I sit in my shoebox office, trying half-heartedly to grade papers. But I can’t fucking concentrate.

The truth is, I’m waiting. Waiting for her.

This is exasperating.

It’s been an entire week since I saw her, kissed her, touched her. She’d wanted me. It was unmistakable in her eyes. And then . . .

Woosh. Gone. She turned off her emotions again, like flipping a light switch, leaving me ready to fucking burst.

And she hasn’t been in my class for over a week. She doesn’t strike me as the type to skip out on class without at least trying to catch up the work she’s missed. But I haven’t heard a word from her. Maybe she decided to drop the class after all.

I check my watch. It’s after eight. Office hours are over.

She’s not coming.

Shit.

I start to pack up my things, then do a last-ditch check of the online classroom. She hasn’t logged in here in a week. Every time I check, all I see are questions from the other students, but nothing from her.

I’m surprised when I see the green light beside her name.

I quickly open a chat to her and type in: Addison. Are you okay?

Then I wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, the three dots appear, indicating she’s writing a message. I lean forward, waiting for the answer.

Yes. I’m sorry.

I sigh. Remember what I told you about being sorry?

I know. But I am. I wanted . . . what you said. So much.

Wanted, in the past tense. It doesn’t sound good. And?

I frown when she comes back with: I can’t. I can’t talk about this here. Or anywhere. And I AM sorry.

I don’t understand it. She’s censuring herself. There is something she’s not telling me. That fragile smile has always been hiding something from the world. It takes all the strength I have to push aside the disappointment. All right. But you’ve missed my class twice now. How will you make up the assignments?

I will. Homer gave me the notes.

I rub my tired face. So that’s it, then. You understand if you miss another class, I will have to fail you? That’s school policy.

I understand.

I suppose there’s nothing further to say. I’ll see you on Monday, then. Have a good weekend.

And then, there’s no response. I wait for an eternity for one, for something, but there is nothing. Slamming the top of my laptop down, I pack up my things and slip out of my office, then drive home, remembering how I’d experienced one of the fucking hottest kisses in my life in that car, just a week ago, and cursing myself because it’s done.

I go home to my empty, cold apartment, and pull a beer out of the fridge. The extension Anna got me is only for the next month, but as usual, I have no desire to sit down in front of the manuscript. Instead, I drink myself into a stupor, where I stay for most of the weekend.

* * *

The following Monday, I get a call from Dean Armstrong. She prefaces it with, “I have something rather serious to discuss with you, Doctor,” which only serves to make me think the jig is up. Maybe Addison told, or she might have seen Addison and me on the side of the road that night.

My nerves getting a workout, I feign innocence. “Oh? What about?”

“I’ve gotten a call from the parent of one of your students,” she says, drawing it out, making me imagine, in those ten seconds, every possible scenario that will land me jobless. “There’s some concern about your assignments not being fair?”

I let out a sigh of relief. Still, that irks me. My assignments have been nothing if not fair. “Oh? Which?”

“Well, I haven’t looked into it fully; just received a message from my assistant. I’m going call the parent to find out more about it, certainly,” she says. “But I wanted to arm myself with the knowledge. Could you please send me a copy of your syllabus and accompanying lesson plans?”

I grip the receiver harder. “Certainly.”

She must sense the tension in my voice, because she adds, “Don’t be alarmed, Doctor. I deal with overbearing parents all the time. They can’t stand to see their children do badly on an assignment, so they come down hard on the professor. They’re especially tough on new professors. Don’t fret.”

I manage to put strength in my voice. “I’m not, Dean Armstrong. I’m sure there’s nothing to be concerned about.”

When I disconnect the call, I breathe a sigh of relief. This is why I need to forget about Addison. If the Dean had been calling me because she’d caught me with my student, it’d be game over. I may hate my teaching career, I may take it for granted far too often, but it’s all I have now. I can’t make a stupid mistake and lose it.

When I arrive at the classroom on Monday afternoon, I convince myself that I’ve moved on, beyond her. That I can be in the same room with her without wanting her. That I need to concentrate on being the best teacher I can be. That molding these young minds to create wonderful prose is akin to creating it myself.

All that conviction disappears the second she walks into the room.

