightest bit. Mr. Johnson stands at the threshold and isn’t dressed at all like Mr. Johnson. He’s barefoot, wearing loose jeans and a form-fitting baseball shirt that hugs his toned chest and arms wonderfully. I never would’ve imagined him being a sports fan. I guess with his athletic build, it makes sense. He probably plays sports, too. I’ve never been attracted to jocks in any way, but for some reason,

the thought of Mr. Johnson all sweaty and pumped up after a game—doesn’t matter which kind; it could be badminton for all I care—really turns me on. I feel overdressed. Kind of like a call girl. What the hell was I thinking wearing this thing? It’s so not me. “Wow,” he says, blue eyes scanning the length of my body. He takes a step back to get the full picture. “That’s some dress.” I feel really stupid right now, so I try to make light of it. “This old thing? I wanted to keep it casual, you know, just in case I decide to hit the gym after.” He huffs out silent laughter and opens the door wider for me to enter. “I know what you mean,” he says, “I always keep my mini red dress in my gym bag.” I smile and roll my eyes as I walk in. A few silly words exchanged and I’m feeling more at ease. I look around the large room, taking it all in, trying to learn about what kind of person Mr. Johnson is outside of the classroom. The first thing I notice, besides a serious lack of décor, is the smell of rosemary and basil. He’s cooking something, and whatever it is smells delicious. The house is a total bachelor pad. From the ratty recliner that’s obviously his favorite piece of

furniture, to the posters and signed hockey jerseys on the walls. The place is all male. He’s definitely not married. Taking it all in, I realize just how big it is. The living room itself is three times the size of my dorm room. It’s a lot of house for just one person. “You live here by yourself?” I ask. He looks around and shrugs. “Yep, just me and the cat. He’s around here somewhere.” Another surprise. I didn’t picture him as a cat person. I didn’t picture him with animals at all, but if I had to guess, I would’ve thought he’d own a bulldog or mastiff. Something macho to complement his size. “I can’t picture you with a cat,” I say, unable to contain my smile. He’s just so incredibly adorable, and nothing like I was expecting outside of the classroom. “He’s not mine. He just comes around when he wants food.” “I don’t blame him,” I say, sniffing the air. “Smells good in here.” “Good. I hope you’re hungry. I made fresh pasta.” And he can cook? Jesus, this man is perfect. “Starving,” I say. He leads me to the kitchen nook. The kitchen too is just as spectacular as the rest of the house. Custom everything, including a fridge that matches

the dark wood of the cabinets, glass tile back splashes, and granite countertops. I’m not much of a cook myself, but my mom would’ve sacrificed me to the nearest god for a kitchen like this when my siblings and I were growing up. She always complained about not having any counter space. The counters in here are big enough to land a plane on. The table has already been set for two. Champagne on ice, candles lit. When he gave me his address, I was just expecting a longer version of the preview I’d seen earlier in the classroom, and most likely—if I was lucky—an awkward quickie. I’d satisfy my curiosity and that would be that. What I wasn’t expecting was a romantic dinner. Not that I’m complaining. I’m just confused about what all this means. I already told him this wasn’t a blackmail situation, so he didn’t have to go to all the trouble. He pours the champagne. I’ve had champagne once, at a wedding. It was gross, like dry ginger ale, but worse. I try a sip. This isn’t gross, not at all. It’s sweet and tickles the back of my throat. I want to down the entire glass, but hold myself back, not wanting to be obvious about just how nervous I really am. So far I think I’m really pulling off this whole confidence thing—to the point I’m actually starting to believe it myself. He pulls my chair out for me and I sit.

“Help yourself,” he says, pointing at the food on the table in bowls. There’s salad, pasta with red sauce, and breadsticks that also look homemade. I take a little of each. “You’re not one of those girls, are you?” he asks, smirking at me from across the table, the candlelight doing beautiful things with his face. “What girls?” “The ones who eat like birds on a date, then scarf down a pizza when they get home.” I quirk an eyebrow. “Is this a date?” The corner of his mouth twitches into a half smile. “No.” “Well then, no, I guess not.” I reach over and grab a heaping spoonful of pasta and plop it down on my plate. He laughs and starts to fill his own plate. He eats much quicker than I do. I’ve always been a slow eater ever since I choked on a Red Vine in a dark movie theater; it put the fear of God into me. “So, Mr. Johnson,” I say, trying to fill the room with sounds other than my chewing. “Why’d you get into porn?” His champagne glass stops on its way to his lips. I think he’s blushing but it’s too difficult to tell in the dull glow of the room. “Call me Loche,” he says. “And I did it out of necessity. I was a

struggling student and I saw an opportunity to better my situation and I took it.” He looks pointedly at me over his glass. “I know what that look is for,” I tell him. It’s so obvious that he’s suspicious, like he can’t believe I have all this information on him and all I want out of the deal is to see his dick. “I’m still not blackmailing you, so stop looking at me like I’m a criminal.” His smile beats me over the head, leaves me breathless and incapacitated for a moment. He’s so insanely handsome. He might even be betterlooking than Tom Hardy, if that’s even humanly possible, or maybe it’s just the champagne going to my head. I don’t think so, though. I think I closed myself off to men because of my workload for so long that I just forgot to look. Well, not anymore. I’m definitely looking now. My body’s reacting, but my mind is telling me if I go too far, it’ll ruin everything. I want at least one mind-blowing porn scene of my own with him, but how will we ever go back to our student-teacher relationship after that? How can I ever look at him the same again? Things would get awkward. I’d have to switch classes and teachers. What a pain in the ass. Actually, I probably wouldn’t even be able to switch. I’m sure this far into the school year classes are full. I groan quietly enough so he doesn’t hear. I’ve really got myself in deep this

time, but there’s no turning back now. Loche stands and walks toward me. There’s something very commanding about the way he moves. Apparently his authority isn’t reserved only for the classroom. My fork still hovers in front of my mouth, but I struggle to move, mesmerized by his every step as he gets nearer. With my empty hand, I reach for my champagne glass and chug what’s left in it. “More?” he asks, standing right in front of me now. I nod because words fail me. He fills the glass and I chug it too. He breathes out silent laughter. “Am I making you nervous?” I try to roll my eyes and laugh it off, but I have no idea what my face is doing because it’s completely numb. “What? No,” I say. He takes another step closer and my voice starts to warble. “What’s there to be nervous about?” I have a good buzz going and a slight headache. So much for feeling confident. I shouldn’t still be this nervous. “Are you still eating?” he asks. I look at the fork in my hand. How could I possibly still think about food at a time like this? I put it down on my plate. He pushes it off to the side and sits on the edge of the table in front of me. He touches my cheek, running his fingers along

my jawline and caressing my bottom lip with his thumb. “Time for dessert,” he says in a low voice. Swallowing hard, I have a feeling he’s not talking about cake.

4 LOCHE JOHNSON

It’ll be a shame to see that dress go, but worth it to see what’s underneath. Though it’s not like it leaves much to the imagination to begin with. Georgia has an incredible figure. Nice round hips, small waist, flat stomach, and breasts just large enough for a mouthful. I never really noticed her body before under the comfort-style clothing she always wears to class. But damn, does she clean up well. I was afraid at first that she wouldn’t show up after I gave her my address. Afraid I came on too strong, had been too commanding with her. When she did everything I told her to do without resistance or complaint, I was excited, yet still cautious. Now that she’s here, and I’m seeing her wearing that dress just for me, I finally believe that she’s not trying to blackmail me. I had my doubts. But now it’s clear she doesn’t want my money. Just

my cock. And it wants her too. Seeing the way she looks at me, hungry and full of lust, has my balls about to boil over. It’s a good thing I rubbed one out before she got here so I can last longer. She sits in the chair in front of me, hands trembling on the table. She’s nervous. For some reason that excites me even more. “Unbutton my jeans,” I tell her. It’s more of a command than a suggestion. She doesn’t flinch at the order, just gets her quaking hands to work. She fondles with the button and zipper until they finally come undone. I stand to let her pull my jeans down. When my boxers are down too she gets this dreamy look on her face. Makes me think this girl hasn’t had sex in a while. She acts like she’s starving and my dick is the only thing that can provide nourishment. By all means, have at it. I have no intention of standing in her way. “Stroke it,” I command. Again, without hesitation, she reaches out, timid at first, before gently touching the skin of my shaft. Chills race up my arms and legs and a moan rumbles low in my throat. Her warm hands massaging my cock feel amazing. It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me like this. Last girlfriend I had was over a year ago. It had burned hot the first couple weeks then fizzled out within a month. Since then, I hadn’t really been interested in

anyone and haven’t had much time for the dating scene. Georgia seems to grow more confident in her ministrations, stroking with one hand and exploring my balls with the other. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, enjoying the sensation, but that doesn’t last long. I want to watch her work. Each time she glances up at me, studying my face as if she’s worried she might do something wrong, I feel myself getting closer. “Lick the tip,” I say. She leans over, sticks her tongue out and begins to lap at the opening, drinking up my pre-cum. She then alternates between licking the rim of my head and running her tongue down the length of me. I bite back the smile I feel pulling at my lips. She’s enjoying this way more than I thought she would, making quiet sounds of approval each time she opens her mouth. “Now suck it,” I tell her. She tilts her head as if thinking about the mechanics and mathematics of such a task, measuring in her mind. She looks like she’s trying to solve a problem: how to get her tiny heartshaped mouth over my large cock head. Eventually, she opens her mouth and spreads her lips, her teeth tucked safely behind them and begins to devour me. I don’t how she does it, but she makes it work. When the head is completely in, I see the shape of

it in her cheek. I swear to God I’ve never seen anything that sexy in all my life. “Yeah, that’s good,” I say, brushing my fingers through her hair while holding onto the back of her head. When my rod is halfway down her throat she starts to gag, lets up a bit, then bobs down for more, pushing herself to go deeper each time. The feeling of her throat opening then constricting around my cock is like heaven, and the sight of those red lips stretched to fit is like art. I don’t push her onto me, but I encourage her by moving my hips a little. I’m not bragging here; I have a large dick. It’s just a fact. And it would be difficult for any woman to take. Especially Georgia. Everything about her is small. From her mouth to her body. Still, she impresses me by being able to take more than I ever thought possible. “Wait, wait, wait,” I chant, pulling quickly out of her mouth. I’m on the verge of unloading, but I’m not ready for that yet. So much for lasting longer. Maybe I should’ve spent all day masturbating in order to get ready for this night. Though Georgia doesn’t seem all that experienced, she knows what she’s doing, and does it with aplomb. Fucking hell, she’s hot. I take her face in my hands. Her eyes are watery and she has this dazed smile across her face. When I first invited her over, I told myself just a hand job, nothing more. When I saw those red lips,

I shrugged and thought, okay, blow job, but that’s it. Nothing else. Now I don’t think I can stop. And judging by the look on her face, I don’t think she can either. I push my lips to hers, kissing her long and deep. Hands running along her body, down her smooth curves, I grab handfuls of that plump little ass, kneading at the soft flesh. My fingers inch beneath her dress until I’m touching satin skin. She’s wearing a thong. I move the string to the side and slip my finger between her wet folds. I’m not talking about damp here. Not just a bit of moisture. I’m talking Niagara Falls, Slip ’n Slide, Hurricane Georgia wet. Clearly I’m having the same effect on her that she’s having on me. She lets out a long moan as I start to rub the delicate skin around the hard ball of her clit. “Tell me what you want,” I say. “I want you.” Again I say, “Tell me what you want from me.” She looks at my eyes and swallows hard. “I want . . .” Her words trail off like she’s embarrassed to say what she wants. “Tell me, or this night is over and I walk away,” I tell her. Her eyes widen and there’s a spark of surprise in them. I start to pull my hand away from her clit, but she grabs it, holding it in place. “Tell me,” I demand.

