Page 37 of Misadventures with a Professor
Zandy
When I wake up the next morning, Oliver is across the pillow from me, his beautiful river-colored eyes all soft and gentle on my face.
“Good morning, Miss Lynch,” he says with a smile that’s small but open and real, and I feel my heart dipping low inside me, like it’s weighed down with happiness and is going to sink right through the mattress.
“Good morning,” I answer in a sleep-croak, and then I make a face. My breath must be awful, not to mention the makeup I surely have smeared around my face. Of course he looks gorgeous right now, with that perfect, haughty face and his even more perfect hair. I try to roll away, and he catches me. “No,” I moan, ducking my head into my pillow to try to hide my morning self. “I need to clean up.”
“And you may, but I have to know, Zandy, were you planning on leaving last night?”
His voice is husky from sleep too, but it’s also more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard him. Gentler. As if he’s already bracing himself for the answer.
“Yes,” I say honestly, because I do like to be honest. “But not anymore.”
His brows furrow the slightest bit, and it’s just so unfairly handsome on him that I can’t stand it. I kiss him with my terrible morning mouth and get out of bed.
“So you’re staying?” he asks, and the vulnerability is louder than ever, filling in the spaces between the words and lighting something very young and sad-looking in his face.
“Yes, Oliver. I’m staying.”
Relief illuminates his face, and I’m rewarded with another one of those massive smiles, so big there are lines around his mouth and eyes when he makes it.
“Even with the”—I see him struggle to say the word, but he manages it with only a little bit of a blush—“the kinky stuff?”
“Especially because of the kinky stuff,” I assure him with a wink, and then I go find a shower and a toothbrush, a big smile on my own face.
After I’m all cleaned up and ready to work, I find myself strangely slow to go down to the office. Which Oliver will I find there? It seemed like we connected last night and this morning, but I thought that the first time we made love here at the cottage, and I was wrong. I don’t think I can bear it if I open the door to find another cold Oliver again. Not after what we’ve shared together.
So it’s with a deep breath and a lot of bravery—and a pat on Beatrix’s head for good luck—that I open the door to Oliver’s study and walk inside.
He’s already behind the desk and bent over his work, all tousled hair and long fingers and wide shoulders. That old-fashioned ink pen winks in the sunlight as it moves in deft motions across the page. He finishes penning something in his notebook, ends it with an efficient little flourish, and then deigns to notice my presence. When he looks up, his mouth is in that sharp frown I normally find so irresistible, although it terrifies me right now.
“Miss Lynch,” he says brusquely, and my heart plummets to my feet. Is that what this is going to be? Is today going to be a repeat of yesterday?
Am I being rejected again?
But then Oliver leans back in his chair and studies me in a way that I recognize, with his pulse jumping in his throat and his eyes gleaming with hunger.
“Come here. I need a word.”
I don’t have to pretend to be shy or uncertain as I walk to the desk. My chest is being hammered at with a heartbeat that’s out of control, pumping every kind of hormone every which way through my body, and my mind is racing through every possibility. Is this a game? Or is this real? Did he come down to the office and find something I’d done wrong? Did he come down here and suddenly realize he wanted me to leave after all?
When I get to his desk, he impatiently gestures for me to come around the other side, and so I do with some worry, biting my lip.
“We need to talk about your work,” he says, pointing to a paper on the desk.
I’m already puzzled because this isn’t my work. My work is all databases and bookshelves, and this is just a paper with a single line written across it in ink pen. When I get closer, however, I see what’s written on the paper, and then I’m biting my lip for an entirely different reason.
Red means stop.
I look up at him, and while he’s still frowning, there’s a palpable thrum of excited lust around him.
This is a game, I realize. And he wants to make sure it’s okay with me if we play. He wants to check, and I love how careful he is for a man who seems so aloof.
How can he think he’s twisted inside when he’s so clearly concerned about my safety and emotional comfort? And has been even since our first night together in the rain?
He’s a good man, I think, and he doesn’t even know it. This Rosie hurt him too much for him to see that his kinks don’t make him some kind of depraved freak. They might make him dirty, yes, unique maybe—but dirty and unique in a way that fit me perfectly, and I’m going to prove it to him.
I’m going to show him how much the filthy whorls and loops of his personality fascinate me. How well they feed me and please my inner teacher’s pet.
