Page 21 of Misadventures with a Professor
“And,” she says, sensing my weakness and gaining momentum now, “you really do need someone to fix this mess of yours.”
“It’s not a mess,” I say coldly, but we both know I’m lying. Mess is possibly the kindest word for it.
“I can organize it, index it all, and store it safely. And you won’t even know I’m in the room.”
I have the vision of Zandy brushing sweaty tendrils of hair off her forehead as she carries books around, bending over often. Scratching away at her desk like a good little girl.
I have to swallow again.
“Please, Professor?” she asks, leaning forward so much now that her breasts press against the table. But that’s not what I chiefly notice this time. No, it’s her eyes, sparkling like sunlight dancing off ocean waves, even as she braces herself for my rejection.
I abruptly want that look out of her eyes. I want to see her eyes as they were that night we spent together, awed and worshipful and happy. That’s the only reason I can think of for why I say it.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Her entire face lights up, a happy flush high on her cheeks and her eyes like blue fires. She looks like she wants to kiss me.
I wonder how I look.
“Yes. Fine. You can stay.”
Chapter Seven
Zandy
Oliver stands up, the sunlight catching on the waves of his hair. He impatiently shakes it out of his eyes, just as he did earlier when I stood behind him and watched him work. He’d been too absorbed to hear me as I walked in, too absorbed to notice me staring at his long fingers as they gripped his pen and made notes in an endearingly untidy scrawl. His too-pale skin and disheveled hair make sense to me now, fitted into the context of his work. He’s an obsessed scholar, subsumed by his projects, and it’s easy to see how the everyday details of life have become unimportant. My father is the same way, and so are most of his friends. They’d forget to eat if someone didn’t remind them.
“I’m going to change,” Oliver says in that short, clipped way of his, “and then I’ll be back downstairs and we can begin.” He still doesn’t sound pleased, but I’m so relieved I get to stay that I ignore his grouchiness.
“Is there anything I can do while you get ready? Make you some coffee?” I think for a minute, remembering where I’m at. “Tea?”
He narrows his eyes. “Just don’t touch anything while I’m not around.”
“Whatever you say,” I reply, fast enough that it nearly sounds sarcastic. “Professor,” I add, hoping that will ameliorate any unintentional offense.
His eyes darken at my last word, and he stalks from the room as if I’ve enraged him.
I sigh the moment I think it’s safe. While I’m used to grumpy scholars, Oliver has to be the grumpiest I’ve ever encountered. Well, not grumpy, exactly. Cold is a better word. Glacial, even.
Unfeeling.
Stony.
I stand up and stretch, deciding don’t touch anything surely doesn’t extend to coffee or tea and needing the familiar act to steady myself, because holy fuck, Oliver Markham is Professor Graeme.
The man I’m spending the summer with is the man who ended my virginity, and if I was worried about my ability to be wise and sophisticated about this before, it’s nothing compared to now.
Because even with as cool and distant as he is, I still yearn for his touch. Even with his gaze flashing displeasure, I crave the trace of it over my body. Even in its cruelty, his perfect mouth begs for my own mouth, my fingertips. And even covered with a T-s
hirt and loose pants, his leanly muscled body calls to mine, bringing me memories of how he looked moving between my legs, memories of how taut and rigid he went as he filled my pussy with his own ecstasy.
I take a deep, steadying breath, trying to stop my body’s response to the visions of that night, to the presence of him in the house. I can’t work next to him like this, all wet and nipples hard, not when I need to prove to him how professional I can be. I’ll save it for bedtime, when I’m alone in the dark, one hand clapped over my own mouth so he can’t hear me come.
Like I did last night.
Oliver doesn’t have any coffee, so I decide to make a cup of tea. I find a mug, fill it with water, and pop it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. When it’s done, I carefully take it out, and I’m about to drop in the bag when Oliver says in a horrified voice, “What on earth are you doing?”
I whirl to see him looking unfairly sexy in a thin sweater and belted trousers that hang low on his narrow hips. He’s leaning against the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed and a frown on that sharp-edged mouth.
