Page 13 of Hot Professor (Tainted Professors)

“Fine, Frank. I lost time grading papers.”Harrison’s reply is so smooth and utterly unflustered that I almost believe him myself.

“Alright, don’t stay too late. These halls get creepy when it’s just me and the cleaning crew.”The guard’s footsteps fade away, along with the static buzz of the walkie-talkie.

“Creepy”doesn’t begin to cover how I feel right now, perched in the dark like some nocturnal creature, my breath coming out in sharp gasps. But there’s also a flicker of something else—a flare of excitement that sparks every nerve ending alive. It’s reckless and wild, like a taste of forbidden fruit that’s sweeter because it’s stolen.

Harrison opens the door and sticks his head in, eyes scanning the small space until they land on me. “He’s gone.”

“That was close.”I let out a shaky laugh, the sound somewhat hysterical even to my own ears. I’m aware of how disheveled I must look, my hair a mess from his fingers, my lips swollen from his kisses.

“Too close,” he agrees, and I can’t tell if his expression is disappointment or relief.

For a moment, we stand there, caught in the aftermath, the silence stretching between us like a tightrope.

“Maybe we should call it a night,”he says, but the way he looks at me, eyes smoldering, tells me this chapter of our story is far from over. “I’ll call you an Uber.”

As I step out of the office, brushing past him, I can’t help but think that while tonight’s escapade is ending, my adventure with Harrison Ashe is only beginning.

Chapter 7

Harrison

Ican’t get her out of my mind.

The memory of that kiss is like a live wire sparking under my skin, and it’s relentless. Ivy’s lips, soft and yielding against mine in the quiet sanctum of the classroom—it’s a moment etched into my every thought.

It’s probably a good thing Frank appeared. A few minutes later and…

When we left the room, I called her an Uber to get her home safely. I might have taken her and probably should have, but I wasn’t strong enough. I knew, without a doubt, that if I had, I would haven’t left until the next morning.

That was Friday.

I spent Saturday cleaning my apartment, doing laundry, working, and keeping busy. When I bought this penthouse in Manhattan, Mom tried to convince me to hire a cleaning company. I guess she figured if I couldn’t keep my childhood bedroom tidy, I had no hope of maintaining a twelve-hundred-square-foot luxury apartment. The joke’s on her, though. I actually enjoy taking care of my own space. I don’t need or want strangers traipsing through my home, touching my things, messing with the energy of my bachelorhood.

Sunday, my neighbors and I watched a hockey game on television. The Las Vegas High Rollers is a young team, a couple of years old, but they’re having a great year. Sam and Lily are planning their wedding, and Markus and April are already discussing starting a family. So, while we watched the game, the women were hunched over an array of bridal magazines, speaking in excited tones while they sipped virgin cocktails.

The following two weeks have been pure torture. I’ve managed to maintain a respectful distance, only speaking with Ivy about assignments I need her to mark and limiting my time in the lecture room after class. I’m trying to be good. I haven’t quite brought myself to regret the kiss, but I’m doing my best to ensure it doesn’t happen again. For her part, she’s fully engaged in her other classes and a study group. We’ve had little time to meet alone and face-to-face with the term well underway. This is good.

Or so I tell myself.

I try to keep myself distracted so I won’t dwell on her taste, her scent, how my hands felt on her narrow waist, or cupping her soft cheeks.

It doesn’t work.

I’ve used the gym equipment I set up in my spare room more in the last few weeks than I have in the last few months. Always followed by a cold shower.

Ivy’s presence pulls at me like gravity. Her eyes follow my every move. She anticipates my needs, and when she rises from her seat during class to assist me in some way, my gaze involuntarily follows the gentle sway of her hips or the way her hair swings back and forth across the back of her neck when she has it pulled up in a ponytail. I imagine it wrapped around my hand, flowing over my bare chest, or down my thighs. The air between us crackles with unsaid promises and secrets we’re both desperate to dive into and explore.

What hurts the most is the confused looks she gives me, wondering why I haven’t said or done anything since that night.She feels rejected and it kills me.

But being so close, within touching distance, but not allowed to, is pure agony. It’s the sweetest torment, knowing what her mouth tastes like and being unable to claim it. Wondering if the rest of her body is as lovely. I pretend to scan the room, but my eyes are traitors, returning to her repeatedly. No one else seems to notice. If they only knew the wildfire of yearning threatening to consume their composed professor—the blog from last year pops into my brain, causing me to stumble during my lecture, so I cough to cover the misstep.

I blame that on Dean Martens. I’ve passed him in the hall several times since kissing Ivy. And each time, guilt crashes over me like a tsunami wave. Especially since I’ve been doing the final read-through of my tenure dossier. My hands start to shake each time I look at it or see him. The submission deadline is days away, and I don’t want to fuck this up.

I also don’t know if I can stay away from Ivy.

My resistance is running out.

Midterm test day comes, and with it, an air of tension. Students file in, eyes bleary from late-night studying. I’m waiting for Ivy to arrive, my anxiety teetering on the edge as, one after another, my students take a seat, some desperately reading their notes in a last-ditch attempt to memorize the material.

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