LANA

 

 

The clouds literally explode above us as we turn around to head for a coffee place off campus that I suggested. It all happens within seconds. Sunshine is replaced by an eerie darkness and the wind increases, turning from a light breeze to violent gusts whipping across the campus.

Mr. Portland is walking next to me, his eyes going back and forth between the blustery sky and the area ahead of us.

"Is it far?" he asks.

"No," I reply. I'm clutching the satchel against my side, trying to keep up with his long strides and fast pace as he quickens his steps. "It's just a five-minute walk."

"Even that might be too much," he predicts.

The weather gods prove him right. The moment he finishes his sentence, the clouds unleash a downpour. There's no light drizzle to prelude the heavier rain to come, it just starts pouring down in torrents.

"Fuck!" I hear him yelling through the heavy rain. Loud thunder accompanies his curse, startling me as I feel Mr. Portland's hand on the small of my back. He starts running and pushes me along ahead of him. His hand leaves my back a few moments later, and I watch in surprise when I see him take off his jacket at full gait. It's a futile attempt, but he holds it over my head, trying to protect me from the rain. I'm soaked already, but my heart skips at the gesture.

He steers me in the other direction, his firm upper body pushing against my side as he forces me to turn right.

"That's not the way to the-"

"We're not going to the Café!" He interrupts me. "Keep moving!"

I realize that we're heading back to the building we just came from, evading students and teachers left and right as they flee from the sudden storm. Everybody is so preoccupied with the weather that they don't pay any attention to us. Thank God. With how popular Mr. Portland is among my female classmates, I bet I'm risking a lot of hateful stares with the way I'm tucked beneath his jacket, his insanely muscular chest still bumping into me with every step.

My cheeks are burning with heat, despite the cool breeze the thunder storm brought with it. I find myself a little disappointed when we reach the entrance of the Economics Building and he puts some distance between us, removing his protective arms from my back, but not his jacket.

The foyer area is filled with students, most of them just as soaked as we are. Mr. Portland is standing next to me in a light blue shirt, the dampness causing it to stick to his toned chest and arms. He lifts his hand to comb his fingers through his wet hair and move the dripping strands from his face, a gesture that looks forbiddingly sexy on a man like him.

He catches me staring at him, and I instinctively duck beneath his jacket as his eyes lock on mine. His scent, masculine and woodsy, is radiating from his jacket, and it is intoxicating. I want to close my eyes and inhale it, but I refrain.

"You're soaked," he states, ignoring the fact that he's completely drenched himself. "Let's get you into something dry."

He says that as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if he has to take care of me like a father. Or a boyfriend.

He doesn't wait for any kind of reply from me, and turns around to walk down the hall, clearly expecting me to follow him without further questions.

So I do.

I try to ignore the looks I'm getting from the crowded hallway, many of them coming from my fellow students who likely wonder why Mr. Portland’s jacket is wrapped around my shoulders. Yes, this is weird to me, too.

Mr. Portland hastily strides down the hall, not looking back once to see if I'm following him or not. I hasten my pace to catch up with him.

"I'm okay, I don't have any-"

"You're soaked," he repeats without looking at me. "And the way your blouse has taken the rain is not appropriate for running around campus."

"What do you-" I stop as I look down at myself. My thin, white cotton blouse is drenched and has turned into a see-through garment.

Oh God, he can totally see my bra!

I quickly close his jacket around me, turning crimson red in the process and falling behind a few steps so that I'm not walking directly next to him. Now, though, I'm confronted with the view of his ripped back hugged by an equally wet and see-through shirt.

"Where are we going?" I ask, even though the direction he's taking should make it pretty obvious.

"My office," he says.

My heart skips a beat at the thought of being alone with him. What the hell is wrong with my head right now? How did I end up here? All I wanted to do was to confront him after that unnecessary blame game during class. I was furious, humiliated.

But I was also angry at myself for acting the way I did after his first lecture. I found myself flicking through his book again and again during the past week, reading passages I had read before I met the man that wrote them, now seeing them in a different light. Every time Celia caught me with his book in my hands, she made sure to make fun of me, adding silly wooing sounds to her musings.

The fact that she was not altogether wrong about her assumptions made it all the worse for me. I can't deny that Mr. Portland fascinates me in a way that's caught me off guard. It would have been so much easier to elevate myself above the swooning fangirls if he was the arrogant beguiler I assumed he would be.

But instead, he has me unraveled like no one ever has before. I feel weak under his gaze, but yet I sense him channeling an encouraging strength at the same time. He intimidates me, makes me nervous, angry – yet, curious.

My mind and body are actors, and he is the puppet master.

I keep my distance when he unlocks his office door and steps inside, waiting for me to follow. Our eyes meet for a split second, as if we're assuring each other that we're well aware of what's happening right now.

There's absolutely no reason for me to be here. There's no reason that I should follow him to his office to change into something dry. It's not like I'll catch a deadly cold within the few minutes it would take me to wait for the rain to stop and walk back to my dorm. We both know that this is just an excuse to be alone.

Or am I imagining things?

Maybe he really is worried about my health. But what can I even change into? I have no other clothes with me, and he certainly doesn't have a stack of women's clothing stored in his office.

Or so I hope.

He closes the door as soon as I step inside, and while I remain in the middle of the room with nowhere to go, he whirls around to a dark wooden cabinet and opens it, the door blocking my view as he starts rummaging around in it.

The office is small and rather empty. All of the furniture is made of the same dark wood as the cabinet. There's a heavy and comically large desk taking up almost one-third of the room, a comfortable-looking black leather office chair, and a book case next to the cabinet. Contrary to the majority of other faculty offices, this bookcase is almost empty, only stocked with a handful of books, and - to my surprise - a bottle of expensive-looking whiskey with two glasses next to it.