“I want you to fuck me.” Her words are barely a whisper, and her face turns a deep shade of red. I fight the urge to smile. It’s so damn adorable how shy she is. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” Her lips pinch together and she takes a deep breath, eyes steady and determined. “I want you to fuck my brains out.” This time I do smile. I can’t help it. I dig my fingers in deeper. Damn. I’m still mesmerized by how wet she is. I’ve never had a girl this wet for me before. I bury my face into her neck as she starts to hump my hand and beg for me not to stop. The horny cooing sounds she makes sends me into a frenzy. Stepping out of my jeans and boxers, I pull her up out of her chair and lift her. She wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. The heat from between her legs cradles my cock and gets my balls stirring again. Her mouth presses against mine in a heated kiss, our tongues twisting and writhing around each other. “I want you so much,” she says as we break our kiss. I carry her over to the island in the kitchen, slapping away towels and forks in my way to make room. They clamor against the floor as I lift her on top of the granite slab. Her dress is around her waist, panties still on, but moved to the side. I want to see everything, so I yank them off. She sits up so

I can reach behind her and unzip the dress. The straps slide down her shoulders. Her bra matches her red lace panties. I reach behind again and unclasp her bra, tossing it to the side. With the top half of her completely naked, I take a moment to enjoy the view. She has beautiful breasts, small but full, and pink nipples standing at attention. I take one in my mouth and slide my tongue against the hard tip, going back and forth between sucking and nibbling. She leans her head back, moaning as my mouth fully engulfs the breast and I begin to gently suckle. I do the same to the other after several minutes. I could play with her breasts alone all night, but my dick demands more. “I need to be inside that wet pussy,” I tell her. It’s like my words are the secret passage to unlocking her playhouse. Her legs open for me, and I feel the warmth radiating from between them without even touching her. “It’s all yours,” she says, in a sultry voice, biting her bottom lip. As much as I want to rip the clothes right off of her, I take my time sliding her dress all the way off and unwrapping her like a gift. I pause to marvel at the treasure between her legs. There’s not a speck of pubic hair. Good. That way I can see everything. Her arousal has made her pussy swollen and a deep shade of pink. Only a sliver of her labia peeks out

beneath the outer folds. “Spread your legs wider,” I say. Her legs open on command. She’s still wearing her heels and it’s a lovely sight. It’s like the most delicate flower landed between her legs to form her pussy. It’s perfectly sculpted like a decoration on a cake. While the rest of her skin is matte, her little cunt glistens. A steady drip of her thin cream runs from her opening, down to her adorable little asshole. I’m almost afraid to touch her and ruin it. I’m definitely afraid to fuck her. I look at her tiny opening and then down at my monstrous cock, wondering how the hell that’s going to fit without splitting her wide open. I want her to enjoy this, not be uncomfortable. Seems like a good possibility I would hurt her if I tried entering her right now. Luckily there’s plenty of time to stretch her out before the main event. I bend over, kissing the top of her smooth mons. She’s propped up on her elbows, lips slightly parted, watching me. “You have the prettiest little pussy I’ve ever seen. I want to fill you up with my cock,” I say, breathless. She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue and gives me a mischievous grin. I put a finger inside of her to see just how tight she really is. As expected, her opening clamps down on me like a vice, suctioning, holding on like

it doesn’t want to let me go. She rocks her hips as I move my finger in and out of her. “You’re so tight,” I tell her with a feral edge to my voice. “I can barely get a finger in there.” Now for the taste test. I dive right in, running my tongue along the pink folds. She doesn’t have a strong scent; clean and sweet. And she tastes like whipped cream. As I lick circles around her clit, she sucks in a breath. “Oh, God,” she breathes. Plunging my tongue into her opening, she cries out and starts to hump my face. I sit back, spread her open. Her pretty asshole needs attention too. With the tip of my tongue, I press against it and I’m met with resistance from the tight muscle. “Oh, God!” she says again, screaming it this time. I go back and forth, licking a trail between her cunt and ass, making sure each has its fair amount of attention. Then I put a second finger inside of her. This one goes in easier. Hooking my fingers, I feel the bumpy egg-shape of her G-spot and begin to rub. Her eyes open wide and she gives me this confused look as I massage, like she has no idea what the sensation is that she’s feeling. I wonder if anyone has ever touched her there before, and feel a sense of pride and ownership knowing I’m the first. “What—” she starts to say, but then her eyes

roll back in her head. That’s when I try for a third finger. There’s some resistance, but I manage and she doesn’t complain. In fact, she seems to be loving it as she calls out my name. Hearing my name in her voice, the desperation, the yearning, I feel possessive. She’s mine. No one else can have her. As I massage faster, she’s panting, “Oh, oh, oh,” her voice rising until she’s crying out, “Oh, fuck, yes!” Suddenly her muscles clinch and clamp down on me, trapping my fingers inside of her, crushing them together until they’re overlapped. I wince as she contracts. Takes an entire minute before she relaxes enough for me to pull them out. When I do, a lava flow of her juices pour out with them spilling on the countertop. She lays flat on her back against the granite slab, spent and breathing hard. Now that she’s loosened up, it’s time. I’ll give her a few minutes to come down, but I’m nowhere near done with her yet. “That was amazing,” she says. She sits up and reaches for my hand. I give it to her. She puts my fingers—the ones that were just inside her pussy— into her mouth and sucks them clean. “I want more.” Holy shit, this girl is incredible. “Oh, you’re getting more.” I rub my raging hard cock against

her leg. “A lot more.” She giggles as I lift her off the island. I carry her to my room for round two.

5 GEORGIA

I can’t believe this is the same man who stands in front of my class day in and day out, preaching from the periodic table. It’s like I’ve stepped into some alternate universe. I’m draped over the side of the bed, face in a pillow, exposed and ready to receive him. His sheets have a masculine scent that I’m learning to associate with him. I take in a long, deep breath and hold it in my lungs, committing it to memory. After my first mind-blowing orgasm, I’m ready for my next. He stands behind me, rubbing his hands up and down my ass cheeks. I’ve always been somewhat self-conscious. I was the girl at the pool who always wore the long T-shirt over my bathing suit, or the one hiding in the stall to change my clothes during PE. Having someone standing behind me, studying my backside, spreading my

butt cheeks apart with the light on, is, well, let’s just say it’s out of my comfort zone. And yet, with Loche, I feel safe and secure, and more than a little turned on. All this attention on my body makes me feel special and sexy, and so I roll my hips to urge him on. He says things like, “Yeah baby, give me a show” and tells me how pretty my pussy is. It gets me so horny I can hardly stand it. He positions himself between my legs and rubs the head of his dick on my clit. “I want your big cock inside me,” I say, feeling bold. I’ve never talked like this to anyone before. It feels kind of awkward at first, but I like it, and by the way he growls and slaps my ass, I think he does too. The head of his dick feels more like a fist when it pushes against me. I gasp. For the first time since my dress came off tonight, I’m nervous. I’m wet as hell and yet his leviathan isn’t budging. Oh my god, it’s not going to fit. After all this build-up and anticipation, we’re not going to be able to have sex. It’s disappointing to say the least, but it also makes me a little sad. It wasn’t just about experiencing his beautiful dick and the fantasies I’d had after watching his video. After spending time with him, it became more about being with Loche, my teacher, a man I trust and admire. He leans down, gently biting the back of my

neck, and whispers, “I’ll be right back.” His warm breath sends a chill down my spine. “Wait, where are you going?” His steps thump down the hallway. What the hell is he doing? He’s only gone a few seconds. When he returns, I look over my shoulder and see that he’s holding a jar of organic coconut oil. Taking a handful, he slathers it on his cock. I’m momentarily entranced as I watch him slowly jerking his rod, the light catching the oily sheen. It really is the most beautiful dick I’ve ever laid my eyes on. He gets into position again. I try to relax as much as possible. I fill my lungs, then slowly let it out. This time, when he pushes, the head slides right in. I jerk forward, a bit surprised by the pressure and feeling of being stuffed to capacity. It’s almost uncomfortable, how much space it takes up inside of me. “Damn, your pussy’s tight,” he says, as he eases in more. My eyes are pinched tight, and I bite his sheets. He takes his time, taking much care not to hurt me. When he pulls out there’s a hollowness that make me feel empty and I want him back inside, filling me up again. After a few minutes going slow, my body has gotten used to this massive intruder and now it’s not enough to go slow. I’m primed and ready for whatever he has to give. It’s time to take

off the kid gloves. “Fuck me,” I tell him. He pauses, and I think I’ve shocked him. There’s a smile in his voice when he says, “Are you sure you’re ready for that?” “Trust me, I’m ready.” He squeezes my ass and gives it a hard slap before he thrusts harder into me. I yelp at the sudden sting of pain, but I like it. “You feel so good,” he says. I grab handfuls of his sheets, trying to hold on as he pounds me into the bed. Each time he does this, my engorged clit grinds into the mattress, reminding me of those times when I was just discovering my sexuality and I would masturbate by humping my pillows. It’s a thrilling, wonderful feeling to be full of cock while my clit still gets plenty of action too. That deep, aching throb is there again, waiting in the background. The same sensation I felt when he was using his fingers in the kitchen. I’ve never had an orgasm from being penetrated before—only from outer play. Having both, it’s more intense, and way more powerful. It’s explosive. I try to keep the orgasm that’s building up at bay by relaxing my muscles; I want it to last forever. But it comes barreling toward me. There’s no stopping it. I cry out as it takes hold. My entire body quakes, shaking the bed. Wave after wave of

rampant pleasure hitting me hard enough to make sparks in my vision. Loche lets out a feral, animal sound and pushes hard into me, bottoming out, almost painfully so, before going still. His cock pulsates as he dumps his seed into me. I can feel the warmth of it coating my insides.

