Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
He’s ignoring me. Not even a sideways glance. But I know he feels me. The whole room is arranged around this charged, pulsing awareness—me, in the back, and him, pretending not to notice.
I tap my fingers on the desk, feeling the edge of every nail. One of the meathead hockey guys is two rows up, whispering to his buddy about the professor’s “hot daughter.” Joke’s on him: the only girl Thomas is fucking is right here.
Finally, the clock hits 2:45, and Thomas flips the book shut with a snap.
“Read up to page 278 for Monday,” he says, not looking in my direction. “We’ll have a pop quiz at some point.”
There’s a groan, then the soft stampede of students fleeing. Backpacks snap shut, chairs scrape, and a thin cloud of chalk dust catches the sun, making everything look filtered and unreal. The hockey guy lingers just long enough to turn and give me a wink, then even he’s out the door. Good. Now it’s just me, the professor, and the echo of a world that’s still spinning outside these four concrete walls.
I stay put, counting off thirty, then forty seconds, waiting for Liam to acknowledge me. He doesn’t. I have to make the first move.
I stand and stroll down the aisle, not hurrying, letting the slap of my sneakers echo like a countdown. He’s tidying his papers, stacking them in this OCD way that’s almost touching, except I want him to stop being a grown-up and just ruin me again.
“Professor Thomas?” I ask, voice sweet as a doe in a Disney movie.
He doesn’t look up. “Yes, Simone?”
“I had a question about the assignment,” I say, and I’m right up at his desk now, the buffer zone gone. The room is quieter than any library.
He finally meets my eyes. I can see the storm brewing there: the hunger, the anger, and something else, something softer. He swallows it fast.
“What’s your question?” he says. His tone is all business, but the hand on his stack of papers trembles.
I lean over, elbows on the desk, letting my big bust do the talking. “Is it okay if I turn in the response late? I had a family thing.” It’s a lie, but I say it in the same voice I used to talk my way out of speeding tickets in high school.
He blinks once, then again, the calculation in his face brutal. “You’ve already missed two,” he says, but softer. “That’s not good, Simone.”
I shrug, shifting my hips so the skirt hikes up another inch. “I’m just trying to do my best.”
He’s losing this game and he knows it, but he’s not going to fold yet.
“Simone, you are dangerously close to failing.” He says it low, just for me, like it’s our own secret language. “I could lose my job for helping you the way I have.”
“That’s not what you said last week,” I breathe. It hangs there, needling him.
He looks away, jaw tensing. He gathers his books and starts to walk past me, but I step in front, blocking his exit.
“I just want to know what I did wrong,” I say, voice small, with a bit of pleading in the tone. Oh god, I hate myself yet I can’t help it. “One minute, you’re all about helping me, and now I’m just another name on a list?”
He shakes his head, biting back words. I see the stubble along his jaw, the bruise of a sleepless night under his eyes. “We can’t,” he says. “It was a mistake.”
I step closer, until my chest brushes his. “I liked it.”
He closes his eyes, just for a second. Then: “This is not a joke, Simone. You could ruin my life.”
“I could ruin a lot more than that,” I whisper.
He laughs, a harsh sound, then turns and checks the door. No one’s coming. The world is a dead channel outside. He exhales.
“Did you even care?” I ask. I didn’t know I’d say it until it’s out.
He looks at me, really looks. The force of it nearly knocks me back. “I care too much,” he says, and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to leave, but then the tension breaks like a power line in a storm.
His hands are on my waist, hauling me against the desk. My ass hits the edge and my body folds, knees open, and he’s kissing me with a violence that tastes like pen ink and black coffee and years of bad decisions. I kiss him back, hard, nipping his lip. His tongue is demanding, rough, and I can’t tell if it’s punishment or reward. He smells like aftershave and expensive laundry soap and the dust of a thousand library books.
He pushes aside a bunch of paper, sending them flying to the floor. He lifts me onto the desk, my sneakers dangling, and I laugh against his mouth, half in shock and half because I want to make him even crazier.