"Here," he says, closing the cabinet door and handing me a soft-looking sweater.

I stare blankly at his outstretched hand.

"Take it," he urges, coming closer. "You'll catch a cold if you don't change."

I look up at him. "I can't-"

"You will," he interrupts, arching his eyebrows in an unconscious manner.

I reluctantly let go of the jacket still hanging over my shoulders and reach for the sweater. It feels softer than anything I've ever worn before. The dark gray fabric feels so insanely luxurious in my hands that I have to suppress the urge to press it against my cheek to test its touch.

"Let me take that," Mr. Portland says, lifting his jacket from my shoulders.

Knowing how see-through my white blouse has become, I feel painfully exposed. I awkwardly try to cover myself by crossing my arms in front of my chest while still holding the sweater.

Mr. Portland puts the drenched jacket over the backrest of his office chair and turns around to me.

"What are you waiting for?" 

"I.... err, I'll be right back," I utter, making an effort to turn around and walk toward the door.

"You can change here," he says, chuckling. "I won't look."

Heat rushes up to my cheeks with such force that I'm sure he must see me glowing like a red beacon.

"Unless you want me to," he adds, casting me a sinister smile.

I huff with indignation. "Excuse me?"

Mr. Portland is standing about four feet away from me, his back facing the window. For some reason, the blinds are pulled down so that no one can see inside, as if he anticipated this weird clandestine meeting with me.

I put my bag on the ground next to me and step forward to the desk, placing the sweater on top of it so that my hands are free. Contrary to what I expected, he does not turn around when I'm about to unbutton my blouse. Instead, he locks me down with his gaze, not scanning my exposed upper body, but contenting himself with my face. The green of his eyes proves such a surprise in contrast to his black hair and dark complexion. It gives him a mysterious look, adding to his enigmatic demeanor.

"I didn't say I want you to look," I say. My voice is oddly soft, so girlish and modest. I never hear myself speak like this.

"I think you did," he says, lighting a fire behind my chest that feels hot enough to dry that damn blouse in an instant.

What the hell is he saying? What is this? Is he flirting with me? He can't be serious.

"But I'll leave you to it anyway," he adds, turning his back to me. "Hurry."

"Thanks," I whisper helplessly.

I quickly get out of my drenched blouse and place it next to the sweater on the desk. For a moment, I consider taking off my bra, as well, because it's equally soaked, but the thought of my boobs touching his sweater is too much for me to handle.

I pull the sweater over my head, suppressing a sigh of ecstasy as the soft, warm, fabric slides over my skin. It feels like a hug.

And it smells like him.

Just as I am about to announce that I'm dressed and decent, he turns back to me, nodding toward the cabinet.

"I think there's a hanger in there," he says. "You can put your blouse on it so it can dry."

I nod and walk over to the cabinet, opening the door that he was rummaging behind before. Just like the rest of his office, the cabinet is almost empty. All I find is more sweaters, a few pens and notebooks, bags of instant coffee, and two hangers that seem out of place..

I use one of them to hang my blouse and turn around to ask him where I should place it - only to find him standing in front of me with his shirt unbuttoned and about to take it off.

Another rush of blazing embarrassment streams through me, and I hardly manage to free my eyes from his ripped torso before I whirl around to turn my back to him.

"I'm sorry!" I yelp. "I didn't know you were-"

I hear him chuckle behind me as he takes off his wet shirt. Two commanding steps announce him approaching behind me, and I freeze. I don't even flinch when I can feel him breathing down my neck as his right arm reaches into the cabinet, passing closely by my side, but without actually touching me. I can feel the warmth of his masculine body encasing me just like the sweater he gave me.

He grabs another hanger from the cabinet and uses it for his own shirt, completely ignoring my discomfort.

"You can hang it here," he says from somewhere behind me.

He didn't take a sweater for himself, so he must still be half-naked. If I turn around now, I'll be confronted with his chiseled physique once again.

I will stare, I know I will. I've never seen a man this ripped before in my life. For real, I mean. Pictures, yes. But standing face to face with a body like his has a stronger effect on me than I could ever imagine.

"Turn around," he orders. "Don't make such a fuss."

The impatient and pervasive tone of his voice causes me to relax and turn around automatically. Of course, the first thing my eyes do is travel down his exposed torso, vanquishing one tan hill after another before  leisurely sliding along the low v-lines above his pelvis.

I've heard girls calling men 'delicious' and visa versa, and always thought that only a very shallow person would come up with that description.

Call me shallow, then.

Mr. Portland notices my gaze, consuming his physique with my eyes. He likes me looking at him. Of course he does. Maintaining a body like this must be a shitload of work, take hours of training, most likely hitting the gym every single day. If he puts this much effort into maintaining his looks, it's understandable that he wants to be seen and appreciated, especially by women.

But why by his student?

"Give me that," he says, stretching his right hand out for the hanger with my damp blouse, the muscles flexing on his forearm.

I hand it over to him and watch as he turns around and hangs it on a little hook on top of the bookcase, next to his own shirt.

"You should put on a sweater," I say, finally diverting my eyes from his gorgeous frame. "You'll catch a cold."

I try to sound sassy, but my voice doesn't cooperate. Instead my words come out weak and hoarse, breaking at the last word, so that I can't even be sure that he heard me correctly.

He casts me an impish smile as he walks past me, his hand softly touching my shoulder as he beckons me to move aside and make room for him to grab another sweater from the cabinet.

The urge to lean forward and lick along his perfectly smooth skin is crushing. This man is the epitome of sexy, and he knows it.