I walk toward downtown Oceanside, less than a mile away from the dorms. My favorite part of living so close to a historic college, is getting to enjoy the walk through the historic district. A piece of the city that’s filled with beautiful, old homes including the row of cute bungalows across the street. My gaze is drawn to a light gray house with white trim. In the yard sits a cute little wooden box that reads Free Little Library. At first glance, it could easily be mistaken for a large mailbox, but as I step closer I realize it's a free community library.

A note on the door says, "Take a book, leave a book." Curiosity fills me as I peer behind the plexiglass to two tiny shelves filled to the brim. I've never been one to say no to a book. Inside sits an array of classics each with a snobbier title than the last. Despite being a lover of books, I've never been a fan of the majority of American Lit authors I've been forced to study in school. They all seem to be written by rich men who probably had nothing better to do. Where are the tearjerkers? The books that bleed with passion? Books written by authors like Zora Neale Hurston. Books about struggle and heartache. Their Eyes Were Watching God has been a long time favorite of mine.

Still clumsy from one too many drinks with Vicky, I stumble into the wooden post in front of me. It isn't until I hear the front door of the bungalow open that I realize I'm no longer alone. A bright light floods the grass in front of me, nearly blinding me. Footsteps descend onto the pavement and I cringe at thought of being caught snooping.

"If you're not off my lawn at the count of three, I'm calling the cops."

Irritation fills me at the snooty voice.

"Go ahead and call the neighborhood watch. I don't want to read your pretentious books anyway."

I don't bother looking for the voice behind me. I simply keep walking over the wet grass leaving puncture marks from my high-heel with each step, that is until my damn shoe gets stuck in the stranger's pristinely cut lawn. I grunt and wiggle trying to get it loose. My movements only seem to further cement my current predicament. I'm sure the owner is calling the police already, but at this point I really give no fucks. You know, those drinks I had earlier aren't exactly helping the situation either.

"Ms. Wilde? What the hell are you doing here?"

That voice.

A shiver passes over me and I know it isn't the cool ocean breeze. It's him.

"Why are you at my house?" he adds.

The sheer irritation in his voice both annoys and delights me. I make a miserable attempt at turning toward the voice, but my heel is wedged too tight in the wet lawn. I almost lose my balance but in a matter of seconds he's behind me. One strong hand wraps around my waist and the other slides down my leg to loosen the strap of my heel from my foot. He frees me without much effort. Despite the chilly breeze, my skin heats as if it's just another warm summer day. To my somewhat relief, he retracts his hand from my foot. My relief is short-lived as I realized he's freed me from my heel, but not from his touch. His other hand sits clasped around my hip as his finger tips sear through my clothing, making me all too aware of the damage this man can do. Not only with words, but with his touch.

"You haven't answered my question," he says, leaning far too close.

It takes every ounce of control not to lean back into him. Not to encourage him. Earth to Josie. This is your professor, woman. Professor's don't touch you like this. And they certainly don't just lean in behind you. This situation is quickly turning into a fantasy. A stupid, girlish cliche fantasy. My mind flashes to the memory of my dream from this morning. The one filled with naughty images of Professor Grant teaching me a "lesson." Like how to orgasm more than once.

"I came here to teach you a lesson," I blurt. Suddenly my words turn into a nervous giggle. Fuck me. I may be tipsy but I'm well aware that I'm going to regret this in the morning.

I feel Parker shift behind me.

"What lesson is that?" he says, next to my ear. "Wasted party girl damaging my property?"

I turn abruptly trying but failing to keep down my temper. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of Parker standing on his lawn barefoot with jeans on. He's wearing a blue dress shirt and a tie carelessly thrown on. Ugh. The ass didn't even have time to button up, instead my eyes are treated to the sight of rock solid abs sculpted by the Gods. I want to burn his shirt.

Fuck. He's hot.

"Ms. Wilde, your breathing. Is erratic."

"Sorry," I mumble suddenly feeling stupid and embarrassed. "I better go."

I turn and lean down to pull my heel from the grass. To my horror, it goes flying straight into Professor Grant. I turn mortified at my mistake. A flurry of curses escape his perfectly sculpted lips. Curses that send a blush straight to my cheeks as I realize it was a straight shot to his crotch. Another string of curses escape his lips as he bends over clutching his knees for support.

"Jesus woman, what kind of heels are those? They nearly made me a eunuch."

I bite back a laugh that threatens to escape. Well that wasn't exactly the lesson I had in mind, but I'm positive it won't be one he'll forget.

"They're my stripper heels," I offer.

Parker stares at me like I've gone crazy. He shakes his head before inhaling and looking away. I brush back my hair and giggle. The vodka from earlier still warms my stomach. I'm almost off the grass when hands grab and lift me. If there's one thing that I've never experienced, it's having someone throw me over their shoulder. As a bigger girl, I've just always pictured the act to result in disaster, but Professor Grant lifts me in one flawless swoop. Did he just put me over his shoulder?

"Put. Me. Down," I demand.

He doesn't oblige my request until we're inside the bungalow. I stare at him in shock as he takes one glance at me before side-stepping around me. He doesn't say a word. He simply walks barefooted over to his kitchen and dials a number. What the hell? Is he finally calling the police? And who the hell still has a landline? Might as well have a rotary phone. Dear God, I bet he has a flip phone. I scan the area around me curious to see if he does.

