Page 11 of Bad Professor

One-night stands don’t have that. Hookups are just that—hooking up to relieve the physical release.

Maybe I read too much romantic literature to be satisfied with just the physical.

I should be fine with it, but it’s been a while since I’ve had more than one night and I miss the strings.

She—Tilly—texted about thirty minutes after she left, after I’d just paid our bar tab and Max was finishing the last of the pitcher. I’m glad she did because I’ve been hard since I touched her, which isn’t a good thing when you’re having beers with your friend.

I don’t say anything to Max about where I’m going, since I’m not one for kissing and telling.

Usually because the women I’m kissing are students and telling more people who already know will undoubtedly land me in hot water.

But this one—Tilly—is older. Definitely not a student.

Her place isn’t too far away from the bar.

“Would you like a drink?” Tilly asks after she lets me into her apartment. It’s bigger than mine, neat and tidy with neutral walls and furniture livened up with colourful pillows and paintings. There are a lot of books.

I like books. I take that as a good sign.

Her place looks like her.

There is evidence of children—pictures of two blonde girls on the shelves, a pair of small-sized slippers beside a chair, an art set with a Tupperware full of pencil crayons on the dining room table.

I don’t know how I feel about that. I’ve never dated a woman with children before.

And then I remind myself this isn’t dating. I’m here for sex.

She called me for sex.

I wonder how old she is? Where are her kids? There are enough pictures of the girls with Tilly to suggest that she was telling the truth, and there is no husband around.

The older one looks like her—same blue eyes, same smile. The younger one has her soft expression, like she’s a little timid about the world.

“Sure. Thanks.” I suspect getting me a drink will give Tilly something to do because she looks like she’s about to jump out of her skin. And it’s making me even more nervous than I already am.

Guys get nervous about sex, too.

Tilly is still wearing the blue dress, but her blonde hair is pulled back like she was about to wash her face. I watch her hips move under her dress as she heads to the kitchen.

This is the awkward part.

Do we just go at it? Should I talk to her first, ask her about herself? What about kissing? What about protection? Should I take off my clothes while she’s in the kitchen?

I am so bad at this.

Tilly returns with a beer. In a glass. She hands it to me, being careful that our hands don’t touch, and then she puts a coaster on the coffee table.

“I don’t drink a lot of beer,” she admits, sounding more apologetic than the situation calls for. “I don’t know if you like that kind.”

“Beer is beer,” I tell her before I take a mouthful. It takes like Stella, so I take another.

“Like sex is sex,” Tilly says, and I almost spit out my mouthful. “I don’t know why I said that.” Her cheeks are flushed and the film of desire I saw in her eyes at the bar has vanished.

This might not work out the way I hoped it would.

“It’s always good to talk about sex,” I manage.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Tilly confesses. “Inviting you here. I’ve never done that before. I don’t do that. I don’t…” She fists her hands, staring at the floor.

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