She’s fucking beautiful, her hair falling loose in waves down her shoulders, wearing a tiny flowered dress and cowboy boots that show off most of her mile-long legs. She’s gnawing on her lip again, those gorgeous bow lips I’d tasted and sucked on, not so very long ago.

“Hi,” she says to me, her voice fragile.

Despite them begging to drink her beautiful form in more, I glue my eyes to my laptop. “Good afternoon, McBride,” I say in my most professional voice. “How was your weekend?”

She slides into her seat. “Oh. Fine. Thank you.”

Enough with this fucking small talk. I can’t take it. All I want to do is take her.

And I can’t. It’s excruciating. She’s early again, so it ends up being just the two of us, sitting alone in the classroom, for what seems like hours. By the time the rest of the students arrive, I feel like I’ve been through a war.

I start the class early.

“Today,” I say, deliberately not looking her way as I stride into the center of the horseshoe, “We’ll talk about how certain words, certain sounds, can evoke an emotional response, just by the sound of them. For example, how do you feel when I say this word: Moist?”

The class rumbles with laughter. “Disgusted,” Ackerman calls out.

“Turned on,” Dalton says with a smug smile.

“Only you,” Ackerman volleys back, rolling her eyes.

“There is a certain thing called ‘word aversion,’ and believe it or not, that word tops the list. Other words, such as phlegm, orifice, crevice all make the list. Thus, if you are writing love poetry, you’d probably do well to stay away from them.”

The class laughs.

“But if you want to make your audience uncomfortable, seek them out. Now, just as there are words that create an aversion, certain words are euphonious, that is to say, pleasing to the ear. Such as love, lithe, cinnamon . . .” I smile. “There are many more. These are words you can infuse your prose with in order to make people feel settled, relaxed.”

Eventually, thankfully, I manage to slip out of the hyperaware state to all things Addison and get into my lecture. When we are done, we practice listing and ranking words by their emotional impact.

By the end, I can count the class as a success. The students filter out, but Addison remains. She approaches me nervously and slides a few notebook pages over to me. “My missed assignments,” she says. “A warning: They’re terrible.”

I slide them into my briefcase. “I’ll be the judge of that. One thing I could guarantee, though, is that they’d be better if you’d attended class.”

“I’m sure.” She nods, and when she does, I notice a small cut on her upper lip.

She’d had a busted lip. It’s a recent cut, because I’d done a thorough, hands-on inspection of that mouth not a week ago.

That’s twice I’ve seen bruises on her.

Someone’s hitting her. What fucking prick boyfriend would lay a hand on this gentle, gorgeous creature?

Haven’t her parents noticed? Probably too busy with their careers. She lives in that giant house with her family, enjoying what looks like the picture-perfect rich kid life, when it’s all a lie. My eyes trail down to where she’s holding her arm. There’s the start of a red welt curving from her wrist, up to the ruffled sleeve of her dress.

I reach out and grab her arm, pulling the sleeve back. “What the fuck is this?”

She tries to yank her hand away, but I hold it in place. Yellowing, silvery-red blisters, the length and thickness of my finger, run up nearly halfway to her elbow. “Nothing,” she mumbles. “I burned myself with my curling iron.”

I touch her lip. “Did you also walk into another door?”

She pulls away from me. “Not a door this time.” When I start to ask if she really thinks I’m that foolish, she snaps, “You don’t know me. I’m a very clumsy person.”

It is a lie. I know she’s been hiding something from me. I want to peel the layers back, so I try to think of an in. A way to get her to reveal something more than what her emotionless poems have told me. “You can tell me if anything’s bothering you.”

She closes her eyes, and looks on the verge of saying something. “I . . .” She stops and shakes her head. “I’ve got to go. I can’t be late.”

Suddenly, it occurs to me why she’d been so panicked when I’d picked her up after her flat tire. Why she’d broken things off and insisted I drive her home. “You can’t be late or . . . what?”

When she doesn’t answer, I hold her wrist even tighter. But it only makes her shut down faster. She suddenly laughs. “For class! I like to be punctual!” She shakes her head. “God, Dr. Phil! Stop it. Not everyone is experiencing emotional trauma. I’m fine. If me having a fight with my curling iron is that big a deal to you, I’ll promise never to use hot hair tools again, okay?”

