Back at my booth, Luna is waiting. She doesn't say a single word about Professor Ryan. She doesn't ask any questions and I don't volunteer any information.

She just offers me a slice of pizza like nothing unusual just happened. Meanwhile, my whole body is on edge and I swear I can still feel his touch on my arms where he grabbed me to keep me from falling.

Of course, all of it could be in my head. That's a distinct possibility. After all, I've never fallen against a man's chest. A man has never put his hands on me to steady me. A man has never drawn me against him.

A man has never looked at me the way Professor Ryan just did – like he wanted to devour me.

The thought warms my whole body.

He's the kind of man who would devour you whole.

I think I might want him to.

Later that night when Luna goes out with some friends from one of her computer programming classes, I lie awake in bed. I can't shake the sensation of warmth that lingers on my arms and I can't forget the way his chest felt, firm to my touch.

I try to put those thoughts out of my head. Really, I do.

Turning on my side, I squeeze my thighs together to quell the aching between my legs, but the longer I'm awake, the stronger it gets. I flip over onto my other side as if that will make a difference, but it doesn't.

I lie on my back and count sheep.

I count the cracks on the dorm room ceiling.

I recite the state capitals in alphabetical order.

I count to a thousand, seven at a time.

I contemplate pulling on sweatpants and going for a walk across campus to clear my head, but it's eleven o'clock at night, so I veto that idea.

Instead, I lie there staring at the ceiling and trying to avoid thinking about Professor Ryan.

And his stupid lips.

And his firm grip.

And the way he smelled so masculine.

The throbbing between my legs only gets worse, and my breath only gets shorter. My breasts begin to ache as my nipples press against the cotton t-shirt that now feels like sandpaper against my skin.

Biting down on my lower lip, I slide my hand underneath my shirt and over my abdomen, moving higher until my palm covers my breast. Trying not to whimper at the sensation that rushes through me, I knead my breast, my fingertips grazing my nipple.

I imagine that it's Mr. Gabe's hand on my breast, and the thought sends tingles through me straight to my core. That's followed by a nearly-automatic flood of guilty thoughts that I have to work to shake off, things I was taught growing up that I don't think I really quite believe, after all:

I shouldn't be touching myself.

I shouldn't be thinking about Mr. Gabe this way.

It's wrong. So wrong.

I've always been a good girl. I've always tamped down feelings of arousal and avoided indulging them. Now, I'm less than a week into the school year and I find myself unable to keep from sliding my fingers underneath the waistband of my pajama pants and pushing them down further until my fingertips are pressed against my clit.

The little nub is already lubricated from my wetness, and my fingers glide easily over it. I don't think I've ever been this wet in my life, this swollen, this turned on. As I touch myself, a little moan escapes my lips, and I clamp my mouth closed.

What if Luna came back early and walked in on me touching myself? I would die of embarrassment.

Even worse, what if Mr. Gabe knew I was lying in bed and thinking about him this way? What if he knew that I was rolling my fingers over and over my clit in little circles and thinking about how it would feel to have his fingers on me?

"Tell me the dirty little thoughts that have been going through your head, Purity," Mr. Gabe demands. He leans toward me and presses his palm against the wall beside my head. We're standing in the hallway in the middle of the pizza restaurant. Yards away, people are totally unaware that we're standing here on the edge of doing something really, really bad.

I want to go over the edge.

Screw that. I want to jump. I want to dive headlong right over the cliff.

Yet, standing here in front of him right now, I can't bring myself to do that. Instead of boldly admitting the many and inappropriate ways I've thought about him, I chicken out. "I don't know what you're talking about," I whisper.

Lies, lies, lies.

He doesn't settle for lies.

He reads me like an open book.

Leaning closer, his lips almost touching my ear, he speaks. "I'm going to count to three," he whispers. The heat from his breath radiates against my skin. I ache for him to reach out and touch me, to press his lips to me the way I've been fantasizing.

But he doesn't.

"I'm going to count to three," he repeats. "And you're going to tell me what you think about at night when there's no one else in the room and it's just you all alone with your thoughts… and your fingers. Do you understand?"

I don't answer, but a whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it.

