Thoughts of Professor Grant flood my mind as I bask in the cool California breeze. The temperature is a small reprieve for my warm, flushed skin. It's barely the 1^st of March but the days are quickly beginning to heat up. I can practically smell summer - bbq, fireworks, and the beach. Graduation is 3.5 months away. Three years ago, it felt like a lifetime. Now, it's just around the corner.

My cellphone buzzes with a text from Vicky.

Vicky: What happened to the living room? The couch looks like a tornado hit.

Me: Too much to explain in a text. [Donkey emoji]

My cell buzzes three mores times with a list of questions from her about Professor Grant. Last night was one for the books. The lingering ache between my thighs only serves as a delicious reminder that our night together was very much real. Not that I could ever forget it. The memory still sets fire to my soul. The taste of his lips on mine. The possessive words he uttered into my ear. The words he demanded to hear from me still have my body in a tizzy.

Tell me you're mine. No matter how hard I try to block the image of him from my mind, it's there. Haunting me. The abrupt kiss at the hotel and the scent of his skin after our moment on the couch. His actions left my head spinning.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. I wasn't supposed to enjoy this. Somehow, in a short amount of time he's gotten under my skin. That annoying little truth has been eating away at me for the past few hours.

As I walk down the oceanside marina, I weigh the pros and cons of calling Professor Grant's office and leaving him a voicemail. Telling him that last night was a mistake - a mistake I've been thinking about since the moment I woke up in bed, alone. He never promised you anything and you never asked him to. Overwhelmed with emotions, I head down to my father's yacht in hopes of joining them for a day of relaxation. Anything to get my mind off of him.

As I pass a boat named the Old Thunder, I catch sight of a man pulling up to the dock. His familiar silhouette glows against the molten colored sky and the glittering waves around us. At first glance, he's almost unrecognizable. A dark-haired adonis materializing from the sea. His skin is sheen with beads of sweat peppering the gray hairs scattered across his chest. I'm hypnotized by the sight. To my disappointment, he pulls a gray polo over his head covering the skin I was only just admiring.

Professor Grant? What is he doing here?

I never pictured the man as the type to enjoy sailing, but damn does he look good. In fact, seeing him here is a strange sight to behold, like watching a wild animal outside of it's natural habitat. The corded muscles on his forearms flex as he ties his boat to the edge of the dock. I shiver, despite the blazing sun shinning down on me. The memory of those same muscle wrapped around me fills me with an intense need. It was only hours ago that he was filling me up and driving me to the brink of exhaustion. Sexhaustion.

I know for certain a professor's salary could never pay for extravagances like storing your boat amongst millionaires. This marina is exorbitant in its storage fees.

I've been staring too long. Professor Grant turns just in time to catch me watching him. At first, I'm not entirely sure that he recognizes me but I'm all too quickly proven wrong when he steps onto the dock and heads toward me. He strolls over with a pair of white driving gloves in hand that he quickly slips into his pocket. His gaze washes over my bikini body before finally settling on my face.

"Ms. Wilde. What a pleasant surprise."

Although his tone is pleasant, his facial expression is anything but warm or inviting. Even his words sound disingenuous. I really hope he doesn't think I'm following him. How could he when you know so little about him?

"Have we forgotten our manners, Ms. Wilde?"

I bite my lip, too tempted to tell him to go to hell. "They must be with my underwear, in your pocket."

His heated gaze strikes me down to my very core. If he thought he could get away with stealing my underwear last night, he's wrong. He took my favorite pair. Vicky bought me a set that had the days of the week as a joke. Now, I'm missing "Saturday." I'm fairly certain he did that on purpose. His way of making me remember our night together. A way to say he owns me, but only on Saturdays it seems.

"What are you doing here?" I ask. "I'm surprised to see you…” You left without a word.

The biting words are out of my mouth before I have time to think them through. He flinches slightly, but his reaction disappears twice as quickly as it appears. If my question bothers him, he doesn't say it. The only giveaway is the slight tick in his square jaw. He pushes one hand through his dark hair, a gesture the only succeeds to remind me of the other night when I saw him outside my door.

"I could ask you the same thing, Ms. Wilde," he says. He crosses his arms over his chest and my irritation grows at the sudden desire to be in them. Up until now, his refusal to call me by my name has never bothered me. But now it's almost insulting.

"You've seen me naked. I think you can call me by my first name."

"That's even more of a reason not to."

"Why?" I ask confused.

He takes a moment to mull over my question before finally answering.

"Attachment, is a messy thing."

Frustration hits me like a wave. My next thought is silenced by the sound of my father's voice. The two of us turn to find my father, Thomas Wilde staring at us with curiosity. His quizzical gaze lands on Professor Grant. In all my years of college, I've never "brought a boy home" or shown any indication that I was interested in any of my peers. I can only imagine what must be running through my father's mind now. Professor Grant is at least ten years older than me, if not more. The silver in his hair has me leaning toward more.

"Josie-girl, I didn't know you were bringing a guest."

"Oh, no. This is my English professor," I say, turning to Professor Grant. After last night, the words "my professor" have taken on a whole different meaning. I blush at the thought of my feelings written all over my face. If my dad only knew the debauchery going on, he would kill the man standing next to me. "He ran into me on the dock." And over and over last night.

"Nice to meet you," Professor Grant says, shaking my father's hand. "Parker Grant."

My father eyes me and then returns his attention back to the broad shouldered man in front of him. Several seconds of silence pass between us before my father fires off a question at Professor Grant.

"How old are you?"

