Page 25 of Misadventures with a Professor
“Professor—”
“Come. Here.”
With some trepidation, I straighten my dress and walk toward him, bracing myself for the inevitable words. You’re fired. Get out of my sight. And I hate the way tears burn at the back of my eyes, the way my throat balls up, because it’s stupid that I have grown so attached in such a short amount of time. Not just to this beautiful cottage in this beautiful place but to him, the most beautiful thing of all. If I had to leave him, I wouldn’t be able to bear the disappointment.
Disappointment. What a stupid word.
I’d be heartbroken.
Oliver regards me from across his desk, his arms folded over his chest, his mouth pressed in a flat line. “Come here,” he repeats, and I realize what he wants. He wants me close to him, on the other side of his desk.
My heartbeat kicks up a thousand paces. My mouth goes dry. He wants me close so that there’s no mistaking his angry dismissal. He wants me close so that he can make it very, very clear that I have to leave. And maybe I deserve it. Not for knocking over books but because I haven’t been a very good girl at all this week, what with all the silent, pining looks I’ve been throwing his way and the equally silent masturbating in his guest bed.
Tears threaten to spill out of my eyes, and crazy promises threaten to spill out of my mouth: that I really will be good this time, that I’ll be the best assistant a professor could have, that I’ll happily endure all of his moods and cutting remarks if only he’d let me stay close to him.
But I swallow both the tears and the words. I need to keep my dignity, I know at least that much about myself. That when I’m back home in my tiny apartment, curled around an empty bottle of wine, I’ll be able to hold on to the memory of me being composed and resilient, to the knowledge that I didn’t humiliate myself.
As I walk around the desk, Oliver pushes his chair back as if he’ll stand, but he stays seated, keeping his body angled to the front. I take a deep breath, willing myself to be as cool and untouchable as he is, waiting for him to say the words that will send me home.
But those aren’t the words he says.
“Red means stop,” he tells me, and then I’m seized and thrown over his lap.
Blood rushes to my head as my hands find the floor in pure instinct, and his hands easily catch and arrange me, one of his long legs hooking over mine when they kick up in the air.
And I’m wet.
Instantly, shamefully wet.
It’s like all the silent orgasms and all the daylight fantasies and muffled desire, they are all concentrated into longing for this one thing, this one act. I don’t need a kiss or a murmured compliment—I need this. To be bent over Oliver’s knee like a disobedient schoolgirl.
And he needs it too. That much is clear from the way his hands tremble as they shape over my backside, smoothing over the fabric of my dress with a slowness that feels very much like desperation in disguise. A thick shape nudges into my hip, solid and blunt, and the tangible proof that he wants me is enough to make me whimper.
The whole thing is enough to make me whimper.
He’s not going to be hearing any safe words out of my mouth. Not today.
“You make it impossible for me to work,” he breathes. “You make it impossible to concentrate. To eat. To sleep.”
“Because I made a mess?” I ask tremulously.
His hand slips under the hem of my dress and palms my backside. “Because you made a mess,” he says in a growl, squeezing my ass hard enough for me to yelp. “And because you distract me with your dresses and your fucking hair and you
r fucking watch.” He flips the skirt of the dress up over my waist, baring my ass and thighs to the warm air of the room.
“What are these?” he asks dangerously, a finger tracing along the lacy edge of my panties.
“Um, underwear,” I answer, my face burning and my core clenching. I want so very badly for him to stroke along my center, to slip a finger inside of the lace and rub me where I’m swollen and wet, but he doesn’t. He just continues with that maddening tease.
“These are the kinds of things bad girls wear,” he says sternly. “Are you a bad girl?”
“Yes,” I exhale. “Yes, I am.”
The first spank. I squeal, my body arching away from the force, but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to be except against his hot, firm body.
“You know what else makes it impossible?” he asks.
“What?” I manage.
