The Professor (2 page)

I saw the heat flare in his eyes and I knew he'd taken my words the way I meant him to. It was a not-remotely-subtle invitation, an acknowledgement that this electricity between us was too epic to be ignored, and that in six weeks, when I was no longer officially a student, we should definitely hook up. My mind raced to visions of us in his office in the English building, my skirt jerked up around my waist, his glasses askew while we pounded out a quick one, hot and heavy. I could see it now, the graduate and the nerdy professor, fucking up against a wall of shelves, musty books and professorial knickknacks flying to the floor with each thrust.

"Six weeks," he murmured and his eyes traveled over my figure again. And with that I had him pegged. Some guys are into the delayed gratification thing, the build-up, the anticipation. When it comes to seduction I'm a master player, the best in the game; and I love nothing more than a worthy challenge. The Professor was too delicious to resist. As his eyes traveled across my breasts and down again I shifted my hips. Sliding my feet apart, I ran one hand down my stomach to trace along the band of my swim bottoms.

"Jane?" he asked.

"Yes?" I said sweetly.

"Don't forget your towel," he pointed to a spot on the floor behind me.

"Oh, thanks," I said with mock innocence. I turned away from him, angled forward slightly, then bent one knee in a classic stripper pose that is a standard part of any working girl's repertoire. I ran my hands seductively down my legs as I folded my torso towards the floor, gripped my ankles with both hands and arched my back. At the club my generously proportioned backside is usually clad in a G-string. My bikini covers me a bit more than that, but not much. Hot Professor was getting a freebie, a very special view that costs any other guy a cover charge and a two-drink minimum. I heard a sharp intake of breath behind me and a barely audible "Jesus Christ". Smiling with satisfaction I picked up my towel, threw it over the deck chair in front of me and walked to the pool.

Oh, Dr. Thomas Grayson...
I thought.
This is going to be so much fun.

"Bye Professor," I called over my shoulder as I waded into the shallow end.

"Au revoir, Jane Claremont," he called back.

Indeed Professor. Until we meet again.

W
e did meet again
. Repeatedly. For the next week I sought out the Professor every chance I got. I was hoping for an opportunity to flirt, to stoke the fires of attraction while the weeks to my graduation counted down. I was eager to see desire flash across his face again, to feel that spark of lust crackle between us.  I began to suspect, however, that first week after we met, that he was avoiding me. He'd cross away from me on the quad when he saw me walking his way, nod stoically whenever I caught his eye, and excuse himself from conversations that I joined.

Thankfully, in addition to being impatient and precocious, I'm also tenacious. Nothing piques my interest like a challenge. A lifelong devotion to Jane Austen had convinced me there's nothing more appealing than the chilly reserve of a sexy introvert. The enigma of Dr. Thomas Grayson was proving irresistible. I decided it was time to channel the talents of my secret stripper identity, Lizzy Bendit, to aid me in my quest to seduce the Professor. Yes, my alter ego is a naughty twist on a Jane Austen character. I'm a book geek and a dirty birdie. I make no apologies.

After a week of failed encounters I was determined to make the next one count. Lizzy's sexy, take-no-prisoners approach was just what I needed. The Professor wouldn't know what hit him.

M
onday
: 9:00 AM.
Campus coffee shop.

He was surrounded by a gang of giggling sorority girls. Kappa Bitcha Bimbo or whatever. Blonde, fake tans, ugly boots and yoga pants. Is that the required uniform for sorority girls? I swear they all look alike. Personally I like to stand out a little. My wardrobe is a mix of vintage items I've collected over the years, and some bespoke pieces my sister and I designed together.

All in all I like to think my retro style is feminine and classically sexy. I love the juxtaposition of my demure exterior with the wanton sex kitten that lives inside me. It's the same vibe I try to convey onstage, and my customers appreciate it. I'm pretty sure the Professor would too, although I wasn't about to tell him about my night job. It was clear from the way he dressed, that he liked to project an air of intellectual detachment. And I could tell from the way he'd licked his lips when he looked at me in my bikini that underneath that calm exterior lurked a storm of passion. Today he wore a tweed blazer, glasses, and was drinking a grande coffee something. Sexy as fuck. I tried to catch his attention but was unsuccessful, although I know he knew I was there. I waited for the girls to leave, then walked towards him. That's when he made eye contact, and shook his head. I stopped. He smirked at me, eyebrows raised, a subtle chastisement at my boldness. Then he turned and walked away. Damn.

Notes:
He's happy to chat up the preppy girls but doesn't want to talk to me. It's clear he's avoiding me specifically, not just all the co-eds. That's got to mean something. Hmmm...WWLD. What would Lizzy do?

T
uesday
: 12:00 PM.
Quad.