Someone must've picked up on the other end because I hear him recite an address before hanging up.

"A cab will be here in 20 minutes to pick you up."

"Don't you have a cellphone?" Sure, my question seems ridiculous considering all of the other more important questions going through my mind- like why the hell did you throw me over your shoulder - but that doesn't stop me from asking.

“Yes, I have a flip phone upstairs.”

“A flip what?“ I can't imagine going anywhere without my iPhone, but a flip phone? Jesus. "I'm guessing you still read paper newspapers as well?"

"Yes, daily."

He says the words as if I've just asked the stupidest question.

"You know you're probably the only reason why newspapers haven't completely gone under."

He shakes his head at me in what almost appears to be amusement.

"I could've walked back to my apartment. It isn't far."

"It's far enough. You're drunk and you're barely wearing any clothing."

"Are you trying to imply that I'm asking to be attacked."

He scowls at me.

"I'm simply saying--well, what I mean is--"

"I can handle myself," I bite back.

"No doubt with those horrendous shoes. Most attackers would go running for the hills."

"Very funny."

"I can be," he says.

"You can also sort of be an asshole."

His gaze cuts to me. There's a fire behind them as he steps forward, only a mere inch from me. God, he needs to stop doing that.

"Would an asshole call a cab for you?"

"I've met plenty of assholes who've called cabs for me."

"I'm not talking about men who've just fucked you."

My skin burns with heat. What a presumptuous dick.

Professor Grant leans in and the sharp scent of his cologne tickles my nose as it invades my senses. I tell myself that it smells disgusting, but I'm lying. This man in front of me is beguiling whether I'd like to admit it or not. Despite the intense need to take a step back and create some distance between us I don't. It's already strange enough that I'm here, in his house. Unless I'm so drunk I'm just hallucinating. If that's the case, damn. That was one strong White Russian Vicky gave me.

"Do you aways berate your students?" I ask.

It's like I'm trying to prod the beast in front of me. I try my best not to smile as I catch a slight tick in his jaw. This guy needs to unwind. Maybe he just needs a good lay. Fuck, I could really use one too.

"Only the ones that consistently insist on being a pain in the ass."

“Go fuck yourself,” I blurt.

“Why would I do that when I have you?”

Heat hits me like the burn of a third shot of tequila. It runs down my cheeks and all the way to my toes, leaving a tingly sensation between my legs. Suddenly Parker's house feels incredibly small. He steps closer and I immediately back against the fridge. There's something predatory about his gaze. It burns me with a startling intensity that matches both his stare and body language. He leans forward placing his hand above my head and against the stainless steel fridge behind me. My body automatically backs up, closing the space between me and the inanimate object. I'm trapped. Parker steps closer leaving less than an inch between us.

My fingers itch to grab hold of his stupid tie and chuck it to the floor. The damn thing never fails to summon the image of Mr. Rogers the puppeteer in my mind. What would Parker be like if he took some time to actually unwind?

"Did you hear me, Ms. Wilde?"

An involuntary shudder overcomes me as he leans in and hovers his lips near the skin of my cheek. I cringe inwardly at the thought of what he must think of me right now. I'm like some school-girl virgin falling to pieces in front of him. I turn my head despite my better judgement. Our gazes collide and I'm enraptured by the heat behind Parker's eyes.

Fuck. Yes. No. I don't know.

My head swims with images of riding Parker's arrogant face. He'd probably like that a little too much. As much of an alpha as he seems, I bet he'd love a woman taking control. God, I would love to be the one in charge for once. Grading him. Evaluating him. Sizing him up. Payback for the F he so ungraciously gave me.

"I didn't think so," he says, with the slightest smirk.

He steps back, handles me to the side like a child and opens the fridge door behind me. Shocked by his words, I stand there immobile. In a blink of an eye, he's walking away from me with a beer in hand. My gaze trails after him as he pops off the cap to claim his prize. His reward for winning some silent war between us. I lick my lips at the sight of him tipping the bottle back. Like an idiot I stand there silently watching him. Transfixed. It isn't long before his spell over me is broken.

"Don't forget the reading assignment for tomorrow."

The hardness behind his words bring me back to reality. Before I can ask what assignment he's referring to he answers me.

"Check your email, Ms. Wilde. Do your homework. Or you'll fail my class."

My skin heats as I take in a shaky breath and head for my things. My shoes sits haphazardly tossed by the front door and my sweater is just dangling off the door knob. Grabbing for them I tell myself not to look back. I refuse to let him know his words have an affect on me. My cab ride shows up just as I step down Parker's front porch. I'm tempted to look back, but I deny myself the small pleasure of appreciating Parker's muscle toned frame. Hurrying to my ride I slip inside without hesitation. It isn't until we're nearly down the street that I spot him standing and staring out the second story window of his bungalow. A pale light hits his form, crowning his hair in golden rays.

Ass. He probably knows how gorgeous he is standing there looking like a male model from a Calvin Klein cologne ad. Josie, you will not masturbate to him tonight. You will not. Even as the words float through my mind, I can't fight the need building between my thighs.