"Dad," I blurt. What has gotten into the man? My father throws up his hands as if he's just been caught redhanded.

"He's better looking than any of the professors I had in college," he says. "I thought your English professor was old."

Professor Grant laughs. "I'm 39, recently divorced and I have a daughter. Those are probably the stats you're curious to know. I recently took over the class your daughter's in."

I blush at my father's audacity and Professor Grant's candid response. Am I living in an alternate reality? Is this really happening or did I bump my head sometime between this morning and last night.

"Dad, can we stop with the twenty questions," I beg.

My father shoots me a look that says he'll ask as many questions as he pleases and I'm not stopping him.

"I hope my daughter isn't giving you much trouble in class," he continues. Keyword being much. Try all the trouble. Professor Grant grins and I nearly melt at the sight of his smile. It's the complete opposite reaction I thought he would have. Of course, Professor Grant knows trouble is my middle name. I hold my breath waiting to hear his response. Is he going to spill the beans and tell my father how I become a thorn in his side? It was only weeks ago that I was in Professor Grant's office demanding he let me do a rewrite.

Professor Grant glances at me with eyes that practically dance in delight.

"Your daughter is spirited and passionate about her grades," he says stoping for a moment, as if contemplating his next sentence. "She's very much a breath of fresh air."

My father's eye crinkle as he laughs and nods in agreement. "Yes, she definitely has spirit and she gets it from her mother. It's what first drew me to her."

"I'm right here," I interject. "You don't have to talk over me."

"Maybe a little bit from me," my father laughs, rustling my hair like I'm five years old again. I roll my eyes, trying to bury my embarrassment.

"My daughter, Olivia, is the same. She has a bit of my ex-wife's spirit."

Surprise hits me at the mention of Scarlett, a subject he's never mentioned around me but which I know all too well about - the internet is to blame for that one.

Professor Grant catches me staring at him and his smirk reappears. As if sensing the tension between us, my father shifts his focus back to me.

"Parker why don't you join us today? We would love your company" my father says, gesturing to the boat behind us. "Kitty, my wife, would appreciate another man around to keep me company. I gulp at the idea of having to spend an entire afternoon on a yacht, trying to ignore Professor Grant. After several seconds of silence, I look up to see his gaze trained on me. Before I can stop myself, I'm stringing a half-baked sentence together.

"Dad, Professor Grant probably has better things to do with his day. You know, like grade papers and stuff." Lame. My excuse is so lame.

A scowl crosses his face, but it quickly vanishes before my father takes notice. "Actually, I would love to join you," he says, accepting my father's invitation. Before I know it, the impossible is happening as he shakes my father's hand, and we head toward my parent's yacht. I walk ahead trying to put some distance between us. In the background, I hear the two men in my life talking about boats and the best places to fish. Shock hits me as I glance back at the gorgeous man following me and my dad. This is really happening. I gulp at the ghost of a smile that plays on his lips. Something tells me Professor Grant accepted my father's invitation for the simple fact of making me uncomfortable.

This man loves watching me squirm, whether its beneath his hands or beneath his gaze. I board onto the yacht with a good measure of reluctance, keenly aware of how close Parker follows behind me. For a moment, I swear I feel his breath on my neck. The sensation nearly sends me overboard as the boat sways. Warm hands catch me, pulling me back into what feels like his growing erection.

"Those high heels don't make for very good sea legs."

"No, but they make for great legs."

"Fashion over comfort?" He chuckles.

"Always."

"Why does that not surprise me? They're hideous."

"You have poor taste."

He smirks. I flip my gaze behind me again just in time to catch him staring at my ass. My father lingers behind as he spots my mom on the other side of the yacht. My attention is drawn back to Professor Grant as his voice calls to me.

"Was it poor taste when I fucked your pussy?" he asks, sliding his gaze back to my face.

If my cheeks could turn redder I would be a cherry.

"If my father hears you, he'll throw you off this yacht."

I grin at the image of Professor Grant going overboard. I'm almost tempted to push him myself for leaving last night without so much as a goodbye.

"He'd do far worse if he knew how much you liked it."

My skin flushes at his words and it takes all of my strength not to push the man down the stairs. I try to ignore him as I step inside the yacht and head for the kitchen. I need a drink, some liquid courage, anything to keep myself from melting around this man. Professor Grant follows closely behind, leaving my father on the deck as he waits for my mother.

I pour myself a glass of whiskey over ice and then take small sips.

"That's never happening again," I say, putting down my class. "You're never touching me again."

A chuckle behind me sets a wave of excitement through me. I love hearing him laugh. The deep throaty sound is enough to make me throw caution to the wind. I turn to find him inches behind me. He steps forward closing the space between us. His thumb tracing my bottom lip as he leans in to kiss me. A rough, scorching kiss. Didn't I just tell him he was never touching me again? Blood rushes to my head as his hands captures my face and he pulls me into a kiss. I frantically wrap my hands around his neck as he presses into me, making me all too aware of his hard arousal. A moan threatens to break as he grinds against me. I pull away trying to catch my breath, but he doesn't let me get far.

His hands tangle themselves in my hair as he yanks my head back and plants a kiss on the side of my throat. I sigh against him and it's just the reaction he's looking for. He moves his lips to my ear.

"It's not over until I say it is."

He steps away ripping the warmth he brought with him. I watch as he leaves me and heads back onto the deck. I don't move too elated in my euphoric state to do anything other than replay the last few seconds in my mind. This game has become dangerously addictive, but what happens at the end of all of this. What happens at the end of the semester when class is over and reality sets in.