I'll look forward to it.

What the hell is wrong with me? The girl comes stumbling into my class a mere five minutes late, her face screwed up in an expression of panic and her cheeks flushed like she ran a mile to get here, and I'm a cold-hearted asshole in response.

As if I've ever cared about a student being five minutes late to class.

It was the flush on her cheeks that threw me off kilter, the rose color on her cheekbones that reminded me of the afterglow of sex. When she stopped and froze there standing just inside the doorway to the classroom like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, her eyes met mine and I couldn't think of anything except what she'd look like in bed. I couldn't stop picturing those wide sapphire eyes looking into mine, her mouth falling open and my name on her lips.

I can't get through the rest of the class without pushing those thoughts right out of my head and ignoring her during the session.

I ignore the way she practically shrinks into that desk like she's trying to disappear. I ignore the expression on her face, a mixture of disappointment and humiliation. I ignore the pang of guilt I see when I look at her.

I tell myself this is for her own good. She needs to toughen up if she's going to make it in the real world. The girl will be eaten alive at a place like this, devoured whole if she's not careful.

So, I'm doing her a fucking favor by being an asshole.

I shouldn't feel the least bit guilty anyway. She's Alan's daughter. Chances are that she's cut from the same hateful and small-minded cloth as he is. After all, she's got the puritanical look down pat.

Besides, I'm not here to be her friend or her mentor.

Or her daddy.

I don't know where the hell the last part of that came from, but as soon as the word pops into my head, all of the blood in my body goes straight to my cock, causing it to twitch involuntarily right here in the middle of the damned class I'm teaching.

This is not happening.

Tamping those thoughts down, I focus on the present. I spend the rest of the class period the way I always spend the first session of my course: going over the minutia of the syllabus and grading system but mostly getting a sense of the students in my class and how to challenge them.

When I agreed to do this course, it was only as a guest lecturer. I was bored after my second novel hit it big, and I thought it would be fun. It was never supposed to be a permanent thing.

The truth is that I wound up loving everything about teaching. There's nothing more thrilling than seeing untapped potential in someone and giving them the nudge they need to spread their wings and fly. That's an uncharacteristically optimistic way of thinking coming from someone as inherently cynical as I am.

I make it through the class without any additional pesky cock-twinge incidents and I successfully dismiss all of my students. I've just finished wiping down the dry erase board, which is littered with my chicken scratch handwriting of fifteen different ideas from students for their first writing assignment, when a voice pipes up from near the classroom entrance.

"Mr. Gabe – I mean, Professor Ryan. I can't seem to stop saying the wrong thing." Purity stands there in her demure cotton dress – light pink this time, matching the flush on her cheeks. It's almost identical to the one she wore the other day except for the color, which makes me wonder if she only owns this one dress in a hundred different colors. I wouldn't put it past her father to basically give her a uniform to wear.

A pang of guilt washes over me. This time, it's guilt for not staying around in South Hollow and for not attempting to exert a moderating influence on Purity's father. We were friends as kids, after all. Maybe if I had stayed in South Hollow longer, he wouldn't have become so rigid and extreme.

The poor girl.

She can't help the way she was raised, and she's skittish as a baby deer right now as she waits for me to respond.

I want to respond compassionately but my brain tells me that would be an idiotic move. Meanwhile, my dick seems to be on a whole different wavelength, operating independently of reason and twitching again at the sight of her.

It's ridiculous because I've never had this problem before.

I clear my throat, trying to force the blood back up to my brain as I barely choke out words: "Ms. Taylor."

"Yes?"

I'm distracted by how lush her lips seem to be. I wonder what would happen if I reached out and stroked her lower lip with the tip of my thumb. I wonder how she would taste, how her lip would feel as I pulled it between my teeth.

No. I don't fucking wonder anything when it comes to Purity Taylor.

I clear my throat.

Be an asshole, I tell myself.

