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He lays me down on the bed like I’m something precious, and then rises to his feet. The ceiling only just clears his head. From the low futon bed, I feel minuscule beneath him, gazing up at him like he’s a carved statue of a god and I’ve come to worship at his feet.
“Keep looking at me like that and we’re going to have a problem,” he growls.
Not knowing what he means, I close my eyes. What else can I do?
He chuckles and I burn with embarrassment, but I can’t open my eyes either.
There’s a rustling of material and then the mattress dips under his weight, a pressure on either side of my hips and I risk taking a peek through my lowered lashes.
A squeak escapes and the professor laughs, before leaning forward and placing his hands on the mattress on either side of my head. I slam my eyes closed once more.
He’s literally poised above me, over me, pinning me down beneath him but without actually touching me. I don’t think my heart can handle this…whatever this is.
“If we’re doing this, you better keep your eyes on me.”
Ignoring his command, I whisper, “Last time you said to close my eyes.”
“Last time I was trying not to succumb to you, Ophelia,” he says reverently.
I frown. “O-Ophelia?”As in Hamlet? Or the song by The Lumineers?“What does that mean?”
“She could be the death of me or the making of me.”
I’ve no idea what to say to that, so I focus on his spoken aloud words instead. “And this time?”
“Open your eyes and see.”
Unable to resist the temptation, my eyes open of their own accord. The professor’s face is mere inches from mine and his stare is intense and seductive. I allow myself to look, to take him in, to enjoy this moment. His stare makes everything inside of me clench, and I long to reach out and trace the perfect Cupid’s bow of his lips with my tongue.
Reaching up with shaky hands, my fingers skim his biceps, dancing all the way up to his shoulders. His bare skin is flawless in the moonlight.
My eyes widen and, after a beat, slide lower.Holy shit, he’s naked!
“Professor,” I gasp.
Oh god, why did I say that?I cringe.
“If we’re doing this, you should probably call me something else.”
I look up from where his hips are straddling – but not touching – mine to his burning gaze.
“Are we doing this?” I check. I don’t know if I could ever look him in the eye again if he backs out now.
“We’re doing this,” he tells me firmly. “Now call me something else.”
“Like Sir?” I ask, biting my lip remembering the two other times I called him Sir. The time he hated it and the time he seemed to love it.
“Erm, what are you doing here, sir?”
“Professor.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m your professor, not your Sir.”
“Just lie back, put the headphones back on, and for the love of god, whatever you do, don’t look at me. You hear? Stare at the stars or close your eyes again or something. Got it?”
“Yes.”