I’m not sure what to do after we’re done. I don’t want to overstay my welcome so I stand up, his cum dribbling down my leg. My muscles have liquefied and my limbs feel useless, barely holding me up. I can definitely see now why some people walk funny after sex. I look around for my dress before remembering I left it in the kitchen. Great. I’m going to have to hobble through my teacher’s house naked. Loche lies on his side, his hair tousled and sweaty, looking at me. “Where are you going?” He has welts on his arms from when I’d clawed at him during my first orgasm. I vaguely remember doing that, but I was half out of my mind at the time. I feel like I should apologize, but that seems a little awkward. Thank you for giving me the best finger fuck of my life. I mean, wasn’t that the point of all of this?

“Back to my dorm,” I say, trying to maintain some semblance of grace even though right now I just want to flop down on the bed, spread my legs to let the cool air in, and just revel in the afterglow of amazing sex. Believe it or not, after all of that, I could still go another round. He laughs and rolls onto his back. “I see how it is. Use me for sex then leave,” he says, mocking insult. I feel myself blush. “I’m not familiar with onenight-stand etiquette. I don’t know what happens next.” This time he actually does look hurt. “Onenight stand, huh?” It’s difficult to maintain eye contact while I’m butt-ass naked and trying to cover myself with my arms while not being obvious about it, but I manage. “Isn’t that what all this was?” I ask. He ignores the question and pats the space on the bed next to him. “You can at least lie here long enough to catch your breath.” I tell myself not to do it. Just go back to the dorm and normal life before I get sucked into something I’m not ready for. I don’t want to develop feelings for someone I can’t have. We had a fun night. That’s it. Just walk away. But I don’t walk away. As much as I know I should, I can’t. I nod and climb under the covers next to him.

He kisses my neck, then my lips, and then we’re at it again.

I wake up at dawn, the sun yawning above the trees outside the window. Loche has his arms around me. The room still smells like sex and it’s turning me on. We’re spooning. The clock by the bed says it’s not quite six in the morning. It takes me a full ten minutes to unravel myself from his arms. Somehow I manage to break free without waking him up. Our marathon must’ve worn him out. I’m exhausted myself, but it’s hard for me to stay now that I’m awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I watch him sleep for a moment. The covers had come off some time in the night. His flaccid dick lies across his leg. Even soft it’s bigger than most get when they’re fully erect. I’m so tempted to reach out and touch it. His cheek is pressed against his pillow, giving him fish lips, and he snores lightly. He’s so adorable. I want to lean over and kiss him, but I’m afraid to wake him up. I need to get out of here before things get awkward. Creeping down the hall, I grab my dress and put it on, holding my stiletto heels in my hand to keep

them from clicking against the tile. I can’t find my underwear anywhere so I decide to leave it, and lock the door behind me when I leave. Instead of calling a cab, I walk. It’s a comfortably cool morning, and I take that time to think about the crazy night I had. I’m sore from the pounding I received, but it’s a good kind of sore. The kind of ache I could get used to. Unfortunately, it was only one night. I can’t imagine a world where I could actually have a relationship with my teacher. Though I’m over the legal age of consent, there are rules against student-teacher relationships and we broke every single one of them last night. I can’t afford to lose my scholarship over a tryst. The cold cement feels nice on my feet. Something cool between my legs would be nice at the moment too. Some salve or balm, a frozen bag of peas, maybe. We ended up having sex two more times before falling asleep. I couldn’t get enough, and if it weren’t for the limits of my body, I would’ve gone all night with him. As I’m turning the corner, around a wall of perfectly trimmed shrubs, I run right into Serena. Takes me a minute to realize who it is I’m looking at and why she looks so familiar. When it finally hits me, my breath catches and I fight the urge to run the other way. She’s wearing a baby-blue, velour tracksuit, her hair pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head, while a Yorkshire terrier at the

end of a leash shits on someone’s lawn. I look at the dog with its flashy blue collar and top knot, the blonde fur with dark roots, then at Serena. They look oddly similar. Figures that she’d live in this neighborhood. That must be how Loche knew she and Chad were spoiled rich brats. They’re practically neighbors. She immediately bursts into laughter when seeing me. “Oh my god, are you doing the walk of shame right now?” I have a feeling my face is as bright as my dress. “No, I always walk around in heels and a dress at six o’clock in the morning,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. There’s no sense in denying what’s so completely obvious. “Who could you have possibly hooked up with in this neighborhood? It’s all soccer dads and retired people.” “And Chad,” I say, raising an eyebrow. I’m only guessing he lives in this neighborhood. It’s the only neighborhood of its kind in this town, and by the expensive clothes Chad wears, I doubt he’s living in the slums. Her smile immediately shifts into a snarl and I know that I’m right. “Chad wouldn’t touch trailer trash like you with a ten-foot pole.” “Are you sure about that?” I say. She glares at me as I walk away. I can feel the heat of her gaze burning a hole into my back until I’m finally off

that street. It probably wasn’t a good idea to poke a coiled snake, but I’m in no mood for her crap this early in the morning without caffeine.

When Loche was just my teacher, I never really thought about him outside of the classroom except to wonder what he would think about the work I’ve turned in. But now, after everything, I can’t get him off my mind. This is why I don’t date. It’s distracting. There’s a pile of work on my desk that needs to be finished for my English and math classes. But instead, I find myself pacing the floor, wishing he would call. Takes me a while to realize that he doesn’t even have my number and I don’t have his. The only number on file at school belongs to my parents, and if a teacher were to call looking for me, they’d get worried, and then they might go through my bills wondering if I’m in some sort of trouble, which would lead them to my credit card statement and my recent pornography purchase. Now I’m pacing the floor, hoping that he doesn’t call. I need to get him off my mind. I do that by spending the weekend cleaning my dorm, and catching up on my to-be-read list of books I’ve

been putting off. It helps a little. I meet up with my study group and finally whittle down my pile of homework. Things are getting accomplished. There’s hope for me yet. Maybe I could actually focus on school and date someone at the same time. Stop thinking like that, I scold myself. I cannot start something with my teacher. Besides, he probably wouldn’t want to anyway. He has his shit together. What would he want with some struggling student when there are probably a ton of women out there with great jobs and no student loans to contend with, and no nagging parents waiting in the wings? I would be a handful. A burden. Those thoughts take the fire out of me for a while. But it doesn’t last long. By the time Monday rolls around I’m more excited for school than I’ve been since I started kindergarten. I have to suffer though my other classes before it’s time for chemistry. Loche isn’t there yet, so I go to my desk. Serena and her minion boyfriend are in front of me. They twist in their seats, making it impossible for me to ignore them. “So,” Serena says. “Did you manage to sneak a peek at Mr. Johnson’s Rocket Cock, or what?” I look down at my book so they can’t see me flush. “No, I didn’t. And I’m not interested in your dare anymore. It’s obviously not him in that video.”

“I think you did,” Serena says, with a taunting lilt in her voice that instantly puts me on edge. She takes my pencil, rolling it around on the desk. “I was thinking about you this weekend, wondering whose house you could’ve been leaving that morning. You trying to make me think you might’ve been with Chad was so obviously a diversion tactic to get me off the scent of who you were really with.” Chad smiles at me and waggles his brows. I cringe and look at Serena, who watches me carefully. She continues, “My mom knows everyone in our neighborhood, and my dad is the head of the neighborhood watch. At first I thought maybe you were hooking up with some married man, but that doesn’t really seem like your style.” Her expression flirts somewhere between mischief and curiosity. She’s so clearly the predator and I’m her prey, like I’m trapped in some kind of web but don’t know it yet, and won’t until I realize there’s no escape. “And since I know everyone our age living in the neighborhood, and they would never keep their dumpster-diving exploits a secret from the rest of us, I know it wasn’t them. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Mr. Johnson lives in my neighborhood. Weird, right?” she says, feigning surprise. “Who would have thought a teacher would live among the elite?” My stomach drops onto the floor, then bounces

right back up into my throat. “I don’t care what you think, Serena. I wasn’t with Mr. Johnson,” I say. It’s so obviously a lie, but I refuse to give in to her. She can’t prove it, and I’m not about to throw Loche under the bus. Just then he walks into the class. He immediately looks in my direction. I keep my head down, not wanting Serena to see the emotion impossible to hide when I see his face, the longing I’ve felt since I left his home Saturday morning. Her laughter trails behind her as she turns around to face forward, and I’m finally able to exhale. I’m able to ignore Loche for the entire period, even though I want nothing more than to see his face again. I just can’t risk it. The way Serena keeps looking back, I know she’s trying to catch me in the lie, witness me giving him some longing look or a furtive smile. I look at her from time to time and I finally see some doubt in her expression. I give her the universal wide-eyed look of “what the hell do you want?” before she turns around to face forward. At first I think we’ve gotten away with it. That is until the end of class while people are starting to leave and Loche says, “Georgia, could you stay behind, please? I have some questions about Friday’s assignment.”

