"Since we've spent the class session talking about how to make our writing more layered and textured by incorporating all of our senses, the assignment today will build on that discussion," Professor Ryan explains. "I'm handing out slips of paper with one of the seven deadly sins written on them. I'm looking for a piece two pages or less – don't write me a novel, because as always, brevity is king in my book – written around the theme of whatever sin you get."

He walks down the rows of chairs, handing them out as he talks. When I get mine, I open the folded-over piece of paper. My heart stops.

I look up at him in disbelief, but he's already down at the other end of the row.

Lust.

Why would he assign me lust?

He's screwing with me on purpose. He's trying to make me uncomfortable because I stood up to him and told him to stop acting like my father.

Irritation rushes through me, but I resolve to not allow him to get under my skin.

"If your sin is gluttony, for example, you don't need to write about an all-you-can-eat buffet," he explains in response to a question from a student. "All of these sins can be thought of metaphorically, so just use what you're given as a creative jumping-off point. Does anyone have any other questions?"

Just one: Should I write about how I've been lusting after my professor? Or is that not metaphorical enough?

He looks at me directly as if he can read my mind. My face warms under his gaze. "Is everyone comfortable with the sin they were assigned?"

There's no way this can be a coincidence. He assigned me lust on purpose because he knows it will make me uncomfortable.

It does make me uncomfortable, but not for the reasons he would assume. It makes me squirm in my seat because of the thoughts I've had of him.

"Ms. Taylor?"

My head jerks up. I realize that everyone in the classroom is already dispersing. Professor Ryan stands by the dry erase board with an eraser in his hand, staring at me.

Crap. Just how long have I been sitting here daydreaming about him?

"Yes," I sputter, sliding my notebook into my bag. "I was just … um … thinking about the assignment."

As soon as I speak the words, I regret them.

"Oh?" He walks in front of the table and half-sits, half-leans with his rear against it the same way he does in class. Then he crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. "Did you have a question about it?"

"Nope," I say sharply. "No questions at all."

"Were you comfortable with the sin you were assigned?" He asks the question so innocently that for a second I think I might be crazy. Surely I'm reading too much into things because why in the world would he purposely assign me lust?

I stand up, crossing my messenger bag over my shoulder and smoothing my hands on my skirt. "Yep. Totally comfortable."

The edges of his mouth twitch. He looks so self-satisfied that I'm suddenly certain those "random" assignments for the writing task weren't the least little bit random at all. "Good. I'm glad you're comfortable."

I'm not comfortable at all. I'm not comfortable with writing about the topic of lust for this man. I'm definitely not comfortable with the fact that I've had an orgasm while thinking about the dirty things I want that man to do to me.

But I nod, turn, and walk toward the door. Then (I don't know what comes over me) something makes me pause. Turning around, I take long strides back toward him, my heart racing. "Lust?" I snip angrily, pausing just before I reach him. "I couldn't have gotten pride or … or … wrath?"

Wrath would definitely have been more fitting, given my current state.

I'm irritated that the assignment wasn't random. I'm irritated that this man obviously thinks it's hilarious to give me assignments like this just to make me uncomfortable. Most of all, I'm irritated that being in such close proximity to him right now sends a little shiver of arousal through me.

"Is lust what you were assigned?" he asks, shrugging nonchalantly. "I'm afraid the topics were given out at random."

He looks so smug that I want to slap that irritating smirk right off his face. The image of myself doing exactly that pops into my head, and it's so vivid that I actually grab tightly with both hands to the strap of my messenger bag that crosses over my chest because I'm afraid I might act on it.

I've never been so angry that I thought about slapping anyone before.

"You gave me lust," I repeat, my voice dropping to a whisper. You made me lust after you is more like it.

Professor Ryan raises his eyebrows. "Your last few writing pieces have lacked passion, Purity," he replies. "Even after your little display at the restaurant, the piece you turned in was flat. Maybe this one will give you the opportunity to put more fire into your work the way I've been asking you to do."

