Page 5 of Hot Professor (Tainted Professors)

No, no, cute is much too mild a word. The man is drop-dead gorgeous. The boys I grew up with never looked like this. I don’t think a single male, adult or otherwise, in Mount Vernon looks this good. Even though I knew ahead of time he was younger than most other professors, I still expected the stereotypical attire: neutral chinos and a well-worn brown or blue tweed or corduroy blazer with elbow patches, maybe a cozy cardigan over a dress shirt, and of course a pair of loafers. And definitely, glasses, black-rimmed, of course, perpetuating the nerdy profile.

He may be a nerd purely because he’s a brainiac, but Professor Ashe is a surprising mix of modern sophistication and comfort in dark denim jeans that nicely hug his thighs and backside and a solid light grey dress shirt with the top buttons undone under the leather. A black tie hangs loose around his neck and trendy sneakers complete the look—of somebody who should be sitting with the rest of the students, ready to take notes, not standing at the front of the room, prepared to enlighten young minds.

“That would be me.” His deep, almost baritone voice seems to echo around me, smooth like melted chocolate over vanilla ice cream, rich like caramel sauce. His eyes, the color of aged whiskey, lock onto mine with a fierce intensity that should be illegal. Even in the early afternoon light, his five o’clock shadow is prominent and dark, adding to his rugged appeal.

For the first time, I regret my inexperience with men.

I also understand why women swoon in the presence of this man.

I shift the weight of my backpack, wipe my hand on my ill-fitting jeans, and stick it out. “Hi, I’m Ivy Kendrick, your new TA.” The words tumble out in a rush, my cheeks heating because I don’t want him to think I’m nervous or anything.

His handshake is firm, confident, and warm, sending a jolt of electricity skittering up my arm. And then it happens—he smiles. And a foreign and powerful sensation almost knocks me off my feet. My panties are suddenly, inexplicably damp. My nipples pebble into hard, achy points beneath my sweater.

Mortified by my body’s spontaneous betrayal, I yank my hand back and jam my fists into the front pocket of my jeans.

“Nice to meet you, Ivy.” His smile is so devastatingly charming. His eyes crinkle, and my heart trips over itself in response.

“Thanks, I’m… ah… looking forward to it. To class, I mean. With you. And helping, you know, as your TA.” Am I blushing? I feel like I’m blushing.

Why does my body and my mouth insist on overreacting? I’ve been attracted to boys, but I didn’t stammer around them. My body didn’t harden in some areas and melt in others. My heart didn’t race like it was aiming for a medal. Right now, I desperately wish my parents had allowed me to date. If they had, I might understand what’s happening and be able to control it.

“Take a seat,” he gestures casually to the front row of empty chairs, “and we’ll chat after class.”

“Sure thing, Professor.”I stroll over, picking a spot dead center, and lower onto the not too comfortable seat, placing my bag on the floor at my feet. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear—a nervous habit when I’m... well, nervous. I cross my legs and sink into the chair, hoping this reaction I’m having settles down.

Professor Ashe starts talking, laying out his expectations, and then going through the course content before he starts on the first lecture.

I try to focus on the complexities of nineteenth-century literature, but it’s like trying to read while riding a roller coaster. His enthusiasm for the subject matter is palpable, his gestures animated, his voice dipping and soaring with the cadence of the prose he quotes.He’snot just teaching; he’s performing, and most of the class becomes spellbound as he paces back and forth in front of us.

Harrison Ashe isn’t merely attractive; he’s like a walking, talking sculpture that some artist chiseled out of pure charisma and sex appeal. I sneak peeks at him between taking notes, drinking in the sight of how well those jeans fit him, how the leather of his jacket seems to have been molded to his biceps. When he removes the jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair, I think I actually heard a collective female sigh from the room.

“Oh, my, God he’s as sexy as I’d heard.”

“I wonder if the rumors about him are true?”

“What rumors?”

“I heard he got caught having sex with a few of his students. And that he’s a great teacher in bed, too.”

“Idon’t know, but I’d be willing to sacrifice myself to find out.”

Muffled giggles follow, and I spin around to stare at the group of girls behind me, not sure which of them spoke. Each time his gaze passes over them, they titter like children. When he’s not looking their way, their tongues are hanging out of their mouths.

I understand their reaction because when he looks in my direction, it feels like he’s caressing my skin with a featherlight stroke. And that hair, so perfectly styled it’s a crime, makes me wonder what it would feel like between my fingers.

I’m here to learn, remember?Not ogle my teacher.

Mom would be ashamed of my thoughts. She’d have my bags packed for home if she had a clue, I’d be spending the next four years having lustful fantasies about my professor.

But as the class wears on, I realize it’s more than his looks; it’s how he commands the room, how his passion for teaching ignites something in me I didn’t know was there. I’m sure the others feel the same. It’s intoxicating, and I’m entirely enthralled, hanging on every word, every gesture.

The world around me fades into the background. The other students behind me are tuned out. My heart beats faster, and I can’t help but be captivated by Professor Ashe. It’s a feeling unlike any other—a burning desire to know everything about him. And like the girl behind me, it’s hard not to wonder what it would be like to be on the receiving end of his attention.

Is this what it’s like to lust after a man?

“Any questions?”he asks as the class winds down, and I’m brought crashing back into the moment.

Several hands shoot up. All female, of course.

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