My shoulders fold downward and I hang my head. “I knew it,” Serena says, chuckling. “Have fun with your boy toy. I can’t imagine what Dean Meyer will think about this.” My head snaps up. “Don’t say a fucking word, Serena. No one will believe you. I’ll deny everything and it’ll look like you’re just some evil bitch spreading vicious rumors.” She shrugs with a smirk spread across her face. “We’ll see about that.” When everyone is gone, Loche closes and locks the door and shuts the blinds. “You shouldn’t do that,” I tell him. He closes the last of the blinds. “Why not.” “Serena knows about us. She saw me walking through your neighborhood, back to the dorms after we—you know.” My face heats up with the mention of that night. He winks at me, seeming completely unperturbed by the threat. “I don’t think she’ll say anything once she sees the glowing A-plus she got on last week’s test.” “I don’t trust her,” I tell him. He comes closer to me until there’s no space left between us. His fingers comb through my hair and I just want to fall into his arms. A muscle ripples along the edge of his jaw. “You let me worry about Serena. What I want to know is why you

snuck out Saturday morning without saying goodbye.” I swallow hard. “I didn’t want things to be awkward between us.” “Like it is now, you mean?” Things don’t feel all that awkward at the moment. Right now I just feel the heat rising between my legs as he presses the stiff lump beneath his khakis against my stomach. My breathing comes in short bursts. I can’t help it. I reach out and touch his stomach and feel that his breathing is rushed too. He presses his lips to mine. The touch of his tongue is all it takes for me to open my mouth and invite him in. There’s nothing gentle about his kiss. I feel his anguish, his desire, in every stroke of his tongue against mine as they coil together, tasting and exploring. He reaches beneath my shirt, finding his way beneath my bra, and grabs my breasts, kneading and pinching my nipples, which sends a torrent of lubricant rushing down my leg. He lifts up my shirt, sucking one of my breasts into his mouth. His tongue flicks my nipple. Each time he does this I feel a jolt that starts in my belly button and races down to my clit. I bite down on the sleeve of his shirt to keep from being too noisy. With one of my nipples occupied by his mouth, he uses his hands to

unbutton my jeans. He dives right in, finding my cleft. “You’re already wet for me?” he says, sounding somewhat surprised, as if he weren’t the most beautiful god-like creature I’ve ever seen in my life that could summon my lust without a word. Two fingers ease their way into me. I can tell I’m still swollen from our marathon fuck last Friday, and there’s still a hint of soreness, but all of that is nothing compared to the intense pleasure being thrust upon me. “I’m gonna fuck you right here on this table,” he says, voice throaty and deep with want. You want my big cock inside you?” I nod vigorously, pushing my hips forward, urging his fingers to go deeper. “I want to hear you say it,” he demands. I let go of his shirt with my teeth. I’m barely able to get the words out, I’m breathing so hard. “I want you to fuck me with your big cock,” I tell him, putting emphasis on the word fuck so there’s no denying that I want it fast and hard. Again, talking dirty feels kind of strange, but I’m getting the hang of it. Plus, it makes me wetter and more uninhibited. He laughs under his breath as I take hold if his slacks with force and pull them and his boxers down, eager to unleash his massive cock. When it’s finally out, and I see it stiff and ready for me, I let out a lusty moan and spread my legs for him.

“I need you,” I say. “Fuck me now.” He holds it in his hand, shaking it, teasing me. “You think your little pussy can handle it without me stretching you first?” Honestly, I don’t know. But I’m feeling adventurous. “Do it.” His sweet smile turns wolfish and he puts the head of his cock against my pussy and with a hard thrust, buries it deep inside. I scream, then I suck in a deep breath. He literally takes the breath right out of me.

6 LOCHE JOHNSON

At first I think I’ve hurt her. After pushing my dick inside of her and hearing her scream, then nothing, I look down at her face and it’s in utter shock. Her entire body shakes. I hold still at first, afraid to move. Her wide eyes find mine, her mouth open. I start to pull out, but she grabs my waist to stop me. “Where do you think you’re going?” she says. “I—um . . .” I’m used to taking command, but the look in her eyes and the way she holds me in place tells me she’s the one in control right now. It’s cute, and I like the swap in rolls for a change. “Nowhere?” “Damn right, now fuck me.” I bite back my smile. “Yes, ma’am.” And so I fuck her. Sweat slicks our skin, and the room is filled with the pat, pat, pat sounds of my

balls slapping against her ass. I hold her legs in the air and watch as I enter and pull out of her. Her clit was deceptively small when I first looked at it, barely a little nub. But when she’s fully aroused, it grows, and is actually big for such a small pussy; it stands up hard and proud. It’s so fucking sexy I have a hard time containing my enthusiasm. I drill firm and fast into her until she’s writhing and cussing and begging for more. I lift her up and pin her to the wall, thrusting hard and fast. Her orgasm detonates. Her tight cunt muscles clamp down on my dick until it feels as if she’s going to cut off my circulation. “Jesus Christ,” I say as she milks my cock with her pussy until I explode inside of her. My muscles turn to mush, and she slides down the wall. I stay inside of her as her legs release me from their grip around my waist. I just want to roll up next to her, hold her, and not let her out of my sight so she can’t escape again. But it’s only a matter of time before a straggling student makes their way back to my class with a question about their assignment. We can’t stay here. Being with her in this room was reckless. It shouldn’t have happened, but I couldn’t stop myself. Regretfully, I pull out of the warmth of her wet, succulent cunt. “Go out with me this weekend,” I say as I watch her get dressed.

She looks at me like she’s confused, as if my words don’t make any sense to her. “Go out?” she says with a laugh. “You mean, like on a date?” “Yes, like, on a date.” “Are you insane?” she says, but I can tell she’s seriously contemplating it. “What if someone sees us?” “We’ll leave town. There’s a restaurant I like to go to once in a while about a half hour from here. It’ll be fun.” When I see the doubt still lingering on her face I say, “It’s a tiny hole-in-the-wall. No one will ever see us.” She’s quiet while she slips on her bra and shirt, thinking. With a long sigh she says, “As long as you’re sure no one will see us.” “It’ll be fine,” I say. “Okay.”

7 GEORGIA

I can’t believe we did it right there in his classroom. Things are getting out of hand. Serena knows about us. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the school does, too. I doubt someone like her will keep it to herself for long. What does she care about grades or getting into a good graduate school? Her parents are probably alumni and she has a free ticket as long as she passes. The next day in chemistry, Loche is late like usual. My eyes fall immediately to his empty desk when I walk in the room. My gaze lingers there until laughter around me grows loud enough to get my attention. When I look up to see what all the laughter is about, my heart squeezes as if it’s being wrung out, and my breath lodges in my throat. Tacked to the walls, covering every inch of blank space, are 8x10 glossy still shots from the porno

Loche was in. Blown up big enough to see his face and other bits too. Full-frontal. No. Serena and Chad sit on top of their desks, smiling and admiring their handy work. No, no, no. I drop my backpack and immediately start to tear down the photos, crumpling them into one large ball. How could Serena be so cruel? She comes up behind me. I smell her perfume and know it’s her before she even speaks. The room starts to close in on me. “What, you don’t like my art project?” she says over my shoulder. I turn around to face her. It takes all the willpower inside of me not to punch her smug face. “Why are you such a bitch?” I say, spitting the words at her. “This is someone’s life. He’s not some plaything for you and your minion to tear apart.” “That’s precious,” Chad says, examining his nails as if he’s already bored with the show. “She’s standing by her man.” Other students, getting only bits and pieces of the whole story, start to whisper about my involvement. I’m like a tornado spinning through the room, reaching, grabbing at photos, pulling them into my vortex. My classmates watch me, doing nothing to help. How can they all be so callous toward such an amazing teacher, one who puts up with a lot of

bullshit from a lot of ungrateful, trust-fund assholes? I’d hoped to have all of the pictures down by the time Loche got back to the classroom, but no such luck. He walks in, holding his leather satchel that he always has with him full of our assignments. He shaved. It gives him a completely different look, one that is more GQ than mountain man, but I like both looks equally. At this point I think I’d find him beautiful even if he grew out some gratuitous biblical beard. I want to go up to him and touch his skin, but, of course, there are more pressing matters at hand. His eyes skim the rows of photos I have yet to take down. He doesn’t look scared or upset at all— maybe somewhat surprised, but only a little. He does nothing to try to take the rest down. If it were me and those were my naked photos everywhere, I would flee and never return, maybe have myself committed somewhere so no one would ever see my face again. But Loche just stands there. His gaze searches the room until he finds me in my corner, a large wad of paper in my hands and tears in my eyes. “I tried to take them down,” I say, my voice weak and desperate. His mouth clamps down, eyes hard when he looks at me. My stomach drops to the floor. He’s pissed at me. Somehow, this is all my fault. Maybe

if I hadn’t been so curious about the video in the first place Serena would’ve let it go. But I had to open my big mouth and become a part of whatever this is. I’m so fucked. The thought of him being mad at me scares me more than anything. That’s when I realize my feelings for him run deeper than I thought. “Georgia, outside. Now.” “But I didn’t—” “Now.” My breath wavers and I swallow down the sick feeling in my stomach. Dropping the photos in the trash bin, I head out of the classroom. On my way, people whisper “good luck” and “you’re in deep shit now,” as if I did all this. They have to know I didn’t do this. I would never. My furious gaze lands on Serena, but she’s not looking at me. Her head is bent over a textbook as if she’s innocent. Bitch. Before the door even shuts behind me, I’m already trying to explain myself. “Loche, I swear I would never—” He grabs my shoulders, pushes me against the wall, and presses his lips against mine in a furious kiss. I’m so stunned at first I don’t kiss him back. But as his warm lips caress mine, I start to sink into his arms, and all the worry I’d felt flutters away for the briefest moment. My tongue slides against his teeth, behind them, the roof of his mouth. I explore,

wanting to feel every part of him. He takes my bottom lip between my teeth, gently biting before kissing me again. If we weren’t in the middle of the school day, I’d be climbing out of my clothes right now. He’s impossible to resist, even with the lingering fear of getting caught sitting in the back of my mind. When he pulls away I say, “I thought you were pissed at me.” His lips and the skin around them are stained pink from the friction of our kiss. Without the stubble on his face I’d never seen them like that before. If I wasn’t scared to death about the consequences of those photos, I’d be smiling. But my expression is incapable of doing anything other than showing fear. “How could I be pissed at you?” he says. I’m left breathless by the adoring way he looks at me. With the tips of his fingers he caresses my cheek. No man has ever looked at me like that before. “You were defending me in there. I saw the whole thing. I was by the door. I heard what you said to Serena.” He hugs me again, burying his face in my hair. I look up and down the halls. We’re alone for now, but we won’t be for long. “We can’t hug and kiss like this at school.” “I know we can’t. Meet me tonight.” “If I go to your house, Serena will see us,” I

say. “Then we’ll go somewhere else. I’ll pick you up in front of the bus station down the street from the dorms at seven.” “Okay.” I sigh, looking back at the classroom. “What are we going to do about all those pictures?” “I’ll take care of it,” he says. But he doesn’t have to, because by the time we get back into the classroom, they’ve already been take down. My only fear is who has them and what they will do with them next.

