I smile at the email from Ms. Wilde and her colorful choice of words. She's spirited much like I once was when I was her age. The girl with strawberry blonde curls, hazel eyes and lips that would make most men melt, has managed to wreak havoc on my body and mind since the moment I set eyes on her. It was stupid of me to touch her - a fact only multiplied when she didn't stop me. The image of her nipples tightening under my hands still sends my blood racing to parts it has no business arousing. I've already opened myself to enough complaints from the student body.

All of this could've been forgotten if it wasn't for her damn email. I've never been one to back down from a fight and Ms. Wilde seems ready to draw blood. My fingers itch to write her a sharp message, to remind her that I control her grade, but it's late and the thought of toying with her only seems to exacerbate the problem - my erection. The last impression I want to give is that I'm waiting for her reply. I've only known this woman for a week and yet in that short amount of time, she's worked her way under my skin. There's no doubt in my mind that this woman knows every button to press with me. The last thing I need right now is the English department chair calling me into her office in the morning. I've been there, done that. Not every student listens and some even outright argue with me, but the last time a student crossed me was in my first year of teaching. "Be careful Grant, you've only been with us for a year." I still remember the department chair calling me into her office like it was yesterday and her due diligence to remind me my lowly status on the totem pole. I'm still hoping to walk away from this semester with my career still intact - if I can help it.

Another email pings through to my computer.

Dear Professor Grant,

You're the biggest asshole.

Sincerely,

Josie

She's taunting me and sadly, it's working. She gets a rise out of me in more ways than one. What I wouldn't do to see her on her knees with my cock in her mouth. Even then, I'm sure, she'd have something snarky to say to me. Yet another reason to punish her. To show her the only teacher in the room is me. I crave the simplicity of fucking without feelings, but I'm beginning to think the two don't mix with my new student. I click open my inbox and compose a new message.

Ms. Wilde,

You seem to have a knack for words. Perhaps if you used them to finish your papers, instead of wasting them on me, you would pass my class. That is if you ever show up.

- Professor Grant

I click send and the euphoria that hits me is like a drug pumping through my veins. I have absolutely no restraint around this woman. This girl. Christ. She's ten years younger than me at the very least. Most women my age are planning dinner parties and attending parent teacher conferences. Not going to clubs and living on daddy's money. Ms. Wilde and I come from very different backgrounds. We're incompatible. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

The truth is the last time I felt this way was in my twenties and the last woman I felt this way about was my wife.

I'm dreading tomorrow's day of classes. I may have to sneak in a workout at the university's gym, otherwise I'm not sure how I'll survive the constant need to readjust my cock all day. I need a release and unfortunately the person I'd like to employ for this particular job is off-limits. Josie Wilde looks sweet, she probably tastes even sweeter, but sweetness doesn't last forever. I should know.

Scarlett was sweet.

I mentally kick myself for still having photos of my ex-wife hidden in the house. It would be so easy to just burn them but after all of these years, I still can't even manage the strength to do that. Scarlett was sweet up until the moment she told me she was sleeping with her co-star and that she didn't love me anymore. I was a fucking fool back then. So in love with my wife and too stupid to see what was right in front of me. She kept her vows long enough to find someone else.

"I'm sorry Parker. I never meant to hurt you."

The memory of her words still cut me. I supported Scarlett through all of the bullshit auditions she had and when she landed her first big TV show, I thought it was the greatest thing that ever happened. Little did I know it was the beginning of a divide. She couldn't get away from me fast enough. She even dropped the last name Grant and changed it to Jones. Scarlett Jones. They call her the Australian beauty. It's almost laughable if it weren't so fucking sad. Her accent is as fake as her new set of tits. I've heard of stars changing their names and bleaching their teeth, but Scarlett turned into a whole different person. These days, I hardly recognize the woman she was.

Our divorce while clean, left a messy aftermath for our daughter. Shuffled between two households. The holidays have become the worst of it all. The days we once spent celebrating, are now filled with anxiety and accusations about who Olivia should be spending time with. God knows I've taken every precaution to guard myself against Scarlett, but our daughter Olivia can't do the same. She's the one truly suffering from our separation. I'd give anything to have the united family she needs, but that will never happen.

A soft rapping sound echoes from my bedroom door just as I'm about to click my bed lamp off. Small fingers inch around the door frame and my small, golden haired angel pops into view. Why is Olivia up at this hour? She rubs her eyes looking at me with a sad, defeated expression. My chest squeezes at the sight of her ridiculous unicorn pajamas and crazy bed hair. She won't always be so little. One day she'll leave me too.

"Daddy, I can't sleep. Can I come lay next to you?"

I smile. For now, I'll appreciate the fact that she still deems me acceptable.

"Nightmares again? I ask.

"Yes," she says, walking over to my bed. "Will you read to me?"

"What will it be today, my little Olive?"

She smiles and the sight of it could disarm any man. Not matter how coldhearted I feel at times, this little girl knows her way to my heart. I'm definitely in trouble when she gets older.

"Can we read Where the Sidewalk Ends?"

"You like that one now? I ask surprised.

"I like the way you read it."

"How do I read it?"

"With the funny voices. Mommy doesn't do them."

I cringe at the comment that falls from her lips. I can't help but wonder just how much time Scarlett is spending with our daughter these days. Between shooting commercials and shooting a new season of her show, I'm willing to bet it isn't much.

"Daddy would love to read it to you."

She giggles and then jumps onto the bed next to me. Her eyes shine with excitement as I step out of bed and survey the bookshelf on the other side of the room. There's a lot of things I regret in life but making this tiny human is not one of them. I grab my worn copy of Shel Silverstein's book, tuck her into bed and begin reading. The look of adoration in my daughter's eyes hits me, filling me with pride. No one has ever looked at me that way and perhaps no one else ever will. A strange sensation fills up my chest at the realization that I may never have another person to share these moments with.