The heat on my cheeks spreads like wildfire as I enter the classroom for English 401. Rows of curious gazes turn in my direction. The 10 AM lecture is nearly filled, leaving only a few seats in the front row. It seems only a few students are brave enough to venture more closely. I slip into one of the broken chairs furthest from Professor Grant's desk. At this point, I'd sit on the floor if it meant putting more distance between us. As I scan the over-crowded room, the realization hits me. This is the most packed class I've ever seen. I'm sure that has everything to do with the fact that our new professor is a tyrant. Despite being one of the bigger lecture halls in the Gamma building, I'm not sure its size is big enough to fit Professor Grant's ego.

Our strange and infuriating encounter moments ago left me ill prepared for his lecture. My nerves grow as I glance up at the clock that serves as another reminder of my sentence. Ten minutes pass and I can feel myself itching to crawl out of my own skin. Where is he? My embarrassment from moments earlier returns with a vengeance. Why are you so eager to see him? It was only minutes go that he branded you as delusional as the rest of the woman in the world that read romance novels. I'm not sure what's more embarrassing the fact that he found a copy of my latest guilty pleasure, or that he assumed I have no love life because of it. So what if I read romance novels? It's not my fault fictional men are better than the real thing. I'm still waiting for the guy who can make me orgasm more than once. Is that too much to ask?

After twenty excruciating minutes, Professor Grant enters the classroom. I bite my lip as I watch his cool and collective manner. If he notices my presence, he doesn't show it one bit. I silently watch as he unpacks his bag, placing a stack of books on top. He meticulously sets things on his desk, all in perfectly aligned order. My hands itch to shove all of his things to the floor just to rile him up. It's irritating how perfect he wants his things. Or maybe it's just irritating how imperfect I feel near him.

"So nice of you to join us, Ms. Wilde."

His deep, rumbling voice echoes across the room sending shivers down my body. I glance up to find his sharp gaze looking at me. In a vain attempt to hide my blush, I turn mine to the textbook in front of me. I know pretending I haven't heard him isn't the greatest plan but I'm completely out of options. A female student next to me turns and whispers, "I think he's talking to you." If I wasn't embarrassed before I most definitely am now. My silence is greeted by a low chuckle from Professor Grant. Curiosity gets the better of me and I glance up to find him smirking.

"Ms. Wilde, will be leading today's reading." His expression tells me that he's more than willing to make an example out of me for the benefit of the rest of the class. Dozens of eyes turn to me in wide-eyed curiosity, including the female student next to me. "Uh oh, what did you do?" she whispers.

"Please open your textbook to page 30 and read the poem aloud for the class," Professor Grant commands. Irritation hits me as he sits back on his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. The haughty look turns me on in more ways than I care to admit. "You'll find this poem is not part of the course syllabus, but I think it's important to set the tone for this class."

A stream of whispers echo around me as I reluctantly turn to the requested page. If he thinks I'm afraid of reading aloud, he's wrong. I've spent the past three years analyzing and discussing all the classics. My stomach twists into knots as I scan the page Professor Grant direct me to. Son of a bitch. To my surprise, the poem isn't the standard, boring Keats poem. It's Please Master by Allen Ginsberg's. I remember it because one of my high school teachers was almost fired for having us read it. It's not every day you read a poem about begging to be fucked in the ass.

"Ms. Wilde, we're waiting."

Professor Grant stares at me with a startling intensity that borders on possessive. The voices around me fall silent as I clear my throat and begin reading. Within seconds, I realize exactly what he meant by "making an example out of me."

"please master can I have your thighs bare to my eyes

please master can I take off your clothes below your chair

please master can I kiss your ankles and soul"

My skin begins to heat again as I read over each provocative line. Please Master is nothing like the flowery poetry I've been reading for the past three years. In fact, most Professors wouldn't be caught dead assigning this poem. It's "too controversial." Although I'm not surprised that Professor Grant is having us read this, he seems to have a knack for making people uncomfortable. His gaze locks onto mine as a few laughs erupt from the classroom. My eyes are drawn to the slight curve in his lips -- the beginning of a smile. Annoyed, I turn back to the poem and begin reading through each line. Determined to let Professor Grant know that he hasn't nor will ever rile me. Ginsberg doesn't hold anything back with his poem. The further I read the heavier my breath grows. I fumble over words several times, too wrapped up in thoughts of my professor's hand slipping between my thighs.

"please master press my mouth to your prick-heart

please master press my face into your belly, pull me slowly strong thumbed

till your dumb hardness fills my throat to the base

till I swallow and taste your delicate flesh-hot prick barrel veined Please

Master push my shoulders away and stare in my eyes, & make me bend over the table

please master grab my thighs and lift my ass to your waist

please master your hand's rough stroke on my neck your palm down to my backside

please master push me, my feet on chairs, till my hole feels the breath of your spit and your thumb stroke

please master make my say Please Master Fuck me now Please"

My voice grows airy and my skin hot. I'm on full display for the entire class to see and I've never felt more naked. Or vulnerable.

"That's enough, Ms. Wilde." Parker's voice cuts me off and the air between us grows thick with unspoken words. He pins me with his heated gaze and firm scowl on his lips. "See me after the lecture." The command sends a thrill through me. As if realizing we're not alone, Professor Grant clears his throat and dismisses the class into groups for discussion. Several students continue to watch me as I work independently. The remainder of the class is spent silently planning my escape. I watch the clock studiously and ready myself to bolt straight out the door as soon as it strikes 11:50 AM.

"Ms. Wilde," Professor Grant calls, stopping me from running out the door. He sits waiting as his desk as students begin exiting the lecture hall. Too mesmerized by his voice to run, I awkwardly stand waiting for the last row of students to leave.

"Are you planning on continuing with my class?"

"Yes." Choosing to take an incomplete means waiting another year to graduate because of one stupid impacted class. "Is that a problem?"

"Only if I remain your Professor."

"Are you planning on leaving?" I ask confused.

"No, although if I had any sense I would."

I frown at his peculiar confession. If he had any sense he would leave? Is it possible the calm and collective Professor I've come to know is really just a facade? He walks toward me and reaches out with a book. The pocket size piece of literature. It's not any book I've seen at the student bookstore.

"This is for you," he says. "Don't read it all in one night."

The sarcasm in his voice sends an unexpected smile to my face. Is this more busy work? I scan the book with a good measure of curiosity.

"Is this part of the course requirement?"

His lips tilt in the most delicious way and the sight of it is overwhelming even for a stubborn woman like me. "No," he says, "I'm just challenging the way you read poetry."

"Are you trying to change my mind?"

"I can't change your mind, if I don't change your heart."