“Woah, hang on,” I say, suddenly reaching out and putting my hand on her arm. She turns back, that lip back between those teeth. “Let me get your number or something. If you won’t let me pay for the shirt, let me take you out to dinner or something instead.”
Her face goes bright red as the little grin teases across her perfect, utterly kissable lips, as if this is the first time a guy has ever asked a girl who looks like her for a phone number.
“I-” She’s stammering, and again, that cross between how nervous she is and how crazy hot that body is has my cock hard as stone. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she says finally, quickly looking down.
“Look, I promise I won’t spill anything on you; honest.”
She giggles and looks back up at me. “I…thank you, but…” She trails off.”
“C’mon, just say yet. Let me take you out.”
She’s looking at me curiously, and slowly, this little grin starts to spread across her face. “I can’t,” she says finally, and she gives me one last smile. “See you soon, professor.”
My jaw drops as she gives me one last shy smile before turning and walking towards a beat-up looking Jetta parked behind her.
Well, so much for being far enough from campus, I groan to myself as my cock slowly deflating in my pants, before cursing and heading to my car.
I’ve managed to convince myself that I didn’t say anything too inappropriate when I roar into the faculty parking lot. And I’ve already decided it was just a random run in, and that even on a campus this small, the chances of running into one hot girl from one chance encounter are pretty slim as I storm into the lecture hall, tugging a new t-shirt on.
I growl an apology to the assembled bored freshman as I crack open my lecture notes and take a breath.
Relax. So you asked a girl out, it’s not that bad.
I clear my throat and look up, prepared to launch right into Jayne Eyre, when the floor drops out from under me
See you soon, professor.
I’ve been wondering what she meant the whole drive back to campus, but the whole thing clicks into place the second I look and looking right at her.
She’s wearing this much less form-fitting button-up plaid shirt now, but I can still see the coffee stain across the tight white tank-top beneath it. She’s lost the hat too, and her long strawberry blonde hair cascades wildly down around her face. Her shades are off now, and those bright, sparkling innocent blue eyes that I recognize now are looking right at me from behind those thick black-rimmed glasses that I also know. And there’s a creeping blush across her cheeks as I lock eyes with her, and right then, I get it.
Holy shit, the girl from the coffee shop is her.
Her being Ellie Thompson, the shy, quiet, clearly miles ahead of the rest of the class after one week, always sitting front and center like she is now, student.
My barely legal, utterly and totally off-limits student.
I was freaked out before, about possibly having hit on a student, but right now, I’m way past that. Fuck it, I’m the opposite of freaked right now. Because looking at her, and thinking about those soft lip opening in shock, those big, pillowy tits heaving under her soaked-through tank top, and those hard little nipples poking through the cotton, has me rock fucking hard.
She was cute before, sitting there front and center taking pages of notes and turning in papers that floored me. But it’s like the veil’s been lifted, and suddenly, I’m not seeing her as the cute little bookworm college freshman anymore.
I’m seeing the hottest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on; this wildly sexy angel-creature, wrapped up in the quiet, unassuming shroud of bashful shyness.
And I want to tear that shroud off her, along with every other piece of clothing, I might add. Right there, standing in front of my damn lecture hall with Jane Eyre in my hand, my words failing me, and my cock hard as a fucking stone in my pants, I know one thing: I’m going to make this girl mine.
And I don’t give a shit about the consequences.
He doesn’t know.
It’s actually the first thought that flashes through my head the second I look up from the iced coffee drenching the front of my shirt into the dark, piercing eyes of Liam Martin. Liam Martin the best-selling novelist who’s book I devoured before I even came to Hardham. Professor Martin, I should say.
Except there’s nothing “professor” about Liam Martin; nothing dry or stuffy or old like the title usually implies. Professor Martin with the sexy black glasses, the thick beard, and the sleeve of tattoos running up his arm. Professor Martin who barely adheres to any sort of professional dress code, wearing t-shirts and jeans to lecture most of the time - not that any member of the female student body or probably faculty objects, I’m sure.