"My display at the restaurant?" I ask, bristling. I finally stand up to someone and tell him to stop treating me like a child – treating me the way my father treats me – and he's totally condescending about it. He acts as if I'm a toddler throwing a temper tantrum in public.

"That's right. I believe the words self-important and overbearing were used."

My eyes narrow. "You forgot arrogant."

"My mistake. Self-important, overbearing, and arrogant." His mouth twitches again. "Use your imagination, Purity."

I glare at him. Use my imagination?? Right now, using my imagination might just involve plotting his demise.

"Part of being a writer is using your imagination to draw on things you haven't necessarily experienced," he continues, without my asking the question. "People who write murder mysteries don't have to kill people to write about murder. You can write about lust without…"

His voice trails off, the implication clear.

Without having any sexual experience.

My hands gripping the strap on my bag even more tightly now, I stand up straighter. Anger rushes through me. That man didn't listen to a thing I said at the restaurant about not being a naïve little girl. He thinks I'm exactly that. "You have no idea what experience I've had or haven't had," I tell him, acutely aware of how defensive I sound.

"Oh?" That same stupid smirk rests on the edges of his mouth. Anger wells up inside me. I have no idea why I'm so mad. Even more, I have no idea why I care about what he thinks about my experience or lack thereof.

"That's right," I huff. "You don't know me. Maybe I've had lots of sexual experience."

Now that smirk is gone. Now he's looking at me with something else in his eyes. "Go on, Purity," he growls. He doesn't move. He stays right where he's standing, still as a statue with his arms crossed.

My heart races. "Go on and what?"

The muscles on the sides of his face ripple as he clenches his jaw. "Go on and draw from your extensive … experience … in your assignment."

"Maybe I will, then," I huff.

"Great. I look forward to reading it." His voice is tight and his words are clipped.

"Great," I echo, before turning around and walking out of the classroom.

I make my way back to my dorm room, my thoughts racing the entire way home.

This is anything but great. Why did I have to say that about "extensive sexual experience"? I have exactly the opposite of experience when it comes to practically everything – but especially when it comes to sex. Now he's going to expect me to write like I know what I'm talking about, and I can't possibly do that.

Why did I have to open my big mouth?

Back at our room, Luna is sprawled out on her bed flipping through a textbook and eating pretzels. "What's up?"

I roll my eyes. "Creative writing," I answer, sighing more dramatically than I intend.

"Oooh... Creative Writing with Professor Ryan."

My gaze snaps in her direction because of the way she emphasizes his name. "I'm beginning to hate that class."

She laughs. "You hate a class taught by Professor Hottie? I despise writing and even I would take a class from him. Hell, I'd take a class that involved him sitting at the front of the room reading from a phone book."

"He's not… I mean… I never noticed," I stammer, one lie after another.

She arches an eyebrow. "You never noticed that man is attractive?"

"No, I mean… of course… no."

I should explain to her that he used to be friends with my father, that I knew him when I was young. I should explain to her that it would be incredibly wrong of me to notice how hot he is.

It would be even more wrong to fantasize about him. Forget about explaining that to Luna; I need to explain that to myself.

"Well?" she urges me, laughing. "I want to hear how you think he's not hot."

"You think he's really that good-looking??" I ask, my voice going up by at least an octave.

That didn't sound suspicious at all.

Clearing my throat, I turn around and pretend to be very busy. I'm really just taking out my notebook and books from my bag and placing them on the bed to distract myself from this conversation.

"Uh, yeah," she replies. "I do have eyes, you know. Your professor is objectively attractive. I mean, he's totally not my type – the whole suit-thing doesn't do it for me because I don't date suits – but he's attractive, for sure. He looks like one of those older actors, George Clooney or something. I'm pretty sure that's the only reason those catty bitches on our floor who called you our resident Amish girl wanted to get into his class, you know. In fact, I'm definitely sure of that; they don't have the brainpower to be concerned with anything academic."

That's when it hits me: If Luna thinks "Professor Hottie" is attractive, chances are she's not the only one. Professor Ryan probably has women checking him out constantly. He probably has pretty girls – students even, like the ones on our floor – throwing themselves at him all the time.