I spotted him on a bench on my way to lunch. He was reading, one ankle propped on the opposite knee, the book resting on his calf. A Styrofoam cup in his hand dangled the telltale string of a teabag. I noticed the color of the tag, bright yellow - Earl Grey. My favorite. He wore a corduroy blazer over a V-neck sweater and denims. Sexy as fuck - again! I observed him for a moment, and then approached cautiously, hoping to avoid scaring him off. He glanced up from his book briefly, then back down again.

"Hello, Jane Claremont," he said, raising the cup to his lips. His hands were flushed pink from the cold, and his lashes stood out long and dark against pale cheekbones. He looked like he was freezing.

"You should get yourself a coat. Maine winters come early, and they are no joke," I said.

"Thank you for your concern, but I assure you I am impervious to cold." He flipped another page in his book, ignoring me.

"What are you reading?" I asked.

"I was," he began, closing his book with a snap, "enjoying a bit of Kipling."

"Oh, I love Kipling," I said, and it was true. Every die-hard Jane Austen fan has read Rudyard Kipling's famous homage "The Janeites". I'd finished it when I was twelve and then went on to read all his works.

"What's your favorite story?" I asked. He stared at me, a faint bemused smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. For a moment I thought we might be on the verge of a real conversation. But when he looked away, and uncrossed his legs, I knew he was planning another exit. 

Shit he's going to leave! Think of something! WWLD?

"You really do need to find something to keep you warm," I said.

I unbuttoned my red wool trench coat and opened it wide, giving him an unhindered view of me in my tight houndstooth pencil skirt and low-cut cashmere sweater. With knee-high leather boots, bright red lipstick and my hair pinned up on one side I was having one of my retro-glam days. And damn, I looked good. I also had a secret weapon. I'd busted into my stripper's kit that morning when I'd dressed, and sprinkled my cleavage with titty glitter. I sat down next to him on the bench, stuck out my chest and made a great show of demonstrating and explaining the fine features of my coat.

"Look! Wool! Fleece lining! Many splendid pockets!" I teased, trying to get him to look up. It worked. Yay for sparkly boobies! His gaze flitted from my tits to my face, and back again, his brows drawn together in an expression that was halfway to a scowl. His cheeks flushed and his eyes darted to the side, as if he was wary of being observed. He clenched his jaw, grabbed his cup, tucked the book under his arm and stood up, facing me.

He was just inches away now, his belt buckle at eye-level. I glanced down to his zipper and bit my lip, remembering that same bulge as it looked in his swim trunks. I shivered, partly from cold and partly from the memory. Hugging my arms to my chest, I pushed my breasts together and up, higher, exposing more skin. Then I lifted my chin, my gaze traveling slowly up his torso till my eyes met his. I smiled and slid my tongue discreetly over my lower lip. He closed his eyes and laughed softly, a low quiet rumble that slowly disintegrated his frown.

"It's very warm in here," I murmured.

"Yes, it --" his gaze dropped, shifting to my cleavage, "definitely looks warm," he said, his voice husky.

Then his eyes caught mine again, and held.

"Tempting," he said, one eyebrow arching slightly to punctuate the word. He was impossibly sexy. With that muscle tensing in his jaw I could see he was coiled tight, vibrating with need. So was I. 

Did he just call me tempting? Well this is progress.

I smiled and racked my brain for my next move, something to keep this momentum going. But in the presence of the Professor's mind-numbing hotness, I was drawing a blank. Lizzy had left me hanging.

Before I could speak, he sighed heavily, then turned and walked away.

"Goodbye Professor!" I called. He lifted his arm in the air and wiggled the Styrofoam cup in acknowledgement.

Notes:
He was initially reluctant to engage, but did indulge in innuendo towards the end of the encounter. It's unclear at present if his comment should be taken as progress or merely an anomaly.

T
uesday
: 4:16 PM.
The library.

I'd stopped by after class to do a bit of studying and some light research. When we'd met at the pool the Professor had said "Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered." I knew I'd heard that phrase before and I was pretty sure it was Shakespeare. A quick internet search on my phone confirmed this to be true, and I figured while I was here, I'd look up the rest of the passage. I had just pulled down a ginormous leather-bound volume labeled The Complete Works of William Shakespeare when the professor rounded the corner into my aisle.

"A little light reading?" he quipped. Peering at me over the rims of those horn-rimmed glasses, hands stuffed into his pants pockets.

Jesus, he looks good enough to eat.

"I'm looking up that quote you mumbled at the pool," I said, flashing him a smile as I walked to the nearest table and set down the book.

He followed me and leaning over my right side, opened the book, flipping pages confidently until he found what he was hunting for. He tapped his finger on the page.

"Cymbeline. Act four, scene three. Pisanio."

I looked up at him.

"It means --" he began.

"I know what it means!" I cut him off, laughing.

"Sorry, nasty habit that afflicts all Professors of English I think."

