Page 22 of Misadventures with a Professor
“I’m making tea?” I say, the last part lifting up like a question because I’m feeling suddenly unsure. Maybe I grabbed his favorite mug, or maybe I’m using some precious store of teabags that visitors aren’t allowed to touch—or maybe visitors aren’t allowed to touch anything at all, and he’s provoked that I didn’t listen to his edict about touching things.
“That’s not how you make tea,” he says. “You use the kettle for tea, not the microwave as barbarians do.”
The disgust in his voice is so pronounced that I can’t help but giggle. This only deepens his frown.
“We have work to do,” he bites out. “Follow me. Bring that cup of atrocity if you must.”
I do bring my cup of atrocity, following him down the hall and trying very hard not to notice how his ass and hips look in his pants—tight and trim. Powerful in a subtle, spare way. Powerful in the kind of way that makes a girl think of how they’d feel under her hands. How they’d look bunching and flexing between her thighs.
I give a little shiver. Down, girl.
I’ve got to be good today. I’ve got to prove that he doesn’t need to send me home.
The cat winds between our feet as we walk into the study, plopping down on the first pile of papers she sees, and I set my mug on my desk and wait for Oliver to give me instructions.
He stands behind his own desk now, gazing at me with a haughty expression. “You’ll do as I say in here,” he says flatly. “That’s without question. Understood?”
“Understood.”
His hands are flexing by his sides as he looks at me, and for a moment, all I can remember is the way they felt as he spanked me. One palm setting fire to my skin as the other hand held me steady over his lap.
I have to press my legs together at the sudden throb my clit gives at the memory. Who would have thought I’d like being spanked so much? So much that not only had I become a wet, squirming mess at the time, but that I longed for it again?
He swallows, and I realize that his beautiful eyes are no longer on my face but on my body. On the place where I’m pressing my thighs together.
“Sit,” he commands hoarsely. “Get something to take notes with.”
I sit, finding a notepad and a pen that have been shoved into one of the drawers. “Ready when you are, Professor,” I say, and he makes a noise, tearing his eyes away from where I sit with my legs crossed and pen poised in the air.
He sits as well, keeping his gaze away from me. “I’m writing a book about Victorian courtship narratives,” he says to the William Holman Hunt painting on his wall. “Not necessarily the rituals themselves but the morality tales given to young people in order to illustrate how they should behave. As well as the satirical tales that illustrate how they did behave.”
“And how did they behave?” I ask as I write.
“As youth everywhere and in every time behaves,” he says grimly. “Improperly.”
I look up at him with a smile. He doesn’t smile back, glancing away from me as soon as our eyes meet. “Surely that’s kind of heartwarming,” I say. “Kind of fun? To think even Victorians couldn’t help being naughty?”
Oliver presses his eyes closed. “I think,” he says slowly, “it proves that we never learn from the mistakes of the past.”
There’s a deep bitterness in his words that takes me by surprise; whatever he’s thinking of at the moment, it’s viciously unhappy. It has teeth, and it’s chewing at his mind—I can see it playing out across his beautiful face.
And then he opens his eyes with a long inhale, speaking to the painting once more. “I’ve only been through a third of the things I’ve collected, perhaps less, and so as part of any organization scheme, we need to index if I’ve seen it before.”
“Of course,” I say, jotting that down. “What else do you need? Digitization?”
He makes a face—it’s very similar to the face he made at my cup of tea. “I prefer paper.”
“Victorian paper is very cheap and very acidic,” I inform him. “Even in the best of conditions, which…” I trail off meaningfully, tilting my head at the room of decaying paper sitting in the sunlight.
“And?” Oliver prompts testily.
“And some of these paper works are not going to be around much longer. By the time you get to them, they may crumble in your hands. Digitizing what you can isn’t just helpful for your research, it’s the responsible thing to do as potentially the sole owner of some of these texts.”
He gives a put-upon sigh. “If you think it necessary…then I suppose.”
“I’ll only mark the most at-risk items for photographing or scanning,” I promise. I make a few more notes and give the room an assessing look. “We’ll need to order some archival supplies—is there room in the budget for that?”
“The budget,” he echoes, sounding puzzled.