A sudden rush of jealousy runs through me and I hate myself for it. The feeling makes no sense at all. I have no right to feel jealous. I don't even have a reason to feel envious. Professor Ryan is no one to me. I remind myself that while he may be hot, he's also a pompous jerk. Finally, there's just no way he's interested in me to begin with. Why would he be with girls hitting on him all the time?

"Well, I guess I never really noticed," I say, my voice tight. "Plus, he's kind of an –"

I almost say ass, but I catch myself out of sheer habit before I utter the swear word. It's not as if Luna would be offended if I cursed, and it's also not as if I want to carry my father's values around with me forever and ever. But it still feels wrong – almost as wrong as it feels when I get butterflies in my stomach around Professor Ryan.

It also feels wrong to speak poorly of the man.

Even if he really is an arrogant ass.

"Kind of a what?" Luna asks.

"Nothing," I lie. "I forgot what I was going to say."

"You sounded like you were going to bitch about Professor Hottie."

I let out an exasperated exhale. "We just have this stupid assignment, and I don't know what to do with it. But really, it's not a big deal in the greater scheme of things."

Luna pulls herself up straight and leans back against a stack of pillows on her headboard. "So, distract me."

"Distract you? Why?"

She holds up a computer programming book.

"You'd rather hear about my stupid writing assignment?"

Luna looks at me like I'm an idiot. "Um… would you rather hear about my programming class? Because I've been reading this for an hour, and my eyes are glazing over. Trust me when I tell you that reading this textbook is better than any sleep medication ever made. So, distract me with your stupid writing assignment."

Argh. The last thing I want to do is admit to Luna that my assignment is a topic I know nothing about.

Well, next to nothing.

I suppose I have plenty of very recent experience with lust, don't I? The memory of thinking about Professor Ryan while sliding my fingers between my legs is still fresh in my mind.

"Nah, it's boring," I say dismissively. Sitting down on my bed, I try to think of another topic to change the subject as I smooth my palm across my comforter. My pink comforter I brought with me is from high school and way too childish. I definitely need to replace it with something more adult – kind of like everything about me: my wardrobe, my music, even my language. I'm lucky to have gotten Luna as a roommate, because I'm almost certain that anyone else would consider me far too small-town, too sheltered, and definitely too uncool with my long dresses and stupid pink comforter and lack of knowledge of pop culture.

"Alright, then. Just remember that you asked for it. You're about to get an education in boring. I'm going to read you part of this programming textbook."

I can't help but laugh as I hold up a hand to protest. "No, no, don't!"

"Sorry, I can't stop!" Luna exclaims. "You think writing is more boring than programming? You need to learn what boring actually is!"

I giggle as she begins to read a bunch of gibberish from a random page in her book.

Then she stops. "My God, I will fall asleep even reading this out loud. In my defense, it's pretty cool when you are actually doing programming hands-on, but this textbook bullshit is just torture, pure and simple."

"Okay, okay, that's enough. I don't need to share in your torment."

"Good," Luna declares, snapping her book shut. "Now, go ahead. What's this assignment you're completely flipping out about?"

"I'm not flipping out!"

She cocks her head to the side and gives me a skeptical look. "You're freaking big-time. But I'm not going to argue with you about that because I know that you're just trying to avoid the topic. Just spit it out already. What's the writing assignment you hate?"

I roll my eyes. "We have to write about one of the seven deadly sins."

"Like greed and shit?" Luna stretches out and reaches into the plastic organizer beside her bed that holds a million snacks. She pulls out a bag of candy and tosses it onto her bed, then pulls out a piece of wrapped hard candy and lobs it across the room at me. It bounces off my leg and onto my comforter.

"Or gluttony," I say pointedly, picking up the piece of candy and unwrapping it.

"Gluttony, totally!" she exclaims, laughing. "I could give you ideas for that."

"Ideas?? I could model a whole character off of you."

"Truth," she replies. "Come to think of it, if you don't write me into a story before the end of the semester, I'm going to be totally offended."

