Page 4 of Lessons in Desire

Which is why I don’t see the big, wall of muscle barrelling through the door before I’m crashing into him. My drink spills down his front and he curses as the beige liquid soaks into his crisp white shirt. I stare as the drink spreads, soaking more of him, and my cheeks are suddenly on fire.

“I am so sorry.” I say, clutching my now empty coffee cup and look up.

My breath hitches at the sight of the man in front of me. He is exactly the type of man I would do anything to paint, every inch of him made up of angles and lines and pure muscle. If I couldn’t see the truth of his skin, I would think him a sculpture made of stone, carved by the same hands that made the masterpieces of the ancient world.

A man made with the beauty of stone in mind.

I bite my lip, trying to ignore the warmth pooling at my core. I refuse to let a man, albeit a gorgeous one, send my mind into a flurry of need. I swallow against the dryness of my mouth and focus on what he’s saying.

“Don’t be sorry.” He snaps. “Do better. What kind of idiotic fool walks around with their nose in their phone.”

My mouth jerks open as the desire is chased away by anger. “Did you just call me an idiot.” I narrow my eyes.

“No. I called you an idiotic fool.” His nostrils flare and his eyes darken in anger, turning their forest green depths into something with shadows.

“How dare—” I splutter but he interjects.

“You know what, I don’t have time for this.” He growls, jaw clenching. And with that, he turns and a wave of something woodsy and fresh like the forest hits me as he storms away.

Jackass.

I should have looked where I was going, but I said sorry. What more could I have done? Heading back to the barista, I order another drink, in even more need for a coffee than I was before.

What a stellar start to the day.

Chapter Three

Asher

“Fuck.” I curse, stripping off my soaked shirt. I open the coat cupboard in my office and pull out a spare shirt, pulling it on in a haze od confusion.

What the fuck just happened? One minute I’m walking through the door, and the next, I’m covered in coffee and staring into the eyes of the sexiest fucking woman I’ve ever seen. She was fucking mesmerising. Wide brown eyes threaded with honeyed gold, framed with long thick lashes and hair like spun gold, falling over her shoulders in waves.

I had to storm off so I wouldn’t give in to the urge to pick her up and slam her against the wall, letting her pretty little pussy cradle my cock. I run a hand through my hair, pushing the dark strands back behind my ears as a frustrated groan pulls out of me. I’m harder than I’ve ever been, throbbing like a teenager who’s just seen their first playboy mag. It’s pathetic.

I look at the time and curse. It’s almost eight a.m. which means my new TA will be here soon. Maybe I can cancel and reschedule, using the next hour to rub one out so I can banish this little vixen from my thoughts. But then, if she was at The Bean Queen she’s probably a student and I cannot be jerking off to the thought of a student. I shake my head. I cannot fucking be in my head over a student. Not only could that get me fired, but it’s also pathetic. Though, the job doesn’t mean a thing to me, my reputation does.

How have I gone from fucking supermodels in New Orleans, where my gallery is, to fantasising about students? Like I said – pathetic.

Shoving my soiled shirt into my gym bag, I pull out the folder for this meeting, praying it goes fast, and push all thoughts of my little beauty away … or I try to. I think of calling Layla, my usual hook-up, but I doubt the raging need that’s pulsing in my balls is going to go away that easily.

At eight on the dot, a knock rattles against the door and my mood darkens at my assistants punctuality. Any other day, it would have impressed me, but today I really needed a few minutes to breathe through the ache in my balls.

Stalking to the door, I take a deep breath and pull it open, only to be faced with the very person I’ve been trying to rid myself of.

The vixen from the coffee shop stares at me open mouthed, her lips forming a perfect O and my mind instantly thinks of how good those lips would feel wrapped around my cock. I grit my teeth against the thought.

“No fucking way.” I snap as something in my gut tugs, urging me towards her. I ignore it. She squeaks and I wonder if that’s the sound she’d make if I shoved my cock inside her, and once again, I slam down on that thought. I cannot be having thoughts like this about a student.

She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. “Are you Professor Callaway?” She says, her words firm and coloured with something biting and angry. Something inside me perks up at that, the anger, intrigued at the idea that this little sprite of a woman is angry at me.

“Yes.” I open the door wider, resigned to my fate. Her scent, a mouth-watering mix of cherries and vanilla, envelops me as she passes by. The urge to bury my nose in her neck is overwhelming, like my senses are stirred by some primal instinct that wants her.

I take a deep breath and sit at my desk. “So, you’re Evelyn Hart?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?” She says the professional tone she’s forcing sharpened by anger.

I want to take her and bend her over my desk for that. Spank her until she’s wet and needy and my handprint is a brand on her ass, marking her as mine.

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