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“Well…” The petite redhead in the front row straightens up and spreads one hand down the pages. “Here, when he says he doesn’t want to touch the banister because he thinks he’ll leave a smudge. We’ve never been told that he’s a dirty character, so it implies that he believes his very presence in this place is enough to dirty the banister.”
So, some have been listening. “That’s an astute observation.” Returning my glasses to my face, I shoot her a warm smile and then look at the rest of the class. “Does anyone else want to build on what Aria is saying?”
“It’s about wealth,” comes a voice from a few rows up. Scanning the crowd, I spot Mike in the third row.
“Expand?”
“Well, the house he’s in is clearly rich beyond belief, right? And we know he’s poor as dirt. So it’s playing into the dirty poor, clean rich, but it’s not directly stated because it’s his own feelings that create that line.” Mike sticks out his chin slightly. “This house is so beautiful and fancy that it makes him aware that he’s wearing a four-dollar shirt and his shoes were on sale. Completely different worlds.”
“Interesting.” I nod just once.
“Is that correct?” Mike lifts a brow.
“There’s no right or wrong answer here,” I say, pausing my pacing. “It’s all about interpretation. After all, if you’re someone who shares a house like the one we’re reading about, you might think differently. You might be more sympathetic toward our main character rather than irate toward the rich, nameless people we’ve yet to meet.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t help me pass an exam.”
“Not with that attitude.” With a light smirk, I resume my pacing. “It’s important to note that this kind of subtlety is everywhere, not just in fiction. Think about the most recent news article you’ve read. There’s bias there, even if it’s subtle. Words are the most powerful thing in the world. They can make us laugh or cry, can anger us, or leave us feeling so incredibly hopeless. Or?—”
Suddenly, the door to the lecture hall stumbles open and in runs Emma Pierce, thirty minutes late for my class.
Emma Pierce.
It’s the umpteenth time I’ve seen her over these past months, yet she takes my breath away every single time. Her beautiful, curvaceous body is hidden away under a yellow sundress adorned with flowers. A matching golden streak mingles amongst her dark hair, and when she shoots me a smile, the apples of her cheeks are so rosy that I ache to bite them.
“Sorry!” She stumbles over herself, wrestling with her bag and pushing a few short strands of hair away from her forehead. “I slept in. I’m so sorry!”
With barely a glance at me, Emma hurries up the steps and throws herself into her usual seat next to her friend, Ana.
She utterly captures my attention for seconds that stretch for a lifetime.
Every morning, I wake up with the same promise. I have to keep my distance from her. First and foremost, she’s a student. The trouble I would get into is barely even worth thinking about. And second, I’m certain that if I gave in to her insistent flirting and her cheeky smiles, I would be addicted. She’s beautiful and bright, with a laugh so loud that it brings me joy to hear it in the halls. When she flirts with me, it takes all my strength not to grab her and kiss her so deeply that our chests crush and our lungs scream for air.
Air I would deny myself just so I could taste her a little longer.
And each day, my resolve weakens a little more.
“Or?” Aria prompts from the front row. I clear my throat and avert my gaze from Emma.
“Or words can make us feel like we are drowning. They can evoke so much passion that we find ourselves craving the love and attention of someone who exists only in our mind.”
“Like porn?” calls out a male voice from the back of the hall. A ripple of laughter follows, moving through the students and I can’t hide my own smile.
“You laugh,” I say, pacing back to my desk. “But you’re on the right track. Written stimuli can be almost as powerful as physical touch. It might not compare to the real thing, but it’s another example of emotive language. Especially when words take on a double meaning.”
Flipping through the book, I face the class and find the page I need. Then I lift my eyes and lock onto Emma who looks right back at me.
“Emma, could you read the beginning of Chapter 37?”
Emma’s head tilts down and she flips through her book, leading the wave of paper rustling as the class follows suit. It’s a daring request. I’m pushing a boundary here and I know it, but I am a weak man. I know I cannot have her, no matter how much I crave her but that doesn’t mean I need to deny myself just a drop.
“I want to fuck her,” Emma reads aloud. “I want to tear that dress from her body and send her pearls scattering across the table like the remnants of my sanity. She captivates me. Makes me a prisoner within my own mind. I can’t breathe when she’s in the same room as me, and I can’t do anything about it. So I dream about it instead. Of tearing her clothes from her body and displaying her beauty just for me. I want to watch her pretty red lips stretch around my cock, want to see the tears in her eyes as she chokes, want to hear the simplest beg pass her lips as I fuck her pussy with all my might.”
Those with a more immature take on life burst into giggles and laughter. Emma, however, slowly lifts her eyes to meet mine and doesn’t look away. Her attention holds me in place, and I suspect I may have taken a step that I can’t retract. Listening to the filth pour from her pretty, plush lips creates a pool of warmth down in my gut.
“Thank you, Emma.” It takes every ounce of self-control to keep my voice from wavering. “Can anyone tell me why I picked that passage?”
“Because you’re horny?” calls a voice. Laughter ripples around the room and I match it, keeping most of my attention on Emma.