8 LOCHE JOHNSON

I’m excited to go on a date with Georgia. A real date. I pick her up at the bus station. She’s already waiting for me when I get there at seven. She stands in the middle of a cone of light cast down by a parking lot lamp, stunning in a sparkling black dress with her hair pulled back, showing off her long, slender neck. I get out to open the door for her. “You look beautiful,” I say. She smiles up at me, eyes shining. “So do you.” I made an effort to dress up tonight, wanting to be worthy of being seen in public with such a goddess. Still, no one’s going to be paying a damn bit of attention to me with her standing there, other than to cast their jealous looks my way. I can’t help but stare. I can see this with her. Date nights, special evenings for birthdays,

anniversaries, and other big moments we choose to celebrate. I see a future with this woman. I think I love her. That though paralyzes my lungs. I haven’t had much luck with love. I’ve just never really connected with anyone other than Georgia before. Once she’s in the car, we drive a half hour out of town. I normally listen to blues. She likes something a little faster, so we compromise on classic rock, though neither of us are really listening to the radio since we talk the entire time. Seems like we’ve only been driving a few minutes when I pull into the parking lot of Bocelli’s, a restaurant I found by accident when looking for a place to eat on my way home from a teaching conference. It’s hidden from the road, cozy, and the food is delicious. We’re seated in the back per my request, at a table in the corner. The dim lighting gives her skin a soft glow. “What’s good here?” she asks when we get our menus. “What kind of food do you like?” “Burgers.” I raise my eyebrows. Maybe I didn’t quite think this through. It’s been some time since I was a struggling student myself on a burger budget. Since then my tastes have become a bit more refined. Looking at the menu, I realize nothing is in English. There are no burgers. “The oysters here are great,” I say. Her face

twists comically and I fight the urge to laugh. “What, you don’t like them?” “I’ve never had them, but I’ve seen people eat raw oyster shooters, and, ew.” “These aren’t raw. They’re fried, and they’re fantastic. Haven’t you ever heard that they’re an aphrodisiac?” “Really?” she says, looking skeptical. “How about I order the oysters, you order the steak, and we’ll share.” “Sounds like a deal.” After we order, the waiter brings out a bottle of wine. “So, how the hell are you still single?” she asks after she’s a glass in. I pour another for her. I take slow sips of mine since I’m driving. “Just never met the right girl, I guess.” “How is that even possible? You’re sweet, kind, and arguably the most intelligent person I’ve ever met, and definitely the most attractive.” I can already tell the wine is loosening her up. When we first walked in, she was on edge, peering around the room as if to case the joint. Now she’s molded herself into a comfortable position in the booth, and her gaze rarely leaves my face. Her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, and she seems to be letting down her guard a bit. I blush at the compliment. Other women have told me I was attractive plenty of times, but there’s something humbling about the way Georgia says it.

Feels more genuine when it comes from her versus others. “I don’t know. There’s never been a connection before,” I say. Until now. I want so badly to say it to her, but I’m not sure how. If this is just some casual fling for her, I don’t want to hear it. I’m not ready. All my other relationships have all been physical, but it’s different with Georgia. I can’t tell her that, though. Men aren’t supposed to feel vulnerable and afraid. Except that’s exactly how I feel when I start to open up to this girl. If she said it first, that’s one thing, but I have a feeling her walls are up as well. “What about you, why don’t you have a boyfriend? You’re brilliant and sexy.” She looks down at her wine glass with the most beautiful, shy smile and fingers the stem. “I guess I have the same reasons as you. I’ve never connected with anyone, until—” she starts to say, before being cut off by the waiter. Until what?! I want to yell at the waiter, tell him to go away. Was she about to say something about me? About us? Goddamnit. By the time he leaves, the moment has passed. She’s all but forgotten what she was about to say. Instead, she pokes at the fried oysters with her fork as if they are about to jump off the plate and

attack her. “I’m afraid to try one.” “Be brave,” I say. She looks at me with an eyebrow raised and a hint of a smile. “You first.” I have a feeling none of us are talking about the food. I’m not quite ready for that, so I take an oyster and pop it in mouth to get away from the subject. She tries one next. “It’s good,” she says, nodding her head. “I told you.” Our conversation picks up again. This time we talk about easier things. Our favorite foods, TV shows, movies, and anything else we can think of to learn more about each other. Spending time with her is easy. There’s never any uncomfortable lulls in the conversation, and even when neither of us are talking, I just enjoy her company. We only pick at our food because we’re laughing and having too good of a time to eat. She sips her wine and I switch to iced tea, and we talk until the restaurant is about to close. When the waiter comes around and asks us if we’d like anything else, I tell him, “No, thank you, just the check,” because I want to get this girl home and in my bed as soon as possible. The alcohol has made her flirty. I think she knows where I’m going with this, because she gives

me a sultry look with hooded eyes and a crooked smile, and she touches my foot beneath the table with hers. After I pay the bill, we get up to leave. I lean in and whisper in her ear as we walk toward the exit, “I can’t wait to get you out of that dress and peel your panties off with my teeth.” She tilts her head up to look at me and whispers back, “I’m not wearing any.” This catches me off guard, and I feel myself blush and laugh like a nervous schoolboy. Maybe we won’t make it back to the house after all. All the different locations I can take her in my car start firing off in my head. There’s a wooded area off the highway a few miles down, or the bluffs where the students like to park. Though having sex in a muscle car with bucket seats isn’t ideal, I’m sure we can make it work. I playfully bite her ear. She stops so suddenly I run into the back of her and have to grab her waist to keep her from catapulting forward. At first I laugh because I think she tried to trip me up on purpose, but when I see her face frozen in shock, I look up and find Dean Meyer, my boss, standing with his wife in front of us. “Loche,” he says, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. He glances at Georgia, then back at me. Realization irons out the confusion wrinkling his face as he figures out what he’s seeing.

While it’s not unheard of for a teacher to take students out to celebrate an accomplishment in the class, it’s typically with a group or somewhere brightly lit and very public, during the day. Definitely not a secluded, romantic restaurant. I straighten up and take my hands off of Georgia’s waist. “Hello, Dean Meyer,” I say. He lifts his chin. I can tell he wants to get to the bottom of this right now, but this is not the time nor the place. By the way his wife folds her arms over her chest, it’s obvious she’s put out by the interruption in their night. My blood drains and my hands turn clammy. I guess I didn’t need my sex tape to ruin my career after all. There won’t be any wriggling my way out of this one. I clear the lump in my throat and say, “I suppose I should explain myself.” “Yes,” the dean says, “you should, but I’m out with my wife for our thirtieth anniversary, so we’ll talk about this tomorrow in my office, first thing in the morning.” “Right, of course,” I say. He turns and walks away without another word. I glance at Georgia. She’s looking up at me with big, frightened eyes. My thoughts are spinning. I can only imagine what’s going on in her head. It’s not just my career that’s ruined over this. She could very well lose her scholarship too. I won’t let that

happen.

Georgia sits in the passenger seat with her bare feet propped on the dashboard. “I can’t believe we were caught by Dean Meyer of all people,” she says. I’m still sorting everything out in my head, thinking of a way to fix this, but I’m coming up with nothing. “You’re quiet,” she says. I can feel her eyes on me. I’m trying not to freak out, punch the steering wheel and cuss like I want to. I don’t want to frighten her. “I’m just thinking,” I say. “Maybe you should just drop me off back at the dorm instead of both of us going back to your place,” Georgia says, resigned. I know I’m not the greatest company at the moment; I’m not the most communicative person when I’m upset, but the last thing I want is for her to leave. I won’t stop her if she doesn’t want to be around me, though. I wouldn’t blame her. “Is that what you want?” I ask, hoping she’ll say no. “Of course not. But if someone sees me at your house it’ll be worse for you.”

I look off into the distance, the muted glow of my headlights leading the way, bugs darting in and out of their beams. “I don’t care about that. I just want to be with you tonight.” She’s quiet. When I glance over at her, she’s staring out the window. “Okay.”

Georgia hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes. I start to think maybe it would be better if I took her home. Tonight was a lot to take in and perhaps it would be best if we both took some time to process it. But as soon as we walk into the house, she starts to take off her clothes. Shoes first, dress second, then others items follow. I just stand in the doorway, waiting to see what happens next. “Do you want me or not?” she says. I don’t hesitate. Kicking the door shut with my foot, I immediately begin taking off my clothes too. She waits for me by the couch. I kiss her, tasting the wine still on her tongue. She makes fists in my hair, keeping our lips sealed together, pulling our naked bodies closer together. She kisses me like her life depends on it. Suddenly Dean Meyer and my imminent ruin have left my thoughts, and all there is room for in my head is her. Her touch, her scent, her kiss. Her body.

She twists in my arms, exposing her backside to me. That round, pale, beautiful butt. I bend her over the arm of my couch and kneel to worship her. I kiss the fat fleshy mounds from top to bottom, then spread her open and bury my face in her delicious pussy. Each time I take a break to catch my breath, it’s stolen away again by the view. Young and pink and vivid. The sweet scent of her arousal makes my cock twitch with desperation. I want to be inside her where it’s warm and wet and safe from the stresses of the outside world. Once my lungs are no longer heaving, I go in for more, my tongue painting her folds and the tiny split of her entrance. She moans and rolls her hips, pushing back on me to drive my tongue deeper into her. “Please fuck me,” she begs. I pull back to give myself room to talk. “We’ll get to that, but right now I’m going to eat your hot cunt until you cum on my face.” Back in the fray, all it takes is a little dirty talk and a skilled tongue to send her over the edge. She lets out a loud, desperate moan that turns into a cry. Reaching behind her, she grabs the back of my head and pushes my face into her creamy mound, smearing my face with her juices. I lick them up like a starving man. When she finally lets go, I fill my empty lungs

with air and catch my breath again. Being on the verge of suffocation so many times has made me lightheaded, euphoric. I never understood autoerotic asphyxiation before, but I’m starting to get it now. Strings of her cum drip onto the floor. Normally I’d lick her clean, but we’ll need that lubrication for what I have in store for her. I sit on the couch. “Ride me,” I tell her. “I want to see your tits bounce and watch your face the next time I make you cum. Before she climbs on my lap, she puts on a little show, bending over, spreading her ass cheeks, looking over her shoulder to watch my reaction. I immediately reach for my dick and start to stroke it. She turns around to face me, climbs onto the couch, standing over me with one foot on either side of my hips. Again she spreads herself, her pussy this time, making it gape. It’s a small gape, but enough for me to take a glimpse inside. I have to stop touching myself before I cum. She squats over me, her ass hovering in the air a moment before she sits, spearing herself on my prick. She holds onto my shoulders for leverage and slowly begins her ride. I feel the surface of her vaginal wall with the tip of my dick. She can’t go any further. She’s taken as much as she can, and yet there’s still roughly three inches of cock still exposed. She tries to push

herself further, and somehow there’s a little more give, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m about to fuck her cervix. There’s a definite tightness there, but it feels amazing, and so I let her do what she wants to do. She knows her body. She can make these calls. Her mouth opens and whimpers spill out. “It hurts,” she says, and yet doesn’t try to release the pressure by easing up. Her legs start to shake. “But it feels so good at the same time.” Just when I start to fear that I’m about to stab through her womb, she sits up until only the head of my dick is still inside of her, then impales herself again. She does this over and over until I can’t take anymore. I grab her hips one last time and thrust hard and deep inside of her until I explode. She screams, her body writhing and twisting. Her pussy strangles my cock as her orgasm rips through her with brutal force. Until she finally collapses against my chest. We sit like this a while, spent and useless. Me, running my fingers through her sweaty hair, while she trails delicate kisses along my jawline. Not talking, just being here together in silence. It’s not uncomfortable one bit. Just the opposite. I’ve never been this comfortable with anyone in my life. A half hour passes when suddenly I get my second wind. I’m still inside of her, growing hard

again as I lift both of us off the couch. Her legs wrap around me and she giggles, trying to hold on. I carry her upstairs for round two.

