I'm nearly running for the restroom, moving so quickly past people that I bump into a lady and have to mumble an apology, but I don't stop.

Everything is a blur.

It's all a blur because of what just happened between Mr. Gabe and I.

Nothing happened, I tell myself. Nothing at all. I just stood up too fast and got dizzy and stumbled into him.

I fell against his chest – his very firm, very muscled chest – and I almost reached out and ran my palm over it.

Then he put his hands on my arms and held me there tightly against him, so there was no space between us – and I got even dizzier.

The entire thing couldn't have lasted that long, seconds at most – the entire restaurant didn't erupt into gasps of shock and horror at the scandal of it, after all – yet it seemed like he was holding me forever. I was in his arms, my body pressed against his, and I had the strangest sensation that I belonged there.

In a split second, I was utterly certain of it.

Then I came to my senses, because the idea is ludicrous. It's laughable.

Except that I'm not laughing at all. In fact, my breath is coming in such short gasps that I have to pause in the back hallway to suck in big gulps of air. The throbbing between my legs is so insistent, I can hardly focus on anything else.

Underneath my dress, my panties are wet.

That has never happened before.

I've never allowed anything like that to happen before. I was taught that dirty thoughts - the kind that send heat between my legs, the kind I can't seem to stop having about Mr. Gabe – were a sin. Yet I can't seem to stop myself from wondering what it would feel like to run my palm over Mr. Gabe's chest muscles and down his abdomen and, Heaven help me, even lower than that.

An image of my father at the pulpit flashes in my head: "Guard your minds against filthy thoughts. They're from the Devil, and the Devil comes in many forms – tempting forms."

That's what he would say. That's what he has said.

I can't imagine a more tempting form for the Devil to take than Mr. Gabe. His face is angled and chiseled, movie star handsome. The way he looks at me, smug and sly like he knows something about myself that I don't know, is infuriating yet still sends goose bumps along my arms anyway. His lips –

No.

Get a grip on yourself, Purity. You don't need to think about Mr. Gabe's lips.

Professor Ryan's lips.

I repeat it over and over – Professor Ryan, Professor Ryan, Professor Ryan – as if I can remind myself enough times I'll stop thinking of him as Mr. Gabe.

"Did you follow me here, Purity?"

I jump, partly because the voice coming out of nowhere from behind me startles me, but also because it's his voice, like some kind of manifestation of my thoughts.

My very impure thoughts.

Whirling around to face him, my heart races again like I've just run a marathon. I can't seem to catch my breath, not when I'm standing here in a hallway with him on the other end of it looking at me the way he's looking at me.

The expression on his face sends a shiver up my spine, but not out of fear. Heat rushes through me, the way it seems to when I'm around him. I shift uncomfortably, squeezing my thighs together and praying silently for whatever is happening inside of me to stop.

The problem is that I'm not entirely certain I want the feeling to go away.

I think I might like it.

"Purity?"

"I – um, what?" I stammer. I heard him ask me a question, but I can't quite seem to get my brain to process what my ears heard, because I can't seem to take my eyes off of the lips that are speaking to me.

I can't seem to stop wondering how those lips would feel as they brushed lightly against my skin.

Professor Ryan glances behind him and then walks down the hall closer to me. Instinctively, I take a few steps back, but stop when I realize that I'm close to being against the wall.

Why does the thought of him backing me up against the wall only make the throbbing between my legs stronger?

"Did you follow me here, Purity?" he repeats. He's standing just slightly – a matter of inches – too close to be professional. At least, that's what I tell myself as my eyelids involuntarily close and I breathe him in. He's wearing aftershave, something that smells faintly masculine but isn't as strong as cologne. I can smell a hint of it over the scent of the pizza wafting in from the restaurant and it makes me so heady I can hardly think.

Follow him??

"I – Why would I follow you?" I sound like a total idiot around him, stammering like I don't have command of the English language – but it's because he throws me off-guard.

"Why would you follow me? Why are you here?" Anger flashes in his eyes, but even so, part of me thinks he's about to bring his mouth down on mine.

That thought is crazy, though, the delusions of a girl who doesn't know any better because she's been sheltered and no one's ever tried to kiss her.

I must be the lamest girl in the world for my heart to race the way it does at the thought of him kissing me, because he's basically accusing me of stalking him.

The arrogance of him, believing I'd follow him here.

"I didn't follow you anywhere," I huff. I step back again to put distance between us, and my back hits the wall behind me. I draw in a deep breath as I get some space from him, inhaling air that's not clouded with the scent of his aftershave or pheromones or whatever is making my thoughts all fuzzy and stupid right now.

"You discovered this place all on your own," he says, skeptical.

"My roommate brought me here," I snap. "Not that it's any of your business."

"None of my business?" he growls. "Your father asked me to keep an eye out for you."

"I thought we already agreed that you aren't my babysitter," I can't help but remind him.

"You're my business when I see a couple of assholes trying to take advantage of you."

Irritation surges through me. I thought I was getting out from under my father's rules by moving away from South Hollow to attend school here. I thought I would finally be independent.

I thought the days of someone telling me what to do and where to go and what clothes to wear and what to think and how to feel were over.

Now, this guy I haven't seen in years and have zero relationship with – this guy who used to know me when I was a child and clearly still thinks of me as one – barges into my life just as I'm trying to establish my own identity apart from my father and tells me that I'm his business.

As if he knows what's best for me.

Standing up straight, I look him square in the eye. "Contrary to what you obviously think, Professor Ryan, I'm not a naïve little girl that you need to concern yourself with." I swallow hard, willing my voice to be firm despite the fact that I feel exactly like a naïve little hick from a small town who doesn't know the first thing about college or living in a city. "I'm an adult, and I'll be damned if I get away from my father's rules just to have another self-important, arrogant, over-bearing man tell me what I can and can't do."

The words just pour out of me before I can even stop them, a deluge that I had no idea I was holding in.

That's the first time I've ever cursed aloud.

It's also the first time I've ever told anyone off.

My hand flies automatically to my mouth, as if by covering it I can take back the words I just spit out. As if I would want to take them back.

"I'm not your father." Professor Ryan's voice is gruff and gravely, his brow furrowed like he's disturbed by the thought of being compared to my father. Of course, who wouldn't be? As he steps closer to me, I inhale sharply, very aware of the wall against my back.

I should step aside and walk away.

I shouldn't be here with him like this.

He's arrogant and controlling, just like my father. He's condescending and thinks he knows what's best for me.

The problem is that my legs don't seem to work anymore. I seem to be rooted in place, and I can't stop looking at his lips and I can't think clearly again because the smell of his aftershave is distracting. My breath catches in my throat and my heart pounds in my chest.

When I speak, my voice trembles, but not from fear. "Then don't… act like my father."

He laughs, and the sound is low and wicked. "Trust me, Purity, when I say that the last thing on this fucking earth I want to act like is your father."

The way he says the words…

There's nothing overtly inappropriate about them. Of course he wouldn't want to act like my father. But the way he says them is somehow saturated with innuendo, a threat and a dark promise rolled into one. It sends a rush of impure thoughts and dirty possibilities through my mind.

Suddenly, voices ring loudly from around the corner, causing Professor Ryan to back away from me. His expression changes, a professional mask falling over his features.

As a couple of girls enter the hall and head toward the restrooms, he just nods casually at me before he turns to go. "That's the kind of fire I expect to see in your next writing assignment, Ms. Taylor. I do hope I won't be disappointed."