"Make an appointment, Ms. Taylor." I hate the chill that I force into my voice.

"I just – um, I wanted to just –" she starts, but I cut her off. I have to cut her off, because the second she opens that pretty little mouth and begins to stammer, I can't think of anything except how much I want those quivering lips wrapped around my cock. I can't possibly stand here watching this girl's mouth open and close without desperately wanting her on her knees in front of me.

Dear God, what is wrong with me??

"Office hours, Ms. Taylor." My words are clipped. "Office hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays at three o'clock. If you have questions about the class, you can see me then."

"Oh. No, I didn't have a question. I… um –"

I need to get her the hell out of here.

I affect an exaggerated sigh, acting like I have someplace better to be than here when in reality I'd love to just stand here all day long watching her lips move. "See me during office hours, Ms. Taylor," I snap.

She hugs the notebook she's carrying tightly to her chest. It's a self-protective move, but the gesture pushes her cleavage up so the rise of her breasts become visible at the top of the pale pink dress.

All of the blood in my brain rushes south again.

"I only – I just wanted to assure you that I won't be late for class next time," she says firmly. "And I just want to tell you that you won't regret giving me a place in your course."

Great. The girl has a glimmer of a backbone. It would be far easier for both of us if she were a passive little thing that I could snarl at once and she'd flit away.

"That remains to be seen, Ms. Taylor."

She holds my gaze, her jaw clenching. I stand there waiting with bated breath as I wonder what the little mouse has to say. There's a lot more going on with her underneath the surface, there's no doubt about that.

There's also no point in being intrigued with what's going on under the surface of Purity Taylor, I remind myself.

Or with what's going on under that dress. Especially not what's under that dress.

My cock twitches again, reminding me that my baser self can't think about anything else but what the girl would look like out of that dress. "Was there anything else, Ms. Taylor?"

For a second as she holds my gaze, I think I see a glimmer of attraction there. I think I see the same ill-considered heat that I feel. But then she turns to leave, pausing briefly in the middle of the doorway with her back to me. "My father –" she starts, her voice faltering. "I know he talked to you about me - about looking out for me."

"You're an adult, Ms. Taylor," I interrupt. "I'm certainly not your babysitter."

Or your daddy.

I stand there after she leaves, my heart pumping furiously in my chest as I wait for my pulse to return to normal. I wait a few minutes to be sure she's gone before heading straight to my office.

"Hey, Mr. Ryan," the department's administrative assistant calls as I pass.

I give her a half-hearted wave. When I reach my office, I slam the door closed harder than I intend to, dropping my bag on the floor and leaning against the door.

I look down at the full-fledged fucking hard-on that tents my dress pants. What the hell? This is not who I am. I haven't had an unexpected boner since I was fifteen years old, and I'm far from being a damned teenager.

Reaching behind me, I click the lock on the door. Clearly, I can't leave my office to go home in my current state. I've never jerked off in my office, but obviously nothing is normal anymore. Unbuckling my belt, I fist my hard cock, resisting the urge to let out a loud groan. I'm throbbing, blood pumping through every inch of my dick and so much pre-cum gushing from the tip that it's a miracle I didn't walk all the way to my office with a giant wet spot on the front of my pants.

Closing my eyes, I attempt to picture a celebrity or a swimsuit model. I try to picture anyone who's not Purity.

The problem is that I can't.

When I close my eyes and run my hand down the length of my cock, it's Purity's image that is burned into my brain.

Purity stands in front of me with her lips inches from mine. Her breasts rise and fall, her breath shallow as her lips fall open. "Professor Ryan," she whispers.

My dick is so swollen at the image it feels like it's going to explode. I stroke myself faster, no lotion or lubrication needed because of the pre-cum flowing from the tip.

"You can't do this, Purity," I tell her. "We can't do this. It's wrong."

"But I don't want it with anyone else," she insists, her voice breathy. "I've been thinking about it with you. I want it with you."