"Mmm-mmm. I bet."

We stood awkwardly for a moment, our eyes shifting from each other to the book, and back again. My fingers played with the edge of the table, and he took a step back, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Well," he said, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. "I suppose I should --"

"So it was fortune then? Meeting me?" I said as I closed the book and lifted it to my chest.

"It was something," he replied.

"What kind of fortune?" I asked, walking past him to the bookshelves. "Good, or bad?"

"Let's not go there," he said quietly, following me down the aisle.

"I'd like to know. I mean I know how I feel about it, but I'm interested to hear your thoughts."

He didn't answer. He just looked at me with those impenetrable blue eyes. Silence.

"You shared a thought earlier today," I said as I stretched on one heel and strained to re-shelve the heavy book. He stepped forward, crowding me, his hand raised to support mine, he lifted the volume the last inch to the shelf and slipped it back in place.

I pivoted, turning against his chest and looked up.

"Tempting," I said, as he shifted his weight, leaning against the shelves, his body framing mine. "You called me tempting."

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tensed, his expression inscrutable.

"Are you?" I asked. Leaning against the bookcase I tucked my arms behind my back and studied his face. "Are you tempted?" I asked again.

"Ah," he smiled wryly. "’Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall."

"More Shakespeare quotes?"

"Yes, another of my nasty habits," he moved away from me then, taking a few steps backwards down the length of the aisle.

"Good afternoon, Jane Claremont."

"Au revoir, Professor."

Notes:
I need a cold shower pronto. Or better yet a hot one, with my new detachable massaging shower head.

W
ednesday 3
:10 PM.
On way to Economics. Running late.

I heard a low wolf-whistle, and turned to see the Professor walking behind me. Hands in his pockets again, his eyes averted, whistling casually. He passed me, then turned around and walked backwards in front of me, smiling. He wore an ivory cable knit turtleneck sweater under a soft brown suede blazer that was getting ruined in the rain.

"Was that you that whistled at me?" I asked incredulous.

"I'm a gentleman, darling. I'd never disrespect a lady," he said with a smirk.

Darling? Yum. He'd called me that at the pool. Say it again Professor, say it all day long.

"Uh-huh. Right. And what if the lady wishes to be disrespected?" I said, grinning at him.

"Jane Claremont..." he said, his tone a warning, he cocked an eyebrow and started to turn around.

"You need a coat!" I blurted out, trying to delay his departure. I tugged at the sleeve of my Burberry raincoat for emphasis.

"I'm English," he said, laughing. "We invented dreary weather!"

"Yes and you English gentlemen also invented dying slowly from consumption. Buy a coat!" I replied.

He lifted a hand and placed it over his heart. "Alas, the only warmth that I desire is beyond my satisfaction."

"Did you just fancy up a Rolling Stones lyric and pass it off as your own line? Because I'm pretty sure you did," I laughed.

"All the best Professors of English can quote both Will and Mick," he quipped, turning down the path towards the English building. "Goodbye Jane Claremont," he called as he left.

Notes:
To my surprise the Professor initiated today's encounter. He dodged credit for the wolf-whistle, but engaged in clever, if cryptic flirting. If possible, this has just gotten more confusing.

T
hursday 7
:00 PM.
In town.

It was snowing outside and downtown Maryville was quiet, largely deserted. It was laundry night, so I had pulled on my last pair of leggings, an old t-shirt, boots and my heavy quilted winter coat, and brought my dirty clothes, a bottle of wine and a pizza to the 24-hour Laundromat across the street from my apartment. I was pulling a load of intimates out of the dryer when the Professor walked in. He wore a t-shirt and hoodie, layered with another blazer.

How many blazers can one man have?

He dropped a laundry sack from his shoulder and began to shake the snowflakes from his hair. That's when he saw me. His mouth opened in surprise and then he ran a hand over his face and laughed. I poured myself another glass of wine as he walked towards me. This was too good. We were off campus, the only two people in the Laundromat, totally alone. I was determined not to waste this opportunity. I had the Professor in my sights and I wasn't going to back off until we made some serious progress in the seduction department.

"Still without a coat I see," I called to him playfully.

"Jane Claremont." He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Do you have some sort of tracking device on my phone?" He smiled.

"Don't flatter yourself, Professor. You're the one crashing my laundry night party." I took a sip of my wine and then offered him the glass.

"Good Lord, why not?" he took the glass, tossed back a healthy gulp, and returned it to me. He opened his sack of laundry and began shoving great handfuls of it into the washer next to mine.

"Why aren't you using the laundry room on campus?" I asked.

"I'm not using the very convenient and no doubt warm and dry facilities on campus because I was determined to go out of my way to avoid running into you, Jane Claremont," he stopped thrusting laundry into the machine and straightened, slammed the door, and looked at me.