I stare at her, crossing my arms.

“And yes,” she says, nodding. “I’m a little stressed out because I’m waiting on the acceptance letter to Harvard, so it’s putting me on edge. But if I don’t put the pedal to the metal right now I’ll never—“

“Be a doctor?” I finish. “Whose idea was that, anyway?”

She wrinkles her nose. “What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t yours. You don’t even want to be a doctor, do you?”

“Of course I do!” she shouts at me, backing away, her face filling with anger. “Like I said, you don’t even know me. I have more drive and ability than any student here. I was born to be a surgeon.”

I let out a snort. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, it’s so,” she snaps, her eyes on fire. “And if you want to find someone who’s just going through the motions, look at yourself. You’re the one who clearly doesn’t want the career he’s chosen. But I have news for you. I’m not like you.”

I nod. “All right. So being a surgeon is what you were born for. I’m not sure what kind of surgeon you’ll make, though, considering it involves a degree of precision, and you’re clearly having trouble steering clear of doors.”

She glares at me. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“With pity. I’m a McBride, for god’s sake. My family owns the biggest house in town and fourteen distribution centers in the United States alone. We’re royalty, and everyone wants to be like us,” she says, as if she’s reciting it from a cue card. Her next words are pointed, each word cut off with razor precision. “I’m. Not. Some. Fucking. Victim.”

She starts to storm away. I grab her arm and whirl her to me, coming up close to her, pushing her up against the white board. “Then act it.”

Her eyes blaze as she studies my hands, which are closed upon her upper arms. She struggles futilely. “What?” she seethes.

“Prove it,” I challenge. “Prove it to me by doing something you want to do. Not something someone else wants from you. Something you want.”

She doesn’t hesitate. She pulls me to her, kissing me hard, taking my breath away.

“Satisfied?” she groans, our noses touching as she claws at the buttons on my shirt.

No. Fuck no. I’ll never be satisfied where this woman is concerned. She’s tugging at the knot of my tie, loosening it, which can mean only one thing.

She wants me, us, naked.

I am more than happy to oblige. I reach down over her thighs and lift the hem of her dress, my hands sliding over her bare thighs, and up the delicate curve of her ass. There is nothing else there but a little piece of string masquerading as underwear. I’m instantly as hard as a rock, and I know she can feel my cock pressing against her abdomen.

“Fuck me,” she growls into my hair, pushing her tits up against me as she scrapes her fingers through my hair. “Can you fuck me here?”

Yes. Hell, yes. That talk I’d had with Dean Armstrong, the one that convinced me I needed to become a better professor?

Fuck it. Right now, I need this.

Scooping her up from her tight little ass, I wrap her limbs around me as she takes my earlobe into her mouth, sucking on it. I carry her to the doorway and pull the door closed, then manage to pull the shade closed. Then I shove her hot body up against the door, easing the dress up to her hips. She lets out a gasp and tilts her head back, giving me access to her long neck as I feel for the fabric of her barely-there thong.

Her breath hitches when I hook a finger under the fine filament and easily rip them free, lowering my hands down her hips and caressing the full globes of her backside. Incredible, is all I can think, and I might even say it aloud. She’s incredible, a fantasy come true. It makes it impossible to believe I ever doubted this.

I nudge her thighs apart and run my fingers down her slit, finding her so wet and ready. She gasps and shudders when my finger finds her clit, suggesting she wants more. I hungrily oblige by flicking my finger over it, making her moan aloud. “Cain,” she whispers. “Please . . .”

She’s begging me for more. I can’t even fucking believe this luck. I’m finally going to be inside her pussy.

“Do you want me to fuck you on my desk?” I growl at her, to which she nods mutely. When look up at her face, I notice her eyes are closed, and she’s gnawing on her lip again. It’s a wonder I don’t come right then, as I’m shoving aside books and lowering her down onto the wooden surface. I step back to admire her, her gorgeous lower half bared fully to me, save for her worn red cowboy boots. She’s there, available to me, waiting for me, wanting me, finally.

“Cain,” she murmurs, still gnawing on her lip as I start to unbuckle my belt. “Can you go easy on me?”

