Page 2 of Arrogant Professor

“God, I need him to just bend me over his desk and rail me into next Sunday.”

“If Professor Hot Stuff offered extra credit for sitting under his desk and sucking him off, I’d get an A in this class, no problem.”

“He’s always so stoic. Do you think if I flashed him my tits in class, he might pop a boner? You know his dick is big. He wouldn’t be able to hide it.”

Did they realize how ridiculous they sounded? As if a guy like that would look twice at any of them, with nothing between their ears but cotton.

“Good morning, class,” Professor Stonebridge said in that perfectly smooth, unhurried tone. He knew he had his audience hanging on his every word and he didn’t even need to raise his voice to get their attention.

His thick, wavy hair had been a gorgeous inky black at one time. Now it was streaked with silver at the temples. He dressed impeccably, too, with snug-fitting trousers cinched at a firm, slim waist that suggested he spent a decent amount of time keeping himself in shape. On most days, he wore a jacket and tie, but today, it was simply a long-sleeved shirt, the cuffs rolled up to reveal his forearms. The thin, dark gray fabric clung to his straight shoulders, and strained at his biceps.

Stonebridge’s dark gaze fell on the books the girl had knocked over, still lying on the floor. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Sliding his hand out of his pocket, he came to stand in front of the books, gazing down at them with pointed disdain.

The girl didn’t seem to notice. With a little smirk and a coy tilt of her head, she looked up at him, as if feigning confusion. She couldn’t understand why the professor was standing so close to her without speaking.

Finally, Stonebridge arched an eyebrow and slowly crouched down. He retrieved the books, stacking them into a pile again. He smoothed his large hands over rumpled pages, ran his thumb along the crease of a book’s spine as if he could soothe away the damage by massage alone.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, Professor,” the girl gushed with a flutter of her eyelashes.

I groaned and crossed my arms at how obvious she was. I propped one foot up against the back of the desk in front of me. The student seated there twisted around and glared at me but I didn’t budge.

Stonebridge set the stack of books on the girl’s desk with a harsh thud.

“Books belong on shelves and desks. Not the floor. Anyone else who chooses to abuse their books in such a manner will find ten points docked from their final grade for every title they tortured. Is that clear?”

A murmur of agreement went through the classroom. Stonebridge pressed his lips into a thin line and returned to his desk, his back facing us. I swallowed around the lump in my throat, chastising myself for the thirsty fantasies racing through my mind.

My father maintained his control through fear. Stonebridge maintained control through precision, respect, and power wielded only when necessary. Never abused. Nothing rattled or intimidated him. The way he carried himself, the way he spoke suggested he knew he would be obeyed because you wanted to obey him of your own free will. You wanted to earn his hard-won attention and good opinion.

It was wildly intoxicating to witness.

At last, Stonebridge selected an old, dusty edition of English poetry from his satchel. He cradled the book in his hands like a lover, one large palm curved around the spine in a protective gesture. His other hand lay against the pages, fingers following the neat lines of text in an attentive caress.

“Today, we’re studying the words of Thomas Carew. At the time of his writing—in the late 1500s and early 1600s—his work was received with a mix of praise and censure, as all great writers often are. While I read this passage, I want you to note the way he uses the rhythm of his words to match the passion of his subject.”

Then he began to read and this…oh…this is why I’d fought so desperately to stay in his class.

Even though the writing was riddled with stuffy old English—thee, thy, thou—there was no denying that the words themselves painted a sensuous, sinful, and erotic display in the mind’s eye.

…there I’ll behold

Thy bared snow and thy unbraided gold;

There my enfranchised hand on every side

Shall o’er they naked polish’d ivory slide…

A few snickers rippled through the students. Others shifted in their seats, whether aroused at the professor’s voice or uncomfortable at the graphic nature of the poem, it was impossible to tell.

I didn’t take my gaze off Stonebridge, watching the way his lips formed around each syllable with the confidence of someone who knew he could rule a room with nothing but his voice and his presence. Briefly, he flicked his tongue out and swiped it over the pad of his thumb. Turning the page, he paid no attention to the class.

And why should he?

We were there to learn from him. To hang on his every word.

…wherein our panting limbs we’ll gently lay,

In the faint respites of our active play;

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