She pushes a lock of her long hair over her shoulder, her fingers going to the buttons on the front of her dress. She's not wearing a bra under the thin cotton fabric, and her nipples are so clearly defined underneath that the would-be conservative garment is completely indecent.

I wonder if she's entirely bare underneath.

I don't have time to think about it, though, because I'm preoccupied with what she's doing with her fingers. She slowly undoes one button, then another and another until the front of the dress falls open to reveal the most spectacular breasts I've ever seen. They're perky and full and absolutely fucking perfect.

And then she's cupping them in her hands, her fingers grazing lightly over her hard little nipples.

"Oh, fuck," I moan under my breath as I stroke myself faster at the thought of perfect Purity and her perfect tits.

She pinches her nipples between her fingers, the expression on her face rapturous. "I've been a very bad girl, Professor Ryan," she tells me. Her voice is breathy, punctuated by little gasps as she plays with herself.

"How, Purity?" I ask, transfixed. I want to run my tongue over those nipples. Hell, I want to thrust my tongue into her mouth, to claim her perfect mouth as my own. But I just stand here, inches away from her unable to stop staring, because watching her touch herself is glorious. "Tell me how exactly you've been a bad girl. Is it because you're in your professor's office taking off your clothes?"

"No," she breathes, a sly look crossing her face. "I haven't taken off my clothes at all. If I were taking off my clothes, I'd do this…"

Her voice trails off as she slips the sides of the dress down and over her shoulders, then shrugs. The entire thing falls to the floor in one swift motion.

She's bare underneath that dress.

If there was any doubt in my mind before, it's all been erased now that I'm presented with perfection. Besides, there's no more thinking now. My dick is in control, doing all the thinking in the world for me.

Purity looks down at my obvious hardness – and the way my cock is threatening to escape the front of my pants right now – then back up at me, her expression triumphant. "Now, I've taken off my clothes," she declares.

"So you have, Purity," I reply. My hands go to my belt and I unbuckle it, watching the expression on her face change, her lust more than evident. "And look at what you've gone and done to me. You're a bad girl, indeed."

She runs her tongue along her lower lip as she watches me pull my cock from my pants. When she sees it, she lets out an audible gasp, her eyes going wide. "It's so… big."

"Do you know what happens to bad girls, Purity?" I stroke my cock, my eyes locked with hers. Her lips fall open and she inhales sharply as her hands slide from her breasts down lower. I stroke myself as she slides her hand down over her mound, and her fingers slip between her legs. "Touching yourself in front of your professor is a very naughty thing to do."

"What will you do to me?" she asks, her eyelids half closing as she touches herself.

I let out a laugh under my breath. This girl has no idea the filthy things I'm going to do to her. She has no idea what she's gotten herself into. "Take your fingers from your pussy, Purity," I order. "I didn't tell you that you could touch yourself."

She whimpers, but she does exactly what I tell her to do.

"Show them to me, kitten. Are they wet?"

She holds up her fingers, the wetness glistening in the light. "They're wet, Professor Ryan. So wet."

I want to bury my face between her thighs and devour every part of her. I want to feel her come on my tongue. A low rumble develops in my throat. "Put them to my lips, Purity. Let me taste you."

She holds her fingers against my lips, and I open my mouth and take them in. She's sweeter than anything I've ever tasted in my life, like honey and sugar and everything that's good in the world.

I don't even make it any farther than that in the fantasy in my head. The thought of her standing there naked in front of me and sliding her fingers between her legs – the thought of her being wet for me and letting me taste her – sends me immediately over the edge. I explode instantly, jerking myself to orgasm at the thought of sucking every bit of it from her fingers.

I stand there afterwards, my heart racing in my chest and my cock still in my hand as I try to catch my breath.

This cannot happen again, I vow. I can't fantasize about this girl. I can't jerk off in my office while I think about her.

It won't happen again. Whatever the hell is going on in my head, I need to get it under control.