Page 4 of His to Teach

Little girl. The words hit me like an electric shock, sending heat straight between my legs. I'm eighteen, a legal adult, a college freshman. No one has called me "little girl" since I was actually little. From anyone else, it would be infantilizing, offensive.

From him, it's…God help me, it's arousing.

"I..." My voice fails me.

"You what?" he presses, still looming over me.

"I think good scholarship requires questioning," I manage to say, though my voice shakes.

A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming his severe features into something devastatingly handsome. "Correct answer."

He steps back, professional distance restored. But something has shifted between us—a boundary tested if not yet crossed.

"Revise the section on bull-fighting," he says. "Make your argument bolder, not safe. I want to see what you're really capable of, Miss Darling."

"Yes, Professor."

I gather my things, legs unsteady. As I reach the door, his voice stops me.

"Flower."

It's the first time he's used my first name. It sounds different in his deep voice—more delicate, more precious.

"Yes?"

"You don't need to stay after class to manufacture conversations." His gaze burns into me. "If you have something to say to me, say it directly."

Heat floods my face. He knows. He knows I've been creating excuses to be alone with him.

"I'll remember that," I whisper, and flee into the hallway.

Outside, I press my back against the cool concrete wall, trying to steady my breathing. I should be scared by what just happened. By the way he called me "little girl," by the way he invaded my space, by the way he saw through my pretenses.

Instead, I'm wet. Shamefully, undeniably wet, my panties damp beneath my skirt.

What is happening to me? I've never been like this before. Never felt this desperate, this needy. Never wanted a man's approval so badly it made my body ache.

I slide into a bathroom stall and press my thighs together, trying to ease the throbbing. It doesn't help. All I can think about is his voice—low and demanding—calling me "little girl" while looking at me like he wants to devour me whole.

I should drop his class. I should run as far as I can from Gordon Davis and whatever this feeling is.

Instead, I'm already planning tomorrow's outfit, already anticipating the next time his eyes will find mine across the classroom.

God help me. I'm in trouble.

three

. . .

Gordon

Office hours. The most tedious part of academia. Two hours trapped at my desk while unprepared students beg for extensions or argue about grades they haven't earned. But today, my body thrums with anticipation as I watch the minute hand tick closer to four o'clock. Will she come? She didn't stay after class yesterday, breaking our unspoken ritual. Maybe she's finally developed the good sense to be afraid of me. Maybe she's recognized the hunger in my eyes for what it is—something far beyond academic interest. I check my watch. 4:05. No one's here yet. I try to focus on grading mediocre essays, but all I can think about is wide green eyes and honey-blonde hair.

A soft knock at the door. My head snaps up.

"Come in."

The door opens, and there she is. Flower. Appropriately named for once, because she looks like something that bloomed just for me in a white sundress that skims her thighs, exposing slender legs that seem to go on forever despite her petite frame. Her hair is loose today, tumbling past her shoulders in waves that catch the afternoon light. She clutches a folder to her chest like a shield.