Page 42 of Bad Professor

“I never expected to see you and… and I didn’t handle it well.” I jerk my focus away from fingers and tongue and back to what he’s saying. Is this an apology?

“No,” I say.

“No…?”

“No, you didn’t handle it well. I was surprised to see you, too. I was… pleased,” I confess.

“You were?” Did I know his eyes were so dark, like melted chocolate? And how they stare right at me, like he’s trying to read what’s behind the façade?

“At first,” I correct. “When I thought… it doesn’t matter what I thought.”

“It does to me.” He stares, gaze roving over my face like he’s checking if I have an injury.

Drops to my chest.

I should be offended but how can I be when I want him to be looking? I want him to touch me. Even my nipples have sprung to attention under my cotton shirt.

I draw a shaking breath.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it,” I tell him again.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Dexter admits. “It freaked me out.”

“Why?” I need it laid out carefully for me before I can believe this is real. One step after another, plotted so I can follow without giving it a thought, without questioning that this is anything other than a very bad idea.

“Have dinner with me.”

Dexter has jumped a step. My heart stutters in want and my face twists with indecision. “Dexter,” I warn. “You said—”

“I don’t care what I said.”

“But you said it.”

“I didn’t mean it. I wanted you to text me, Tilly. I want to see you again. Away from school.”

The way he says it makes it seem like he’s planning something clandestine. But that’s exactly what he’s doing. Teachers dating students is frowned on, especially when the student in question is an easily influenced and trusting eighteen-year-old.

But that’s not me. I’m a mature forty-five-year-old woman.

Age isn’t the issue here.

There are so many reasons why I should walk away, tell him thanks, but no thanks. Keep things at a one-night, arms-length distance. Maybe switch classes. I mean, do I really need to know more about Taylor Swift’s songwriting abilities from more than I already know from constantly listening to her music?

But the memory of that Thursday night, of the ease with which he swept me in his arms, makes me stumble. How he folded my underwear and left me a note has me pausing for a moment, and then another. Don’t get me started on how my body is reacting to him.

Would it be such a bad idea? One dinner?

“Tilly.” There’s a pleading tone in his voice and I lean toward it, unable to resist. “I want to touch you again.”

He reaches out a hand like he’s about to touch my leg.

Things clench pleasurable inside of me, like my body is giving me a reminder of what it will be like with Dexter.

I don’t need a reminder because it’s all I’ve been able to think about.

I take a deep breath and stand up. There’s no other answer I can give. “When?”

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