I slow while yanking down my zipper. She’d seen me with Anna, and I’d been angry. Angry and rough. “You have nothing to worry about, baby,” I say, touching her clit again, feeling that tight little bud tremble. I run a finger down her wetness, finding the right spot, but before I can ease into the opening, she tenses visibly.

I stop. “Addison,” I start, hardly able to believe what I’m witnessing. That this woman, a physical manifestation of ultimate beauty and undoubtedly the fantasy of countless men, is a . . . “Are you . . .”

She’s looking up at me, and I can see the shame blooming on her cheeks. “I’ve never done this before.”

I stop and turn away before she can see how disappointed I am. I take a calming breath, feeling my cock rebelling, its animalistic response to just keep going. I know I’ll be suffering later for it. But I can’t. This changes everything.

I whirl back to her. “Were you just not going to tell me?”

Her eyes fill with guilt. She nods. “But what does it matter, anyway? It honestly doesn’t matter to me. I haven’t been saving my virginity for the right man. I’ve just been too busy.”

I reach over and pull her dress down over her thighs, averting my eyes from the heavenly nirvana underneath that could’ve been mine. “It should matter. Your first time shouldn’t be on your teacher’s desk. It should mean something.”

“Shouldn’t all times mean something?” she counters, sitting up and arranging her dress primly over her knees. “And yet you clearly do it with your agent, and from what you said, I don’t think that means very much.”

“That’s just fucking for pleasure, and first times are anything but pleasurable.” She’s looking at me in a vaguely disgusted manner, so I say, “Your first time isn’t just cock into pussy, head and heart need not apply. It’s a rare woman who can separate emotions from sex, Addison. Especially first time sex.”

She straightens. “But what if I could?”

“You can’t.”

“You didn’t answer my question. What if I—“

“Jesus, Addison. Would you listen to me?” I shake my head and come close to her, so close that I’m inches from her knees. “You wouldn’t know if you could until afterwards, and by then it’d be too late. I’m saving you from that. I’ve done the love thing, Addison, a long time ago, when I was your age. And trust me when I say, it’s brutal, and it fucks everything up. You might think you can get me to come around, but I’m warning you, I’m not going down that path again. Ever.”

She stares at me, silent, for the longest time. Then she jumps off the desk, stalking past me, and picks up her ruined panties. “I never wanted you to. You told me to do something I wanted to do. Well, I wanted to be fucked by you. That’s it. Even if it did hurt a little.” She balls the panties in her tight fists and crosses her arms. “And obviously you think you’re so much more mature than me, and I can’t handle it.”

She’s staring hard at me, her eyes blazing. “But guess what? Maybe it isn’t about love for me, either. It isn’t even about you.” She runs her tongue over the healing sore on her lip. “It’s about getting free, for once. Just . . . once. Then I’ll go back to my regularly scheduled good girl life.”

“And if you decide you like being bad?”

She shrugs a shoulder dismissively. “Then I’m sure there will be other men.”

There’s no doubt about that. She could have any man she wants. And yet she chose me. The thought of being her first is beyond an honor. It’s damn near killing me, how much I want her.

I can’t physically bring myself to say no.

Even though there’s no chance in it happening now, my cock is still straining, putting up a last-ditch effort to get me where it wants to go. “All right. But even if this is exactly what you want, it shouldn’t be like this. Not this way, Addison.”

“Then what way?” she fires back. “Give me the terms. But don’t be surprised when sweet, innocent Addison walks away from you after she gets what she wants.”

Her eyes are blazing with determination. It knocks me momentarily speechless. Where did that sweet, innocent girl go? “Is that so?” I finally manage.

She nods. “I’m a McBride. We don’t fail,” she says, tilting her chin up.

I can’t believe I’m going to do this. But then again, it seems like it was destined to happen all along. Wanting it is beside the point; I’ve wanted plenty of things that were bad for me. I think about that time we’d texted, when she’d told me that she would be corrupting me. Back then, I’d laughed. Now, I don’t put it past her to do just that.

“All right. If you want to do it, with me, I’m in.”

A small smile appears on her lips, but I cut her off before she can reach for me. I grab her hands and hold them still between us.

