Page 189 of Lessons in Cruelty

Maybe Bastian saw the money and put it in the Land Rover’s console or something. I look around, see a notch in the plastic molding, and shove my hand in there.

“At least your punctuality has improved since you started college,” Bastian says behind me.

I jerk my hand out of the console, but not because he gave me fright.

It’s because I stuck my hand into something wet and sticky and gross. It could be some kind of sixth sense thing, but as soon as I touch it, I know that it’s cum.

And I know it belongs to Kai.

That motherfucking psycho was in my car.

Bastian’s car.

The car Professor Rooke loaned me.

I spin around, shoving my hand into my back pocket and trying to wriggle it around in there to get all the cum off my fingers.

Kai’s cum. On my fingers. While I’m less than a foot away from my professor. My body’s suddenly confused as fuck. Disgusted and turned on and furious all at once.

Why is he standing so close?

Does he want me to smell his cologne, because God, it’s making my knees weak, and that feels intentional.

Kai smelled of weed and raspberry suckers last night. And he tasted like chocolate chip cookies.

Him? Bastian?

He smells like he just fucked someone in the back of a Rolls Royce and quickly spritzed some thousand-dollar cologne on his neck to cover up the cum.

“Hi.” I clear my throat. “Uh. Yeah.” Swallow.

God, brain, could you please get on with it? I’m getting embarrassed for the both of us.

Bastian just watches, like it pleases him I’ve forgotten basic English.

“But, uh, you’re, uh, punctual also, so, uh, there’s that.”

What the hell am I even babbling about?

Professor Rooke lets out a dry chuckle, his hand going into his back pocket too.

Fuck me, he looks good.

Light wash jeans, ripped at both knees. White sneakers. An olive green t-shirt made from such lightweight fabric, it drapes every muscle on his just-athletic-enough frame in just the right way.

And here I am in my granny blouse, my flip-flops one flop away from flipping off.

But Bastian doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he hasn’t even looked at my clothes. He’s been looking into my eyes with the same frank stare he always has around me.

Like he knows exactly what’s on my fingers.

Like he can smell the shame rolling off me.

And he’s cataloging every nervous twitch…for later.

Probably the same way he looks at everyone. I really have to stop thinking I’m different. I’m not. And that’s exactly what I’m here to prove.

All this stuff he’s doing for me feels like way too much. But if I had his kind of money, I’d be generous with it too.