"Maybe I'll do a murder scene," I deadpan.

"I could definitely be a killer."

"I was thinking more like the victim."

"Only if I die grotesquely," she insists. "Promise that my death will be gruesome – and I'll need to be the center of attention in the story."

"You, the center of attention?? Shocking."

She pelts me with another piece of hard candy, then rustles through her bag and unwraps yet another piece.

"You should keep a candy bowl on your desk, one of those little glass bowls like grandmas have in their houses," I suggest.

"You mean, instead of a bowl of condoms like my mother tried to get us to display in our room?"

I giggle, and it comes out like a little snort. "Your mother is very … passionate about safety."

Luna laughs. "That's one way of putting it."

"What's another?"

"The other way of putting it is that she's completely fucking crazy."

"What did you do with all of the condoms she left, anyway?"

"Oh, I used them all," Luna deadpans, but even I'm not naïve enough to think that's possible. Her mother brought enough condoms for our entire dorm floor to be kept supplied for the whole year. "Just kidding. I took them to the student health center and dropped them off."

"Bummer," I say sarcastically.

Luna raises her eyebrows. "Bummer?? Oh, did Little Miss Good Girl want me to save them for her?"

Even though she's grinning and obviously teasing me, I'm starting to hate this whole "good girl" thing. I've never had a chance to be anything except a good girl, and I'm not sure that's what I want to be. "I was thinking it's still pretty warm outside. We could have filled them with water and tossed them out the dorm room window on unsuspecting students," I joke.

Luna laughs. "Right onto those bitches down the hall," she says.

"You read my mind."

"Little Miss Good Girl is really Little Miss Wicked."

If only she knew how wicked I really was.

Lusting after Mr. Gabe, a man that my father has referred to as a reprobate for years now, is probably the pinnacle of wickedness – at least according to my father.

Maybe even according to most people. Even the university has rules about professor-student relationships. There's a reason for that, and it's because it's against most people's moral code.

So what does it say about me that I can't seem to stop fantasizing about it?

Luna's voice interrupts my guilt-laden thoughts. "So, what sin did you get?"

I groan. "Lust."

She lets out a laugh that sounds like a bark, quickly clasping her hand over her mouth as if that's going to stop me from knowing she just laughed. "See?!" I blurt out, pointing at her. "You think it's terrible, too!"

"No, I don't think it's terrible…"

"You don't need to try to make me feel better about it. It's objectively horrible and we both know it. Professor Ryan has been on my case about my writing being flat and without passion, and now I get randomly assigned the worst thing I could ever be given to write about."

"It's not the worst. It could be a chance to make your writing passionate," she says.

I give her a look, exhaling loudly. "I can't write about lust. I'm a vir–"

"Ohh," she breathes. "You're still a virgin."

"Don't pretend like you're shocked."

"Okay, I'm not surprised," Luna admits. "But it's alright. It's lust you're writing about, yeah? So, you can write about that. You've gone out with people or fooled around, right?"

I stare at her.

"Ohh," she breathes again.

Great. Now I can be completely humiliated.

"Well, okay. You haven't fooled around with anyone. But, I mean, you've kissed someone, or –" Apparently I don't even need to answer that question, because she stops short, crossing her legs and leaning forward. "I mean, not even a kiss? Like, ever??"

My face is hot. "Please don't tell anyone."

"Oh my God. Of course I wouldn't ever," she says. "That's personal. But you've really never been kissed? I mean, you're gorgeous."

I don't know what to say to any of that, especially the part about being gorgeous, but mostly I'm too embarrassed to speak.

"Well, okay, it's not a huge deal." She shrugs as if she hears adult women confess every day to never having been kissed. "It's not an autobiographical thing you're writing, right? It's supposed to be fictional. You can make something up."

"Yeah, except Professor Ryan is already on my case about my writing being flat and unrealistic – and now the girl who's never even been kissed is going to write about lust? I'm supposed to somehow make my writing fiery, passionate, and realistic – but I've never even so much as been alone with a boy before."

"Jesus," Luna curses under her breath, and then her eyes go wide. "Was that offensive? Sorry."