“But not here. Let me take you to a nice hotel or something. Buy you dinner, at least.” I nod toward the ravaged panties in her hand. “And new lingerie.”

Worry creases her forehead. “I can’t. It has to be here. Or . . .”

I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“My mother is kind of strict about where I go and who I see,” she admits.

Her mother. Her mother, who is so strict that she won’t permit a twenty-one year old girl to live her own life, but clearly not strict enough to notice the bruises on her face? Something about this doesn’t add up. I study her, wondering if that’s another lie. I find it hard to believe her mom could be that strict and not notice that someone is hitting her. Maybe she’s turned a blind eye to it all the time.

“I’ll cancel class,” I suggest, but that would only give us two hours, which is definitely not enough time for what I want to do to her. “My apartment is—“

“No.” She slumps her shoulders miserably. She’s twenty-one, I know, but right now, she looks like a five-year old whose mother just told her she couldn’t have a play date.

“Well, why—“

I stop short when suddenly, she raises her head. I can almost see the gears turning in her head. “Wait. Are you doing anything the weekend of October 12?”

I don’t have to check my schedule to know I’d cleared that weekend for writing. Which means I’ll be doing nothing. “No. Why?”

“Well, Harvard Med School is having an open house. I was supposed to go with my mom but she has a conference in Salt Lake City. My mother didn’t want me to miss it, so she’s having Hobson, my chauffer, take me. He’s a pretty hard warden to escape. But I’m going to have a hotel room all to myself in Cambridge, for two nights.” She’s tapping her finger to her chin and smiling slyly, and all I can think is, this is a woman possessed. “Do you think you could come up? Pose like a room service waiter and sneak in?”

When I hesitate, she laces her fingers together in front of her. “Please?”

I study her closely, doing everything in my power not to be turned on by her begging. I’d fucking kill to be inside her. She’d been so unsure before, but the way she’s looking at me now is very different. Now, the tables are turned. Now, I don’t expect her tough exterior to crumble.

No, I’m more worried about mine.

“I don’t know, Addison,” I say, cringing at how weak I sound. “You’re sure you want me for this?”

She comes up close to me, stands on tip-toes, and kisses my cheek, a sweet brush of angel wings that’s meant to tease me. “Yes. Please,” she says like a child. She bats her eyelashes. “Don’t you want me?”

Oh, fuck yes.

I dig my hands into the pockets of my trousers and adjust my withering cock. Fuck it. I don’t get attached. This’ll be no different than the other girls I’ve fucked and left. I’m going to make damned sure of it. “Then fine. I’m in.”

She smiles, but I don’t like it. She thinks she has the upper hand, now, because I’ve agreed to her terms.

When she reaches for me, I stop her. She needs to know that even though I’m agreeing to this, I’m still in authority. I’m going to give her what she wants, rock her off her foundation until she doesn’t know up from down and can do nothing but beg for more.

“What?” she asks, pouting.

“You will understand,” I begin, pacing like I’m at the head of the classroom, “That until that time, you will do as I say.”

She tilts her head, not comprehending.

“If I’m going to do this for you, you’ll have to do something for me,” I tell her. “Understand? Nod if you do, McBride.”

She swallows, and her eyes trail down my chest, toward my crotch. “Oh.” She nods.

“You’re my student. And so what I say, goes.” I pace slowly, hands behind my back, choosing my words carefully. “In order to ensure that you have the most pleasurable and worthwhile experience, I’m going to tease you. I am going to tempt you, toy with you, and seduce you until you will be begging for me by the time we’re in Boston. Do you understand that?”

Her eyes widen, but she says nothing. Instead, she nods, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes, and my once-withering cock responds to her subservience. I get a feeling I’m going to like this.

“And everything I do, you should consider it a lesson in making you more passionate. You should be thankful for it, and follow it to the best of your ability.” I stop pacing and whirl to her. “You do want to get an A, don’t you?”

The lip-biting is back. “Oh, yes.” Then she adds, with a sly smile. “Please, Dr. Cain. What can I do for you?”

I come up close to her, so that my trousers are touching her knees. She spreads her legs apart, allowing me between them as I take her chin in my hand and bring it close to my face. I stroke the smooth skin of her throat and my eyes gleam. “Have you ever touched a man’s cock before?”