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I slid off the bed and sat on the floor, tugging the bag closer. Pulling out the professor’s shirt, I rubbed the soft fabric between my fingers. The faintest hint of his cologne lingered on the clothes, faded to a whisper of scent.
I hated that I couldn’t just shut off my feelings for him like flipping a switch. I hated that he spoke so kindly to me when I didn’t deserve it. I hated that I’d turned into a pathetic mess for him.
Moving on autopilot, I stripped off my clothes and slipped Stonebridge’s shirt over my head. I sighed and closed my eyes as the fabric slid against my naked skin like a caress.
This is a new low, even for me.
My hand wandered down my stomach, resting on my thighs. I wanted to kiss him again. I wanted to hear the timbre of his voice like melted chocolate in my ear as he praised me. I wanted him to read poetry to me and only me—a private audience of one.
I knew better than to let my hand stray beneath the waistband of my panties. It would only break my heart when I imagined the professor’s fingers stroking my clit instead of my own. The echo of his words came back to me from our last class together.
…wherein our panting limbs we’ll gently lay,
In the faint respites of our active play;
I curled upward into my wet heat. Shifting my legs wider, I pictured Professor Stonebridge’s dark gaze locked on me, studying me the way he did in class when I exasperated him. I pictured his big, warm palm on the inside of my thigh while his fingers stretched me open.
That so our slumbers may in dreams have leisure
To tell the nimble fancy our past pleasure,
And so our souls, that cannot be embraced,
Shall the embraces of our bodies taste.
My legs trembled. A coil of need tightened, threatening to pull me over the edge at any second. My breathing grew fast and shallow as I pumped and curled my fingers harder, faster. It wasn’t enough. I needed him—his voice, his heat, his weight pinning me down as he filled me with his cock.
I whined in desperation, squirming for more friction. My fingers were slick, coated in my arousal. My walls clenched and fluttered.
Finally, I gave up. The relentless throb between my thighs screamed for satisfaction, but my wrist was sore and my fingers were beginning to cramp. I dropped my head back against the mattress, opening my eyes to stare at the ceiling.
Professor Stonebridge wasn’t here, no matter how much I tried to wish him into existence.
Chapter 6
Vincent
In an effort to get Elle off my mind, I did the one thing guaranteed to distract me. At the end of the day, I settled on the couch in my living room and carefully opened the box that had been waiting for me on the porch. Under protective layers of bubble wrap and tissue paper, I found a breathtaking rare edition of Lord Byron’s complete works. It had cost a pretty penny at the online auction, but I didn’t regret the hefty price tag.
I gingerly ran my fingers over the gilded cover, turning the delicate pages with exquisite care. Rare books had been the bane of my paycheck ever since I got my first job as a teaching assistant. The musty paper and the earthy leather covers were like catnip. I never grew tired of this moment—holding a beautiful, old book in my hand, finding a place for it on my shelves where I could visit it any time I wanted.
A quiet knock rapped at my front door. I glanced at the clock—10:23pm. A little late for unexpected visitors.
When I answered the door, Elle stood there. Her breath frosted in the air.
“I’m changing my major.”
Her teeth chattered and the tip of her nose was turning red in the October chill. She wore pajama pants with pink donuts on them, hastily stuffed into a pair of brown boots. I didn’t smell alcohol on her breath, and she seemed clear-headed, focused. Not drunk, then. Good.
“Glad to hear it,” I replied. “Although I fail to see why you needed to show up on my doorstep at this hour to make that announcement.”
Was I relieved and pleased to see her again? Of course. But it was a risk to bring her here before. I didn’t want her taking that risk again.
Elle’s gaze shifted past my shoulder. The faint strains of Miles Davis drifted from the living room. A bottle of bourbon sat on the coffee table. The lingering scent of my dinner—pasta with a creamy garlic and lemon sauce—wafted from the kitchen.
“Oh,” she said in a small, pained voice. “Do you…have a date?”
Tearing her gaze away from my house, Elle looked up at me, beseeching, and hopeful, and valiantly trying to fight off her disappointment if I said yes.
