I should've faced that asshole and told him that I'm not accepting an F on my essay. That touching me at the bar was unacceptable - despite really, really wanting him to do it again - and that if he ever does do it again I'm going to make his life miserable. Instead, like the coward I am, I chose to skip classes this week, too embarrassed to face him again. I suffered enough humiliation the last class. I think I've had my fill for the month. Besides, I needed time away from him to do a little recon. I take another long drink of my sweet moscato before turning my attention to the man in front of me - one of the most gorgeous, most infuriating men I've ever seen.

A picture of Professor Grant's perfectly sculpted face sits blown up on my computer screen. The sight of him sends my pulse racing and a jittery sensation through my body. It's just the wine Josie. This is your third glass. My gaze drops to his lips set in an irritatingly handsome scowl. His expression screams obey me or else. I squeeze my thighs together fighting off the urge to let my hand slip down my jeans. The memory of his hands sliding between my thighs has kept me up every night this week. I thought I could forget the moment between us, but it's just been plain torture.

My body is torn between wanting to punch the man or sit on his face. I spent the majority of last night dreaming about him. Excruciatingly hot dreams of his mouth between my thighs, sucking, licking me senseless. Dreams that left me way too curious for a little one on one time. That's never gonna happen. I don't sleep with pretentious, old men who have nothing better to do than abuse their power. No matter how many times I tell myself the words, my body screams otherwise.

Josie, you hate the man remember? I bury my desire to show Professor Grant just how bad a student I can be and instead focus on digging up some dirt. After my meeting with Professor Grant gone awry, I decided to do a little recon on him. Everyone has a dirty secret, right? Maybe there's something that can help me get out of his class. I'm not opposed to blackmailing him. I wouldn't be in this mess if my favorite website didn't fail me. The ranking site Grade My Professor has been my bible for the past three years of college. It's the first place I check before registering for classes. Some techie genius from Silicon Valley created the site to help students like me. In fact, I've managed to avoid all the classes with busy work because of it.

The best part about it is the ranking system it has. Students grade teachers on a scale of 1 to 5 for their difficulty, hotness, and whether they would take the professor again. The reviews are brutal. Honest. And above all truthful. I can only imagine what my new professor's profile looks like. A little too eager to see the dirt on Grant's profile, I pour myself another glass of wine and scroll down the screen to his stats.

Professor - Parker Elliott Grant:

Level of Difficulty: 4.5

Level of Hotness: 5

Comments: Beware of Midterm Exam. Extremely Tough Grader. No Extra Credit. Would Not Repeat. Grade A Asshole.

My mouse hovers over the last comment. Well that doesn't come as a surprise. The remainder of the reviews on his profile are filled with lewd innuendos and references to his tight ass. Most from women airing out their grievances regarding his lack of enthusiasm when it came to their advances. He probably thinks he's too good for any woman. I can't believe he got a rating of five chili peppers. He's not that hot. At least that's the lie I've been telling myself to feel better. Curiosity gets the better of me as I google Professor Grant's full name. To my surprise, a familiar face pops up in 'related searches'.

Scarlett Jones.

Where do I know that name? My eyes widen at the sight of a thin, blonde goddess on the screen. She's holding an Emmy Award in her hand as she smiles at the camera. Holy shit. Professor Grant was married to an actress? The bubbly looking blonde is well-known for the primetime television show Future Outlaws. I remember when it first aired, even I was hooked for a while. It's hard to imagine Professor Grant married to a famous tv actress, but the internet doesn't lie. At least not this time. My screen is flooded with images of the two of them canoodling together. Some are paparazzi photos but most are editorial photos from red carpet events.

The man looks impeccable in a suit. Stupid ass. Why does he have to look so good?

I'm both irritated and elated that I had a first hand encounter the other week. No one should look that good with clothes on. I can only imagine how good he looks with them off. Focus Josie. Look for dirt. Something we can use to get back at that asshole. As I scroll farther down the feed, one particular headline causes my stomach to turn. Scarlett Jones divorces husband, admits to affair with co-star Miles Storm. Damn. After a quick image search, I'm left confused. Miles Storm is boyishly cute but Professor Grant is…well fucking hot to put it simply. As much as I hate to admit it, the man is the living embodiment of Clark Kent.

Who gives up Superman for Robin?

I chide myself for even feeling a remote amount of sympathy for Professor Grant. Then again if Superman turned out to be an asshole, maybe I'd jump ship too.

"What are you looking at?"

The sound of my roomie's voice stills me and I epically fail to close my computer fast enough for her lightening reflexes. The damn thing goes tumbling off my desk as I frantically try to close it. It scatters across the floor and somehow still manages to fly open in time to reveal a zoomed in image of Professor Grant's face.

"Are you watching porn again?"

"Fifty Shades of Grey isn't porn, Vicky," I say, rolling my eyes. "And no, I'm just doing some research."

She laughs and then grabs my laptop off the floor, which is magically still in one piece. Her face fills with curiosity as she looks over at me and points to a zoomed in image of Professor Grant.