He chuckles. "I knew it," he says softly. "Do you think about my fingers in that wet pussy?"

I have to bite down on my lip to keep myself from moaning out loud at his words. I've never been around anyone who would talk to me the way he does.

"Still not answering, Purity?" he teases. "Or maybe you touch yourself as you think about kneeling on the ground and taking my cock in your mouth?"

I shiver.

The movement would be visible to anyone looking, but we're the only ones in the hallway.

"Oh, that's a 'yes' if I ever heard one," he murmurs, letting out a low laugh. "That's definitely a 'yes', isn't it, sweetheart?"

I'm not sure he expects a response, but my lips fall open totally of their own accord, and I can almost taste him.

I've never tasted a man, but I want to taste him.

Between my legs, my panties are soaked with my arousal.

"On your knees, looking up at me with those innocent eyes," he says. "Letting me slide my hard cock between those virgin lips, because you've been saving your mouth for me, haven't you, Purity? You haven't wrapped those sweet little lips around anyone's cock before, have you? Mine will be the first."

My only response is a little whine. I desperately want him to touch me, but he still doesn't, not anywhere.

"Tell me, Purity," he demands. "Tell me if your mouth is mine. Tell me what you think about at night when you slide your fingers between your legs. Tell me what you think about when you come."

Oh, God. I can't possibly say the words out loud. I can't tell him that I've thought about the things he's saying.

"I'm going to count to three," he warns.

"And if I don't tell you?" I barely manage to choke out the question, and the words come out punctuated with little gasps that make me sound breathless. I straighten up, standing taller as I assert myself, but it only has the effect of pushing my breasts up higher, practically begging for his hands on them.

I'm practically begging for him to put his hands anywhere he wants.

My fingers press harder on my clit and my movements grow faster as the thought of Mr. Gabe demanding that I answer him using the same dirty language he used with me sends me higher and higher.

I shouldn't keep going. I shouldn't keep thinking these thoughts. I shouldn't keep entertaining this fantasy.

But I can't stop.

"If you don't tell me," he answers, "I'm going to pull up the front of your skirt right here in the middle of the hallway. Then, I'm going to slide my fingers between your legs, and I'm going to use them to fuck that soaking wet pussy until you come all over me right here. I'm going to make you scream my name, and all of the people eating their dinners out in that restaurant are going to hear you orgasm, Purity. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," I breathe. No, I don't breathe it – it's more like panting, like I'm an animal in heat. I'm dying for him to tear my skirt off, to rip my panties down, and to slide his fingers between my legs.

I'm dying to feel all of him between my legs.

"One," he growls.

I don't say a word.

My heart thumps loudly. He wouldn't really do it, would he? Surely he's not that insane. He'd have just as much to lose – more, really, because his entire job is at stake – than I would by being out here in the open where anyone could turn the corner at any moment.

"Two," he says, his voice even more gruff.

I let out a whimper that sounds remarkably like a moan, biting down on my lip to keep from crying out even louder.

What was the question again?? What do I fantasize about? I can't form words right now because the only thing I can think about is what will happen when he gets to three.

I can only think about what I want to happen.

"I'm warning you, Purity," he mutters against my ear. "I won't warn you again."

I'm so turned on that I can't form words. I think I might come without a single touch, driven to orgasm only by his filthy talk.

I don't want to stop. I want to keep going.

I want to feel his touch.

I hold my breath as my pulse pounds in my ears.

"Three," he growls.

When I crash over the edge, I cry out his name – "Gabriel!" – in the silence of my dorm room, immediately clamping my other hand over my mouth to quiet myself. I come so hard at the thought of what Mr. Gabe would do at the count of three. I come at the thought of him yanking up my dress right there in the hallway in the back of the restaurant with a hundred people just in the other room. I come at the thought of him thrusting his fingers inside me right out in the open.

I open my eyes in the darkness.

I can't believe I just did that. I can't believe I touched myself while thinking about Mr. Gabe.

Guilt washes over me. This might not be the first time I've ever touched myself, but I've never, ever made myself come while fantasizing about something like that.

For a long time after that, I stare at the ceiling wondering what in the world is happening to me and whether I'm losing my mind – or my soul.