She’s wearing frayed cut-off jeans shorts, and ankle boots, and those creamy, shapely legs are impossible not to stare. She’s wearing a tank top that fits her upper body perfectly, her freckled shoulders bare and her long reddish-blonde hair streaming out from under under one of those beanie-type hats the kids are all wearing these days. Yeah, she looks young, but not that young. Plus, I’m far enough away from campus that I’m not that worried about her being a student or anything.
Whatever, you’re allowed to look, man.
Honestly, I’m not sure how I couldn’t look with the job I’ve got. Freshman literature at this school? Are you kidding me? Young women off on their own and expressing their sexuality out in the world by the dozens every year. This’ll be my third year at Hardham Colleg, and every fall, it’s the same thing. Every fall, I’ve got a class full of absolute temptation, and at a sixty-forty female to male ratio, it takes the focus of a saint sometimes, I’ll tell you.
I mean, I’m a younger teacher, I keep in great shape, and I’m single. Oh, right, and I guess most of these kids probably read my book in high school, so there’s that too. Anyways, I’m not vain or anything, but it’s not like college freshman girls are exactly known for their subtleness.
Let’s put it this way: I get offers.
Jesus, do I. Sometimes they’re more timid about it than other times when I get flat out asked. But either way, I can bet on at least two or three girls every fall trying to pull something. Two or three absolutely fucking stunning, totally tempting, and totally fucking off-limits offers; every damn fall.
It’s a nightmare sometimes, I’ll tell you.
When I was still riding high as the author of the moment with my bestseller and my books tours, it was a different ball game. I was up to my damn eyeballs in pussy back then, but it was the kind I was allowed to touch.
This is different. These girls are decidedly off-limits. Yeah, they’re technically old enough, but there are rules. We’re a week into the semester, and I’m already feeling the drudgery of the new-semester schedule starting to sink in. The same courses, the same books to go over, the same sea of totally legal if not totally-untouchable temptation class after class. I’m not tenured, so I’m fully aware that acting on those temptations means my job.
Plus even if I’m younger compared to most of the other teachers at Hardham, I’m still literally twice these girls’ age.
But here, off campus in the cool of the trendy coffee shop, I can let the imagination run wild as I run my eyes appreciatively up and down the legs and over the ass of this girl in front of me. I mean, damn. I’m a fucking sucker for redheads, too, and between the hair, the ass, and that creamy skin on her thighs, my imagination is having no trouble getting away with itself.
And for a second, I think of her. In a classroom full of temptation, she’s the damn apple of temptation. She’s the forbidden fruit; original fucking sin. The tight little red-head with the tits she doesn’t even know what to do with, the crystal blue eyes that watch me like a hawk, and the furious note-taking. And the fact that she’s such an obvious nerd and clearly totally unaware of her affect on men makes her that much more tempting.
Yeah, so freshman girls are off limits, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t stroked my cock about a dozen times since the semester started fantasizing about my front-row, straight-A, strawberry-haired temptation.
And she’s exactly who I’m thinking about as I let my eyes drink in the girl in the coffee shop. Hell, at least here I can be a bit more obvious. Here, it’s not like I’m staring a student.
I suddenly notice the copy of Finnegan’s Wake tucked under her arm, and my brows shoot up.
Damn, great legs and she reads James Joyce? Now I definitely want to get to know this mystery coffee-shop girl.
I definitely want to know that ass, too.
But then the hipster barista is wisecracking with me and running all sorts of stupid vaguely Italian sounding drink names past me when all I want is a fucking coffee. And when I finally look back, she’s gone.
I snatch the coffee from the idiot that somehow got me to miss the girl walking out and mutter as I stalk out of the store. Great, so much for that idea. Back to grading papers, pontificating on Steinbeck, and -
And I walk right into her, literally, as she comes around the corner of the building.
She gasps as the big cup of iced coffee goes tumbling out of her hands as we come crashing into one another, and she shrieks a little as the icy liquid empties across her tank top and my shirt as she goes sprawling into my arms.