9 GEORGIA

In the morning, Loche and I are awake before either of our alarms go off. Even after several rounds, we’re not exhausted enough to sleep through the anxiety we both face. I’m wrapped up in his arms. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay like this, in the comfort and safety of him forever. But I have to figure out a way to get Dean Meyer not to can Loche and take away my scholarship. When I try to leave, Loche holds tighter. “I have to go,” I say, smiling as he grumbles. “Let’s just forget about everything and stay here. We can watch movies and eat junk food and pretend we’re not adults.” “As amazing as that sounds, you know we can’t. I’m gonna call a cab.” “Let me take you back to the dorm,” he says. “It’s too risky. I don’t want anyone to see us.”

His midnight-black Camaro with black rims and a V8 that can wake the dead isn’t exactly subtle. “Fine,” he says, and finally releases me from his grip. “But find me later.” “I’ll see you in class this afternoon.” The thin smile on his face makes me think there might not be a class this afternoon.

Before my first class starts, I make an appointment to see Dean Meyer. I’m sitting in the waiting area with his secretary, going over a rough argument I prepared. It’s difficult to focus with the clack, clack, clack of acrylic nails on the keyboard as the secretary speed-types. Every time I look up at the clock, five minutes have passed. I’ve been sitting here twenty minutes so far. I just want to get this over with. Another five and I’ll be late for English. I might even have to miss it. I’ve never missed a class before. Not for illness or any other reason. The phone rings. His secretary answers it and continues to type at the same time. Finally, she puts down the phone, looks at me, and says, “He’ll see you now.” I go into the dean’s office. No one else comes out. Twenty minutes. What the hell was he doing in

his room alone for twenty minutes? Maybe he heard it was me here to see him and he just wanted to make me squirm. Well, it worked. Blood rushes in my ears and my heart is like a caged animal thrashing in my chest. This is too much. It’s more grownup than anything I’ve had to deal with since graduating high school. I want to walk away and forget everything. The only thing keeping me grounded is knowing I’m doing this for Loche. I’d do anything for him. “Shut the door behind you,” Dean Meyer says. He sits behind an imposing desk. On top of it are pictures of his wife and grown children placed in matching gold frames. He stacks a pile of loose papers in front of him. The task seems more important to him than giving me his full attention. Funny how I used to really admire this guy, but now that my scholarship and Loche’s job are on the line, I’m looking for the horns and pitchfork hiding beneath that very obvious rug on his head. Folding my hands in my lap, I say, “I wanted to talk to you about what you saw at the restaurant last night.” Not that what he saw could be misconstrued as anything but what it was. I’m going to tell the truth, for the most part. I think that’s best. But in the hours between when I got back to my dorm this morning and sitting here, I read the entire manual

on student conduct. I will inform him that there are no definitive rules stating that a teacher cannot date an adult student. It’s only frowned upon when it comes to ethics and morals. Unfortunately, by me pointing this out, I’ll be saying Loche doesn’t have those qualities that this particular school finds important enough to make as their motto. But, not having those things is not grounds to terminate his job. Especially if that student will no longer be attending that school. The thought of leaving fills me with such a deep sadness, my vision starts to turn gray. I shake my head and square my shoulders, pulling myself together. I need to stay strong or I will never get through this without breaking down, and I refuse to cry or appear weak in front of this man. Before I can say another word on the matter, Dean Meyer stops me and says, “There’s no need. Mr. Johnson already came to speak with me this morning.” “He did . . .” I say, hanging off the edge of my seat. “He resigned from his position.” “What?” I say, voice rising. “He can’t do that. This wasn’t his fault.” The dean stops what he’s doing and looks at me with eyebrows raised. “He did it to save your scholarship. As I’m sure you’ve probably read in the manual of conduct, students on scholarship can

be released for any reason that might jeopardize the moral or ethical reputation of this establishment. While it does have to go in front of a board for vote before that can happen, I’m fairly certain having an affair with a teacher will fall under that category. You’re welcome to roll the dice, Georgia, but Mr. Johnson fought to save your scholarship. I think he’d be highly disappointed if he threw himself under the bus for nothing.” “But—” I start to say when Dean Meyer interrupts. “I can tell by the look on your face that you’re willing to do whatever it takes to protect him, because he had that same look on his face when he came in here to protect you. I gave him the option to either end his relationship with you or leave his job. He chose to leave. Let it go.” I close my mouth. It’s been hanging open this whole time. “Good day,” the dean says. “Please close the door on your way out.” Unable to get words out, I stand and walk out of his room and close the door. His secretary watches me leave, no doubt hearing everything.

I still can’t believe Loche would rather leave his

job than end his relationship with me. That’s more than a fling. I know that I love him, but I’d had my doubts about his feelings toward me. Until now. I need to find him. Find out what happened. See how he’s doing. This can’t be easy for him. You don’t just fill out an application and hand it over to a manager to get a job as a professor as a prestigious university. That takes time, money, commitment. He must be devastated. I have to be there for him. I go to his house, ditching my classes for the day. It’s probably the most rebellious thing I’ve ever done in my life—well, besides sleeping with my teacher. But I’m sure the world won’t stop and my grades won’t plummet for missing one day. I take a cab to his house. When I get there, he’s sitting on the porch swing with his borrowed cat curled up on his lap. Loche smiles when he sees me. “What did you do?” I say, trying to sound firm, but my voice withers away into a pathetically sad sound. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” he says. “I had to come see you.” “I take it you talked to Dean Meyer.” Tears start to fall without me realizing they were even there. Suddenly I’m imagining a life without Loche in it. No more seeing him every day in chemistry, my favorite teacher just a favorite memory. What if he starts to resent me after this? If

he struggles to pay his bills or can’t get another teaching job, he’ll ultimately blame me. I don’t want to lose him. He stands up, moving the cat to the side. The cat glares at him a moment for interrupting his comfortable spot before finding a different spot on the cushion. Loche comes toward me. I should meet him half way but my legs won’t move. I’m afraid if I try, they’ll collapse. He pulls me into a hug and I breathe in his familiar scent, his warmth. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I let the tears flow freely now. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him, trying not to be too loud even though my body is going through the motions of wracking sobs. “It’s okay,” he says, kissing my forehead and rubbing comforting circles across my back. “No, it’s not okay. I doubt Dean Meyer will give you a letter of recommendation after all of this.” I look up at his beautiful house. I can’t imagine living like this, then having to move into an apartment or something worse. “I don’t need one,” he says. I pull back to look at him. He wipes tears from my face with his thumbs. “What do you mean? How will you get another teaching job? Without a letter of recommendation, you’ll be asked why you left and you’ll have to tell them the truth. No one

will hire you after you slept with a student—even if it’s perfectly legal.” “I know,” he says. I shake my head, confused. “I don’t get it.” “I don’t need a teaching job. I don’t need a job at all. I was only teaching because it was something I worked so hard to do, but honestly, I don’t love it anymore. There are other things I’d rather do with my time.” “What do you mean you don’t need a job? How will you survive?” His cheeks flush and he looks at his hands that are now on my shoulders. “After I got paid for being in the movie, I used some of that money to patent a formula I came up with for a longer-lasting lubricant. It ended up changing the sex industry, actually. I made enough to where I don’t need to work anymore.” I just stare at him, wide-eyed. “Are you serious?” He smiles and shrugs. “Let me guess, does it involve coconut oil?” He laughs. “Maybe a little.” His gaze finds mine and he gets this serious look on his face. “I’m excited to see where this thing between us goes. I want to be with you.” He bites his lip, looking more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. “What?” I say. “I’m in love with you.”

I hesitate, but only for a moment, my muscle memory still fearing someone will see us. But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore. I launch myself into his arm and kiss him. I don’t want to stop kissing him, but the words are fighting to get out of me. “I love you too,” I say, more tears spilling down my cheeks, but this time with laughter falling shortly behind. We can be a couple. He actually wants that from me, and I want it too. More than anything. He takes me by the hand and leads me into the house. We’re barely through the door when I start to take off his shirt, and I kiss his nipples, sliding my tongue across them. I’ve heard men’s are just as sensitive as women’s. The way he groans make me think they really are. While my tongue is busy, I unbutton his jeans and pull them down, along with his boxers. He steps out of them. I don’t touch him right away, wanting to make this moment last, prolong the pleasure. Instead, I touch everything but his dick. Tickle his belly button, run my fingers along the trail of hair beneath it. Follow it down to his trimmed pubes and brush my fingers through it. His breathing quickens and his cock twitches. But still I don’t touch it. Crouching down, I kiss his stomach and make my way down. My lips hover over the head of his cock, breathing lightly, softly blowing on it. He

shivers. “You’re driving me crazy, you know that, don’t you?” he says. My face stays at crotch level while I look up at him with only my eyes. “That’s the point.” He moves my hair off my face so he can watch as I lip the silky skin of his balls and take one of them in my mouth, rolling it around softly with my tongue. He tilts his head back. “Oh, God,” he says in a husky, breathy voice. He doesn’t stay that way long, eager to keep watching the action. Snaking out my tongue, I take turns licking and kissing up the shaft of his prick until I reach the head. A few rings around the rim and I’m putting the entire thing in my mouth. I poke the hole with the tip of my tongue, tasting the salty goodness of his pre-cum. He massages my shoulder as I swallow him down, going slow while trying to breathe through my nose so I don’t have to come back up for air. Relaxing my throat, I take more of him. The more he groans and gets excited, the faster I move, until he’s thoroughly fucking my face. I feel just like one of the girls in porn, taking as much as he gives, and it’s so fucking hot that I keep going even after he warns me that he’s about to cum. I want it. I want to taste it, drink it. He lets out a guttural sound and grabs the sides

