Professor Martin who’s gorgeous, in that dark, brooding writer way. Professor Martin who probably doesn’t even know who I am, even thought I sit at the front of his lecture three times a week, because he’s got every girl on campus gaga over him.
Except right then, he’s staring at me like he’s hungry, his eyes devouring me in a way that sends a shiver down my back as I catch my breath and lose myself in those eyes, completely ignoring the iced coffee drenching the front of my shirt.
But he’s not.
I blush as I look down and realize how soaked my tank top is, suddenly very much regretting leaving my button-up shirt in the car. And I want to cover up, or die from embarrassment, but it’s then that I see his eyes and that hungry look on his face, and I feel something warm start to burn inside of me.
Because God do I like how he looks at me.
I notice the splashes of coffee on his own shirt and wince. “Oh my God, I got it all over you! I am so freaking sorry!”
He grins when I say, those dark eyes flashing at me as the the smile creeps across his face. “No, no not at all. Totally my fault for plowing into you.”
He doesn’t recognize me. I suddenly realize I’m still wearing my big dark sunglasses, and a hat pulled over my unruly hair. Plus, I’d never be out in public in a just a tank top this tight, not without a shirt of something over it - sort of like the shirt I left in the car when I darted in real quick to get coffee before class.
And the combination of all this makes me someone new to him, I realize. My unruly hair is mostly tucked under my hat, and my eyes are hidden behind big shades, and I’m - well, not as covered as I might normally be.
I want to be embarrassed, or modified that I just poured coffee all over myself and my hot professor, but I’m not. Because the way he’s looking at me right then, like I’m something he wants instead of someone that just happens to have her hand up first in class has me getting warm in all sorts of places.
The way he’s looking at me has me wet.
I’m barely aware of what he’s even saying, so lost in just loosing myself in this surreal moment of having a whole one-on-one conversation with Liam Martin that I’m talking on autopilot until-
“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.”
I blush bright red, feeling the heat glow through my whole body. Oh my God, Liam Martin just asked me out.
It’s like every stupid girly daydream I’ve ever had while I’m sitting in his class losing myself in watching him or listening to him talk. The dirty, hot, totally inappropriate daydreams, I might add. I mean Liam Martin is easily twice my age, and my professor. The daydream involving the two of us is hot because it’s so wrong, and so inappropriate, and so far from reality.
Except here we are, and he’s actually asking to take me out. And do I jump on this chance? Do I give in to my dirty daydreams and tell him to take me any way he wants like I do in my dreams?
No, of course not, because I’m a big giant wimp.
And so instead, I’m blushing and stammering like the awkward, inexperienced virgin that I am. And suddenly, even though my brain is screaming at me to shut up, I’m muttering something about being late - for the class he teaches, of course. And before I know it, I’m in my car halfway back to campus and yelling at myself for being such a stupid shy idiot.
I’m pulling my plaid shirt on over the coffee-stained tank top as I get out of the car, only then gasping as I realize my nipples are totally obvious through the wet cotton. I’m suddenly remembering that hot, hungry look of his, and I’m blushing and feeling this little thill run through my young body as I realize what the source of that hunger was.
It’s naughty, and totally wrong to like the idea of my much older professor staring at my see-through shirt like that, but there’s not denying the warm feeling pooling between my legs. There’s no denying that the thought of showing him so much has my cheeks flushed red and my panties getting wet as I slip into the lecture hall and take my seat.
Professor Martin walks in, looking incredible of course in his dressed-down t-shirt and jeans, a book under his tattooed arm like some sort of biker-turned-writer. He’s mumbles an apology out about the time before he opens his book, looks up, and suddenly locks eyes with me. They go wide in shock, before suddenly they’re burning. I can see his breath catch, and then the muscles of his neck tighten as he clenches his jaw.