"Shit, is that who I think it is?" she asks, pointing to a picture of him in a two piece Dolce & Gabbana blue suit. He white dress shirt sits opened at the collar revealing a patch of dark brown hair on his chest. All he needs are some black rimmed glasses and he could be the next Man of Steel.

"Yes," I blurt. There's no point in hiding the facts from Vicky. I bite back a laugh as her jaw drops and she does a double take. Her reaction mirrors my current state of mind. The father she scrolls in the feed, the farther her mouth opens.

"Are you serious? You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope," I grumble. "Apparently he was married to a movie star."

"I'd give my left tit to have a professor that sexy."

"He's an asshole, remember?" The night we left the club I couldn't hide how upset I was. After several coaxing words and a few more drinks I spilled everything to Vicky. There isn't much I can hide from her anyways when I seem to wear my feelings on my face. A fact that has become an issue as of late with my favorite professor.

"Well, he doesn't have to talk when he fucks you," Vicky teases. She wiggles her eyebrows with such exaggeration that I can't help but burst into laughter.

"I prefer men I don't find morally repugnant."

"You hate him that much?" Vicky asks. The knowing look on her face tells me that she already knows the answer no matter how much I want to deny it.

"He's the worst."

"C'mon, let's get something to drink. I feel like a late night therapy session is in the cards for us," she says, throwing her arm around me. "And I have just the therapist for you - his name is Dr. Jack Daniels."

"Fine, but you have to spill the beans on Professor Grant's hot, younger brother."

"Why don't we do this more often?" I ask, giggling into my glass. Vicky spins and nearly topples over me as she dances to the song I Took A Pill in Ibiza. We're all smiles as the two of us hit the makeshift bar in the kitchen for another drink and some homemade nachos. I spent the past three years hitting the books in order to please my parents and I'm determined to enjoy this last year no matter what. Vicky passes me another shot and we do a countdown before devouring them.

"I'm so glad I listened to you," I laugh. "Fuck Professor Grant."

"Yeah, fuck him," she says, lifting her drink and spilling at least half of it on us. The burn of the tequila sliding down my throat leaves me wanting more. Nothing could ruin my mood tonight. The ping on my computer is instantaneous as it collides with my words. Who's sending me messages at 2 AM? I squint to read the tiny text flashing across my screen. The letters are blurry but even so I can see my student account has a new email from Professor Grant. Irritation hits me like a sobering glass of cold water. My body suddenly feels ten degrees hotter at the sight of his name.

"Why the hell is he emailing students on the weekend? Doesn't he have a life?"

A shuffle of feet grabs my attention just as Vicky sits right behind me on our couch. She leans over my shoulder with an unruly smile.

"What?" Vicky says, sipping from a red cup. "Damn, this stuff is good."

"Professor Asshole emailed," I say, shutting my laptop closed.

"Seriously? Do you think it's about you missing his class this week?"

"I doubt it," I say. "He's probably glad that I missed."

"C'mon, let's see it."

I sigh knowing I'm nowhere near mentally prepared for a message from him. My emotions are still raw from the other weekend.

Re: Regarding Professor Dorian's Class.

As I mentioned this week, I'm taking over several of the late Professor Dorian's classes, including English 401. It has recently come to my attention that some of you are questioning my grading on the most recent essay assignment, I wanted to remind you that no rewrites will be allowed. There will be other essays and therefore other opportunities to improve your grade - if you continue to show up to class.

I'll see you all Monday. We have a lot to cover.

Professor Grant

He sent the same email to the entire class, but I know all too well this was mean't for me. Just me. It's a not so silent fuck you to the fact that I showed up during office hours and asked for permission to submit a rewrite. My anger grows with each line I reread. Ugh, even the squiggly email signature at the bottom of his email screams pretentious. I'm tempted to email him back a row of emoji's flipping the bird, but decide words are the best response instead.

"What are you doing Josie?" My best friend giggles. She leaves over my shoulder watching as I I begin typing a reply to Professor Asshole. The tequila making each keystroke more dangerous. Professor Grant's email is short and devoid of any real tone, but mine. Mine is nothing but tone. Mine is sure to leave him with a lasting impression.

Dear Professor Asshole,

You can shove your grade up your beautiful asshole. I'm counting down the days until I never have to see your stupid, arrogant face.

Wait, why am I calling him beautiful? What the hell is wrong with me? Let's try that again…

Dear Beautiful Asshole,

My fingers fumble as I do my best not to misspell my sentences. I'm sure he would have a field day if I did.

Dear Professor Grant,

You can shove your grade up my asshole your asshole.

Sincerely,

Josie

Vicky's laugh is drowned by the sea of people beside us. She grins and gives me a thumbs up, before pushing the button send for me.

"I would pay to be the fly on his wall when he reads this."

“I need some air,” I say, trying to block out the feeling of panic rising in my chest. Did I really just send my professor that email? “Want to come with?”

Vicky grins and then shakes her head. She fumbles over the couch to grab her phone as it lights up with a new message.

“Oh, wait. Actually, Derrick just texted. Rain check?”

“Okay, but I want details when I get back.”

I laugh as Vicky smiles and wiggles her eyebrows at me in a suggestive manner.

“I’ll be sure to tell him to say hi to Professor Grant for you.”