of my face, holding me still while his cum fills my mouth. Strings of it hit the back of my throat. There’s a lot of it, and it’s hard to swallow at first, but I manage. It takes him a minute to recover. He sits down on the couch to rest, a silly smile on his face. “That was amazing,” he says. He grabs my waist and pulls me toward him. As he undresses me, there’s a familiar pressure deep in my groin that I only feel when I’m with him. It’s that need to have him inside me. A yearning ache. He pulls my pants off and my panties. He does the same thing I did to him, teasing, toying with me. His fingers flutter over the top of my mons, tickling me. Then his finger dips into the cleft, finding my clit. Swaying, I enjoy the sensation of being touched on that most tender part. His narrowed, hungry gaze slides over my body, before he pushes me down on the couch. He grabs my knees and pulls them apart, then positions himself and sinks into me. I squirm beneath him, bucking my hips as he envelopes my breast in his mouth, flicking the tip of my nipple with his tongue. The way he bends and folds my limbs like some kind of marionette is welcomed; I have no control over my body. I want pleasure and don’t care how I get it. At one point he flips me over onto my stomach and enters me from behind. While pushing

into me, I feel him spread my butt cheeks apart with his hands. His wet finger glides along the cleft of my ass, back and forth several times until coming to a stop at my hole. There’s a distinct pressure that I’m not expecting. Is he . . . yes he is. His finger enters my asshole. I’m so stunned by the sudden intrusion that I’m not sure what to do. At first I just lie here, doing nothing. His dick in my pussy feels so amazing, and surprisingly, the addition of his finger in my ass only enhances it. So I let it happen. I’ve always wanted to try anal, but never thought it would be for me. That’s the kind of thing brave, outgoing girls do, not shy bookworms. As he pumps his finger in and out, getting me closer to my orgasm, I start to think maybe I’m one of those brave girls, after all, because I’m loving it. I arch my back, urging him on. “You like that?” he asks. “It feels so good,” I moan. The second he enters another finger, I’m coming. “Yeah, baby, cum for me,” he says. I’m crying out his name, unable to contain my voice. He pulls his cock out of my pussy and puts it up against my asshole. At first I think he’s going to try and shove his monster inside of me and I’m genuinely terrified. But he doesn’t. Instead, I feel the wet, sticky warmth as ropes of cum spit into my

open asshole. I lie where I’m at, flaccid, and happy. When he’s done, I roll onto my side, and he lies down beside me so we’re facing each other. “Move in with me,” he says. I laugh. Clearly he’s still in a postcoital haze. “Funny.” “I’m being serious. I don’t live that far from campus, and since I’m not working I can drive you there. And this way I still get to see you every day. My house is plenty big enough for the both of us, and . . .” The cutest smile stretches across his face. “We can fuck like rabbits every night and just fall asleep in bed. You won’t have to worry about going home at night or sneaking off in the morning.” “Aww, I see where this is going. You just want your own personal blowup doll around whenever you want to get laid.” He playfully slaps my ass. “You know it.” “I see how it is.” His smile slips away and his expression becomes serious. “Really though, I want you to move in with me. I love you. I want to have a life with you. I wouldn’t have given up my job if I wasn’t serious about making this relationship work. I’ve never felt like this about anyone in my life.” The air grows heavy in my lungs. I love him too, more than anything. My parents will freak when they find out I’ve left the dorms and moved

in with an older man—my former teacher, nonetheless—but I don’t care. I want to be with him. “Yes, I will move in with you.” He kisses my forehead, the tip of my nose, and then my lips, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.

EPILOGUE LOCHE JOHNSON

One Year Later

Georgia comes into the bathroom, where I’m brushing my teeth and grabbing the things I forgot to pack and putting them in our overnight bag. “Are you sure you feel up to meeting my parents?” she asks. “I can tell them you have the flu.” I spit out toothpaste and rinse my mouth. “It’s been a year since you moved in with me, I think it’s finally time I met them.” She fixes my collar and kisses me. I take her hand. “You ready?” I ask her. “I think so,” she says with a deep breath and a

smile. We double-check our packing list and head for the airport. After a long flight and a four-hour layover, our plane finally lands. This will be my first time meeting Georgia’s parents, but I’ve actually talked to her mom several times on the phone, just friendly chatter to get to know one another more. When she sidelined me, asking me to come to their Thanksgiving dinner, I wasn’t sure what to say, and so I just said yes. “Why would you do such a thing?” Georgia had asked, panicked out of her mind. She’s concerned about what they’ll think about me being ten years older than she is and a former teacher at the university she attends. Not that she never planned to tell them; she just wanted to ease her way into the conversation. After a year of us being together, the subject could’ve found its way into a conversation sooner, but I never said that—they’re her parents and she can deal with them how she wants. Of course we won’t tell them that I was her teacher and our relationship is the reason I’m no longer employed there. If they don’t ask, I won’t bring it up. If they do, I’ll just explain that I found opportunities elsewhere—which is true. I’m now working in a lab, creating chemical formulas for cosmetic and skincare companies. Sort of a dream job, utilizing

my skills as a chemist instead of teaching others how to hone theirs. Had I not met Georgia, it might not have ever happened. I pull the rented car up to a small, quaint house with the all-American white picket fence out front, and a giant oak tree with a tire swing hanging from its limb that has been there so long the tree has started to grow around the rope itself. Must’ve been left over from Georgia’s childhood. I can imagine a younger version of her, with knobby knees and sun-kissed, long, awkward legs, as she kicked at the ground to push herself higher. Early Christmas lights are hung, gearing up for the holidays, and pumpkins and Indian corn decorate the porch. There are several cars in the driveway. “My brothers are already here,” Georgia says. I have to admit, I’m a little intimidated by the idea of meeting her entire family at the same time. There are three brothers in all, two of them fully grown, married, and with kids of their own, as well as a younger brother still in high school. “Great,” I say. “Can’t wait to meet them.” I’d hoped to ease into the situation by meeting her parents first and getting them to like me, before meeting the older, protective brothers. I figured if I had the parents’ approval, the brothers would follow suit. Now I have to impress everyone at the same time. I just hope I have it in me. I’m carrying two bottles of champagne in my

arms, the same Dom Perignon that I’d bought for my first evening with Georgia. The Christmas lights flicker on and the front door opens before we’ve made it to the porch. Her parents crowd in the doorway, their smiles beaming at their daughter. “George,” her dad says. The nickname is funny and suits her, in a way. Her dad is older than I was expecting, probably in his late sixties, with silver hair and a kind face. Her mom, on the other hand, can’t be older than early fifties, with long dark hair and streaks of blond that twist up in a bun. Maybe the age difference between me and Georgia won’t be an issue, since it’s clearly the same situation as her parents. “And you must be Loche,” her mom says with outstretched hands. I take her awaiting hands and she gives mine a squeeze. “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Brightly,” I say. “Please, call me Angela.” “Come on you two, let’s go in before the food gets cold,” her dad says. It’s probably already cold. We were supposed to be here and hour ago, but with our delayed flight, there was nothing I could do. Inside, the house is exactly how I pictured it would be: cozy, lived in, pictures of their family covering all available surfaces. We go into the

dining room, where the table has been set. The rest of her family has already taken their seats and are waiting on us. It’s a large table with an elegant lace tablecloth and gold runner down the middle. Large clear vases filled with cranberries and dried flowers in fall colors make up the centerpieces, and the entire room is lit with candles. It’s comfortable and homey, filled with voices, laughter, children, and memories being made. “This is my oldest brother, Cameron, his wife, Jenny, and their two kids, Marley and Trixie,” Georgia says, introducing me. Cameron is well groomed, a kind of nerdy looking guy, his wife a bit overweight but pretty. Their two small children, neither of them over five, keep reaching for the candles, their mother patting at their hands. The middle brother’s name is Blake. He eyes me skeptically, but it’s a bit over-rehearsed, like he’s been practicing at being intimidating. If he wasn’t nearly a foot shorter than me and about seventy pounds shy, it might’ve had the desired effect. His wife has a terrible case of resting bitch face and looks as though she’d rather be anywhere but here at the moment with her young children arguing over silverware at the table. The youngest, London, sixteen, has sort of a goth thing going on, wearing eyeliner and black clothes. He wears headphones and plays a handheld

video game. I feel like I already know these people from everything Georgia has said about them. “Hi, everyone. It’s good to finally meet you,” I say. I go around the table, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries until I get to London, who ignores me. We sit down to eat. Mrs. Brightly brings out a large turkey, and there’s every side dish I can imagine. They go about the table and say what they’re grateful for. The two older brothers say their jobs and family. Georgia’s parents say the same. London says “tits” and his dad threatens to send him to his room, and the younger kids who know what tits are laugh. This causes enough of a distraction so that the family forgets that Georgia and I haven’t said what we are thankful for, but I lean over to her and whisper, “I’m grateful for you.” “Funny, I was gonna say the same thing about you,” she says, nudging my arm with an elbow. We start eating. I’m in and out of different conversations with the older brothers when Georgia’s mom asks, “Will the two of you be staying in Georgia’s old room tonight?” Her dad’s eyebrows rise as if it just now occurred to him that Georgia and I might be sleeping together. London looks up for the first time, his black eyeliner gooped up in the inner corners of his eyes.

