Page 14 of Misadventures with a Professor
Somehow I’m relaxing around her. Somehow I’m enjoying the way she feels like this, with her head pillowed on my chest, her curves smashed against me, and her cheek rubbing against me like a needy cat’s.
I should leave.
I should say I’m sorry—for the spanking and for the barbaric way I fucked her—and then I should leave. And I’m going to.
In just a minute.
After I’ve enjoyed the sated warmth of her for a little longer. After I’ve gotten my fill of her scent, all deep floral and spice.
After I’ve rested my eyes and given in to the strange peace she’s infected me with.
I really am going to leave.
I really am…
The sunshine breaks through the room with a sheepish kind of warmth, as if embarrassed to wake me up, and it’s pure instinct that makes me reach for the woman in bed with me. Well, pure instinct and a painfully erect cock, aching from a night of dreams about an American girl who likes spanking and spreading her legs for me.
But my fingers encounter nothing but cool sheets, and when I open my eyes, I see groggily that I’m alone.
Suddenly, I’m not so groggy. The entire shameful night floods back into my memorie
s. What I did to Amanda, what I took from her. Falling asleep uninvited like an idiot.
What a cretin she must think I am…what a monster.
And she’s not wrong. I am a monster.
I sit up, and it should relieve any person to see what I see next, which is a hotel room bereft of the effects of its occupant. No more suitcase on the stand. No laptop situated neatly on the desk. When I go to the bathroom, the space is as clean as it must have been when she rented it, a still-wet shower and sink the only evidence that she was here.
That and a note propped against the mirror.
Oliver, it reads in a neatly printed hand.
I’m sorry if last night caused you any worry, but I wanted you to know it was better than I ever could have dreamed. We won’t see each other again, but I’ll never forget how good you made me feel. I’m proud to have been your good and bad girl, even if only for one night.
—Amanda
My chest feels heavy with something unfamiliar, and I find myself rubbing idly at it as I set the note down. Pick it up and read it again.
Fold it and put it in my jacket pocket—so the hotel staff won’t find it, I tell myself—but after I dress and leave the room, I find myself touching it. Rereading it as I ride the lift down to my own floor to change clothes and shower. Running my fingers along the edges as I walk to the British Museum to meet a friend helping me with some research at one of the libraries there.
I’ll never forget how good you made me feel.
I’m proud to have been your good and bad girl.
Even if only for one night.
This should be a good morning. I blew off some steam with a girl who let me practice all manner of depravities upon her, and then when I woke up, she was gone. No dangling expectations; no awkward send-off. Just a sweet note that was meant to assuage me of my guilt and firmly close the door on the possibility of more.
Which—excellent, right? The last thing I need is some curvy, blunt American invading my thoughts while I have important work to do. Invading my space with her wanting to be spanked and her mumbling about oxytocin and her fucking watch.
Last thing I need.
All for the best.
Right.
Chapter Five