"I'm not my father," I say, shaking my head.

"Have you talked to him since you got to school?" Luna asks, popping another piece of candy in her mouth.

I don't tell her that my father sends me daily reminder emails instructing me to make friends with the right people and to stay away from my roommate.

"Is he, like, totally freaking out about you being at school? It's basically a smorgasbord of guys here, Purity. We need to get you dating. I mean, you could do the whole internet dating thing – there are a million dating and hookup apps out there – or we could take you out to some parties or something."

She blurts out sentence after sentence, barely taking a breath between words.

"He's not totally freaking out about me dating or anything because I'm… um… kind of promised to this guy back home, and –"

"Shut up." Luna sits up straighter, her eyes wide. "I thought you never were alone with a boy. How do you have a boyfriend?"

"Not a boyfriend," I protest, grimacing. "I don't even like him like that. It's just that my father promised his parents, and everyone in town expects us to get married. It's one of the reasons I left South Hollow, though. I didn't want to– Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Oh my God. This is like some eighteenth-century shit. Your father promised you?? Like, you're his property or something?" Luna sounds horrified, and I'm regretting even saying anything.

"I'm not going to marry Justin," I say quickly. "I'm just – well, I guess my father thinks I'm going to marry Justin. And Justin probably thinks I'm going to marry him. But I never, ever said I would. He's at least ten years older than me, and –"

"Like Professor Ryan," Luna teases.

My face probably turns a deep shade of scarlet. Professor Ryan is more like twenty years older than me. So why is it that being near Professor Ryan makes my heart race and my head spin, yet the thought of being near Justin Evans, who is closer to my own age, makes me want to vomit? "I don't see what Professor Ryan has to do with anything," I start defensively.

"Relax, dude. I'm totally just kidding. Professor Ryan is hot shit for an older guy. By the look on your face, I'm guessing that your fiancé is not nearly as hot?"

"He's definitely not my fiancé."

"I just can't believe that parents are actually marrying off their children in this day and age," Luna muses. "It's insane."

"I'm really embarrassed."

"Oh, I didn't mean to make you feel that way," Luna says quickly. "It's just crazy to me that your father is that controlling. You obviously don't want a fiancé."

"Yeah, no kidding," I agree.

"Seriously, though, your life is so interesting," she goes on. "It's like a novel."

"Being locked away from everything in the world, like Rapunzel in a tower, isn't exactly interesting."

"But it is," Luna protests. "To an outsider, to someone like me, it's really interesting. You should write about it. That's what you should write about!"

For a second, I consider it. Professor Ryan did say we could turn the sin into a metaphor. It didn't have to be literal. Lust could be related to lots of things that aren't the least bit sexual, like my desire to get away from the prison of my hometown and my family.

But that feels way too intimate a topic to let Professor Ryan read, even if he might know exactly what I was talking about, since he knows South Hollow and my father. Especially since he knows both of those prisons. He would understand how smothering they could be – at least, I think he'd understand that.

That's precisely why it feels too revealing – too vulnerable – to write about.

"No, I couldn't," I murmur.

"Okay then. Lust," Luna goes on. "You've had a crush before, at least. Right?"

A crush. Like Professor Ryan.

Except that he's not a crush.

What I feel toward him is lust, pure and simple.

He wants more fire and passion from my writing – and I faked as if I have extensive experience to draw from when it comes to this project. But it's not as if I have zero experience with lust.

I should teach him a lesson for assigning me lust as my sin. If he wants more fire and passion, I should give him so much fire that he doesn't know what to do with it. If he thinks it will make me uncomfortable to write about lust, I should give him something so steamy that he's the one who's uncomfortable.

I tell myself that I can do this.

I can.

Okay, so I haven't written about sex before – or kissed anyone, or so much as held hands with someone. But so what?

I can totally do this, I resolve.

"What's that look?" Luna asks.

"Nothing," I reply automatically.

"Oh, that's something," she says, laughing.

"I just had an idea."

A terribly wrong, terribly naughty, terribly wicked idea.