“I better not hear you going at it tonight,” he says. “London!” cries Mrs. Brightly. Cameron slaps him on the back of the head and tells him not to talk like that in front of the children. Georgia’s dad just shakes his head like he’s used to this kind of behavior. It’s quiet for several uncomfortable seconds. I’m not sure what to say. Not about London, and not about our sleeping arrangements. We hadn’t made prior plans. I wanted to get a feel for the place and Georgia’s family, gage my comfort levels before deciding what to do and what options were available to us. I just assumed I’d be sleeping on a couch somewhere, which is fine since we’re only here for a couple of days. “Actually,” Georgia says, “I figured Loche and I would find a motel in town. That way the little ones will have a place to sleep.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Are you sure?” Mrs. Brightly says. “There’s plenty of room. We can bring out the air mattresses. I don’t want you to spend any more money than you have to.” “We’re sure, Mom.” After dinner, we head toward the Hilton. Being around her family was nice, and I enjoyed hearing stories about Georgia’s life when she was younger, but the screaming children were a bit much. One

day I’d like to have a few of my own with Georgia, but until then, I’ll enjoy the silence. Once we’re in a suite, Georgia goes to the mirror in the bathroom and takes off her earrings and washes off her makeup. “I’m so sorry about my family. They can be over the top.” While she’s busy in the bathroom, I take the engagement ring out of my pocket and put it in my overnight bag among my toiletries. Then I take off everything but my boxers and prepare for bed. “Are you kidding? I like your family. Your brother London was a trip.” I was going to give her the ring tonight at dinner with her family watching, but with her little brother being a tool and all the kids running around screaming, I couldn’t find the right moment. Both Georgia and I are quiet people, more intimate than outlandish—other than the time I made that porn. I suppose it comes from years with our heads in books. I don’t think Georgia would appreciate some public spectacle of a proposal like I’ve seen from others. Something more intimate seems closer to her style. Something genuine, from the heart. I’ve scraped my brain for ideas on how to propose. If this keeps up, it’ll never happen. I decide just to go for it. Even though I’m closer to my bag than Georgia is, I say, “Babe, could you grab the ibuprofen from my overnight bag, please?”

Concern touches her voice. “Why, are you all right?” “Just a little headache.” She goes for the bag. The ibuprofen isn’t in there. She’ll search through every inch of the bag before realizing that. She was in the middle of changing into her night clothes when I called on her and is only in a thong and bra. I smile at the sight of her gorgeous round ass spreading as she squats to look inside. The content of my bag is being tossed aside as she searches. “I don’t think . . .” Her voice trails off. She must’ve found it, but I can’t tell for sure because her back is to me. The waiting is giving me heart palpitations. Seems like forever as she sits there, silent. She’s probably wondering if she was supposed to see it. If maybe she found it by accident and had ruined some great surprise I had planned. But after a year, she knows me better than that. I get up off the bed and walk toward her. She slowly stands from her crouch and turns toward me. The velvet box is cradled in her hands, tears shimmer in her eyes, and her nose turns pink. “Is this what I think it is?” she asks, her voice thick with emotion. I take the box from her and kneel down on one knee.

Her hands cover her mouth and the unshed tears spill over. I show her the ring. A two-carat princess-cut diamond solitaire with a platinum band. She stares into the box, eyes growing wide. “Georgia Brightly, will you marry me?” She lets out a quick sob, a burst of sound, before clamping her mouth shut, and nods vigorously, unable to get words out. Then she simply says, “Yes!” I take the ring from its cushion and slip it on her finger. A perfect fit like I knew it would be. I’d taken one of her other rings to the jewelry store when I was having it sized, just to make sure. As soon as I’m on my feet again, she throws herself in my arms, and we both tumble onto the bed in a heap of entwined limbs with me on top. Her arms wrapped around my neck, she kisses me hard and deep, her grateful tongue searching out for mine. Her tongue tastes like strawberry—it’s always sweet even without chewing gum or eating candy. By the time I release her mouth from mine, my dick is at full-mast and aching to be inside her. Sitting up, I dig beneath her until I find the clasp of her bra and unleash her from its burden. The small, delicious mounds of her breasts are too inviting to ignore. I lip at a puffy pink nipple, sucking it into my mouth, while my other hand pinches and pulls at the other.

She clings to me with her silky thighs, moaning and arching her back to push her panty-clad pussy against my steel cock. I release her breast from my mouth and kiss the hard tip. I spread her legs apart. When I position myself in front of her, I grab her heels and place them on my shoulders, and I slowly rock into her. She moans as I slide my hands down her narrow waist. I reach for her full hips and take hold, pulling her closer, pushing in another inch. Once I’m fully engulfed by the velvet walls of her vagina, I lean forward, folding her in half, our faces nose to nose. Gently kissing her soft mouth, I tell her, “I love you so much.” I want to burrow beneath the satin layers of skin, crawl between her wet folds, be so deep inside of her she feels it in every fiber of her being. She looks up at me with the most radiant smile. “I love you too.”

THE END

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Chapter 1 Vera I read the email again for the third time, the disappointment sinking into my chest and sticking like glue.

Dear Ms. Caldwell,

Thank you very much for giving us the chance to consider you. We have reviewed your application and the supplemental materials you sent, but we are sorry to say that we are not able to offer you a position at this time. Please feel free to continue checking our website so that you may apply again if another position becomes available.

Best, The Essex Foundation Recruiting Team

P.S. We very much enjoyed meeting with you this past week. Please give our best to your father.

I don’t understand what’s happening here. I walked out of that interview feeling amazing. I connected with my interviewers, and they seemed genuinely interested in me. They also seemed really intrigued by my insistence on working in low-income areas. Plus, I rocked the test they gave me—hypothetical plans for a neighborhood square. What could have possibly gone wrong? I guess it doesn’t really matter why. Once someone turns you down, that’s it. I sigh, grabbing a pen and crossing off The Essex Foundation from my list of applications. That’s my twenty third rejection in the last three months. It’s only the fourth time I even got an interview. I try not to take it personally anymore, but it feels personal. I glance down at my list of outstanding applications. It’s getting thin now. I’ll have to take some time tonight to send some more out because I’m running out of time. Wandering down to the kitchen, I grab a sleeve

of Oreos from the secret stash that our chef Gregory keeps for me. It’s definitely cookie time. I get a glass of milk and a fork and dig in, pushing the fork through the cream and dunking. I watch little air bubble pop up as the cookie absorbs the milk. Whoever thought of this combination should be added to the list of saints. I’m halfway through the sleeve when my mother comes into the kitchen. “Uh-oh,” she says, “I know that face and I know that snack.” My mother pretends to understand my obsession with Oreos, though she doesn’t. To her, processed food is the devil and all evil springs from it. But she tries not to judge too much. I shove another cookie in my mouth. “Another rejection?” she asks. “The Essex Foundation.” “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. I know you wanted that one.” I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge whether she’s being sincere. Neither of my parents agrees with my professed choice of career, but just like the Oreos, my mom tries to give me as much support as she can. From the look on her face, she’s actually a bit sad for me. That’s nice. She pours herself a glass of water and perches on a bar stool across from me. “What happened?” The last thing I want to do is rehash everything

I’ve been thinking about for the last hour, but I know better than to not answer. She’ll just continue to ask me pointed questions until I do. I shake my head. “I honestly don’t know. That was the interview I felt best about. The interviewers and I really had a great conversation, and I thought we connected. I was really confident about the sample materials I sent in. I just…I don’t know.” “Well,” my father’s voice cuts across the kitchen, “If they didn’t hire you, it’s obviously not the right place for you. Time to move on.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My father is Timothy Caldwell. Yes, that Timothy Caldwell. Architect to the stars, builder of half the celebrity homes and high rises in L.A., and number one on the list of people who disapprove of my life choices. “I am moving on, Dad,” I say, “I thought maybe I’d just take an hour to regroup.” I dunk another Oreo a little too forcefully, causing some milk to spill onto the counter. Dad comes into the kitchen and stands in front of my mother, who helps him fix his tie automatically. This has been one of their routines for as long as I can remember. Whenever my father goes out to meet a client, my mother gets the final polish. “How much longer?” he asks. My stomach drops. I know exactly what he’s talking about and I don’t even want to think about it because it makes me nauseous. “A week.”

We made a bargain. Well, I say we made it, but it was basically my father dictating the terms. He said he’d give me till the end of the summer—the actual calendar day at the end of the summer—to find a job on my own, doing whatever I wanted. If it didn’t happen, he’d draft me into service at his company. I think the phrase he used was, ‘you’ll come work for me,’ but being drafted is probably more accurate. Now, I’ve got only one week left until the deadline, and then I get swept against my will into the high-end world of luxury real estate. That is nowhere near where I want to be. I’m grateful for the money that I’ve grown up with, but I have no interest in building a millionaire’s fourth home. I’ve been given a lot, and I would much rather try to pass what I can on to people that need it instead of serving the people who can afford more than enough. “Thank goodness for that,” my father says, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of his favorite green tea to go with him. “I’d much rather have you learning the ropes with me. I didn’t build an empire just to leave it to no one.” I sigh pointedly. “Dad, your empire is very impressive,” I say dutifully, “but building the fourth house of some pop star is the furthest thing from what I want.” “Vera, you’re twenty-two,” he says, his face

darkening. “You don’t know what you want. And since you don’t have a job or a house or money of your own, I would think you’d be grateful that I paid for the entirety of your education and that I’m willing to give you a place at the company. Not all fathers would be willing to do that.” I glance over at my mother, and she nods encouragingly. I know she agrees with him, but she doesn’t want to pile any more stress onto me. I appreciate that at least, but the anger boiling up inside is too much not to let out. “You did pay for everything, and I’m very grateful for that. I’m thankful that you have allowed me to be debt free. But up till now you also let me choose. So why does everything I’ve worked for go out the window just three months after graduation?” He doesn’t even bat an eye at my words. Nothing ever riles my father, which infuriates me even more. “Because I know this world better than you. You had your fun, and it’s good to have dreams. The things you talk about are very noble, Vera. But people don’t hire untested architects who only want to make houses for people who can’t pay. Maybe sometime down the road when you’ve got some experience in the real world you can try to change it. But right now, you’re going to work for me.” My eyes prick with angry tears. If he was just going to stop me from going after my dreams, why

did he let me follow them this far? “I still have a week,” I say. “A week or a month, the end result is the same.” He picks up his briefcase and kisses my mother lightly before leaving. The kitchen is filled with an awkward silence now. I pour what’s left of my milk down the drain and put the cookies back in their cubby. My mother clears her throat, but I ignore her. She’s just going to defend him. She clears her throat again. “Yes?” She takes a small sip of her water. “He just wants what’s best for you.” “Really?” I laugh, but it gets cut off by the lump in my throat. “If he wants what’s best for me, then why hasn’t he bothered to consider what I think is best?” “Because you’re young,” she says, “and—” “Mom,” I interrupt, “I’m young, but I’m not stupid. It’s really time you and Dad stopped treating me otherwise. I’ll be in the garden.” I throw myself out the back door and onto the patio before she can say anything else to stop me, hating myself for acting childish but unable to take the higher road. I want to do something meaningful with my career, with my life, but most of the time it feels like I’m the only person who believes I’m capable. And what drives me craziest of all is my

fear that maybe they’re right.

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