Page 34 of Forbidden Heroes

I swallow as I absorb his presence.

“Sorry I’m late and missed setting up the projector for your lecture. I was helping a friend. But it seems I would have missed class either way. I’ll be sure to check my email more often.” I contribute my breathless rush of words to the mad dash I made across campus and the fib I just told.

And not the electric spark the sight of him causes inside me.

He cants his head a fraction to the side and studies me from the third row of seats, his expression giving little away as always. It’s part of his appeal. His life is a web of mystery down to who his parents were, where he grew up, how they came into their money. Rumors float around among the faculty and student populous. Some go as far as to say his family is tied to the Russian Bratva. Others are convinced his family have darker threads.

European drug cartel darker.

With his family’s lack of a digital fingerprint, no amount of Googling has ever resulted in more than superficial information, not that I stalk him or anything, of course. Truth be told, I envy his level of anonymity.

I tuck a lock of loose hair behind my ear and exhale sharply.

Scarcely a day has passed since I last sat in front of him for a lecture on psychology of sexuality, yet I feel like it’s been days, weeks even and the second his eyes fall on me I feel like I’m right where I need to be and isn’t that the craziest shit you’ve ever heard? I know it is for me. Because, Lord help me, when he’s near it feels like the world is a little less dark and lonely.

Since taking over the class from Professor Cobbs, Blackthorne always looked out for me. When the topic of sexuality and virginity came up in class, I almost walked given my lack of experience and how embarrassed it made me feel. I scorched with a blush so red I must have glowed. When I moved to leave, Blackthorne blocked my way and wouldn’t hear of it.

Afterward, he took me aside and told me not to let the other students affect me with their scoffs and judgmental stares. The way he told me I needed to be true to myself still lingers in my mind and probably why considering Amber’s offer sits heavy on my shoulders.

Thinking back on it, remembering the way his dark eyes held mine, I think that was the day I fell in love with him.

His muscular build alone makes me think of him as an out of place Russian mobster. Maybe it’s because of the rumors or maybe it’s his angular jawline paired with the serious expression he wears like a shield of indifference which adds to that.

One can only assume why he keeps people at arm’s length. I’ve seen it play out time and time again. It’s no secret every female member of the faculty has asked him out at least once and he always turns them down. Add in the busty blonde who normally sits a couple of seats over from me and three others that I know of to that list. Each turned down.

I watch as he descends the stairs, each step causing his thighs to bulge and flex against the material of his pants.

Fascinating.

He has his eyes on the floor so I take my time looking a little longer. He’s my guilty pleasure, what can I say? Wide cheekbones lead to firm lips which complement his strong jawline and chin, offering a sense of a European bloodline, yet his posture right this second screams laid-back American.

But that can shift on a dime. A storm can roll over him and suddenly, I think I’m looking at a Russian mobster. Like he can walk in both my world and an underworld and fit in seamlessly. I still can’t decipher if he’s a natural loner or pushed people out of his life on purpose. But I never see him with anyone, and the unknown elements have my natural inquisitiveness on alert. For all I know he actually could be a mobster. To add more mystery to the riddle that’s my professor, and I can’t tell for sure, but I think that’s a Russian word tatted around his finger under a thick ring on his right hand.

He’s only been at BU for five months. Where was he before coming here? Does he have a practice of his own? And what keeps him coming here when he could be anywhere in the world doing whatever he wants? All questions I have no right to ask, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to know.

He comes to stand by me, putting a light hand on my shoulder and immediately the large classroom becomes smaller, warmer. My heart leaps in my chest. He towers over me, and I have to raise my chin to level my gaze with his.

“If you didn’t want the job of the teacher’s assistant, all you had to do was speak up. I can understand you have a lot of pressures.”

His hand is still on me, and the heat from his touch is in contrast to the coolness of his thick, gold ring through my thin blouse.

I still haven’t caught my breath from my sprint over here and now that his hand is on me, I hold no hopes of every breathing normal in the near future. He glances down and seems surprised to see he still has his hand on me and abruptly steps away.

I follow him across the room and come to stand in front of the small desk situated at the front next to a tall podium he uses for delivering lectures.

“It’s not that I don’t want to help at all, Professor. It’s just…” I’m not one to blab my troubles to everyone. Remember that Southern upbringing? Well, we wash our dirty laundry at home, and spreading gossip about what I’m going through isn’t my style. Amber is one thing, she’s my closest friend alongside Emberly, but Professor Blackthorne is the man I want to take my virginity. There’s a huge difference there.

“…like I said, Professor, I was with a friend and couldn’t get away.”

He’s in the process of collecting the other student’s’ term papers stacked on the side when he stops and studies me in silence.

“It won’t happen again. I promise.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of them. I hated promising anything I knew I’d have a hard time keeping.

I blush and look down, remembering the twenty-page essay I have typed up and stuffed in my bag. “Is it too late to turn in my term paper?” In the time he’s been here, Blackthorne isn’t known for giving leniency so I’m nervous.

Since he’s about as talkative as a rock, I’m rattling on enough for the both of us. Just watching his muscles bunch and contract beneath the material of his shirt as he cleans the chalkboard has me pressing my thighs together as a flash of last night’s dreams comes back to me. Him standing just as he is now, pressing me against that same blackboard, my legs wrapped around his waist and those dark eyes pinning me to the wall the same way his body would.

I need obvious mental help. I brush off my inappropriate thoughts to dissect and judge later.

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