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“Are there no other students available to stroke your ego, Professor?” I set my things down on the nearest desk, turning to face him as I lean back and brace myself on the edge of it. If he’s going to appear at ease, I’m going to give off the same vibe. Even if there’s a war between logic and lust rampaging inside of me.
And I can’t tell who’s winning yet.
His eyes do that dark little dance they do when I talk shit to him, and I begin to shake my head. Are we both masochists? Are we addicted to dancing so closely to the flame of our attraction, uncaring if we catch ourselves on the flames?
So long as we don’t burn.
“Will you ever let me take you on a second date?” he asks, and my lips part in immediate reaction.
Maybe I’m the only one who gives a shit about burning.
“There was never a first,” I insist, watching as he deadpans in response. “It was happenstance. A date requires intention.”
“You have all of my best intentions,” he tells me, stepping toward me, even as I squint my eyes because who knows what the fuck that even means. “Come over. I’ll cook us dinner.”
I scoff because I know whatthatmeans. “Fuck no.”
He quirks a brow at my answer, and I lift my own, ready for whatever slick comment comes next.
“I only meant for privacy purposes,” he says, his voice lowering to a whisper and his hands rising, just to waist level, as if I require proof that he holds no weapons. “I promise to be the perfect gentleman.”
A shame,I think to myself, remaining silent as I gather my things, shoving them into my bag.
I turn on my heel, unable to think logically when he’s standing so close to me, that familiar scent of his scrambling my brain.
It’s bittersweet, the steps I take toward my sanity that create more and more space between he and I. But I’m not ready to burn for this man.
And I’m not sure he could handle burning for me.
“Let me take you out,” he calls after me, and I glance back to see him leaning against his desk. I swear that chair of his must have an impressive coating of dust, with the way he refuses to sit in it, even during class.
“No,” is all I offer as I continue on my way. His laugh, deep and full, chases me out as I try not to look like I’m running scared.
But I am,I think to myself as I step out into the hallway and take a deep breath. If he’d insisted once more, I would’ve said yes.
Nothing has ever been as intoxicating as being chosen by him.
To be wanted by Abraham Pugliesi is to be hunted; to have your most primal desires staring back at you in his dark brown eyes. It’s to be intoxicated all while he moves in like you’re his prey.
I don’t want to be his prey. I don’t want to be another student he fucked at some college he taught at when he took a break from directing prestigious films.
And I deserve more than being a dirty little secret in his empty office, with his empty life. I’m not a pitstop in the journey of his life.
My phone chimes and I pull it out of my bag to see his name on my screen.
I don’t invite women to my home. Ever.
Will he ever stop?
Do I really want him to?
I type out my response while heading to my next class.
You just invited me. Am I not a woman?
His response is immediate, and it makes me stop short outside the building, staring at the words over and over. Despite my desire to be unaffected by them, I am. And it angers me.
Before you, I mean.
