Page 3 of Too Hostile

She chuckles, “Oh, you know it’s only Rhys for me now. Doesn’t mean I didn’t have a life before that. A naughty one.” She waggles her eyebrows at me, and I fake gag.

“Please stop,” I beg.

She rolls her eyes at me and tosses her hands, like I’m the crazy one. “Fine. I won’t go there, but there’s nothing wrong with a little professor/college student lovin’.”

I stare at her and then shake my head, laughing. “Pretty sure it’s against school rules, and I’m also pretty sure you aren’t supposed to encourage that as a parent.”

She waves me off easily. “You’re an adult, Fletcher. Live a lot.”

I can’t help laughing, still shaking my head at the best woman I’ve ever known. God, do I love her. “The saying is live a little.”

“Eh, life is short. Live a lot. Love a lot.” She brushes her hand over my cheek, and I lean into it just a little. “But be safe. Condoms and all that stuff.” She winks, and I shake my head yet again and sigh.

“Bye, Blair.”

“Bye sweetie.” She blows me a kiss as she climbs into her car and shuts the door. I wave to her, and after she leaves, I start the short walk to campus. I can’t help but think on the way to my Economics class about the conversation with Blair.

Why the hell didn’t I admit that maybe I do have a little bit of a crush on a professor? It’s not like Blair isn’t cool with it—hell, way too damn cool with it, in fact.

But as I walk along the sidewalk on campus, taking in the freshly cut green grass, I know why I didn’t fess up to it. Because when Blair was talking about a hot professor, no doubt, she was assuming there was a bossy, strong female type who caught my eye. Which would be my type.

In fact, I have one female professor who fits that description to a T, but it isn’t her who’s invaded my dreams—both at night and during the day. No, Professor Crawford is fine, even a little flirty, but she’s not on my mind.

She doesn’t get my blood flowing and my mind stuck on lengthy dirty fantasies.

The professor I can’t stop thinking about has dark, short hair that’s perfectly tousled, like he spends far too much time running his fingers through it when he’s frustrated—which is a lot, if my time around him is any indication.

He’s always wearing a suit or dress shirt and pants, all buttoned-up and serious, making me wonder what’s underneath those stuffy clothes. I know it’s a hard, muscular body. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s firm and solid, perfectly sculpted. I’ve wasted countless hours picturing just what he looks like naked.

Does he have hair covering his body? Or is he mostly bare? Is he defined with no fat at all, or does he have some cushioning? Honestly, I wouldn’t care either way, for the record. My instincts tell me it’s the former. I haven’t seen a hint of extra weight on the man.

But he’s a mystery, that’s for damn sure.

He wears a little bit of scruff most of the time, neatly trimmed, but you couldn’t really call it a beard. His eyes are a dark hazel that burn into my soul as he lectures me for being too loud and tardy all too often.

His lips are a soft, pale pink that look so soft, it makes my mouth water, thinking about getting a taste. Just one. I’d give anything for that moment of bliss I know it would be.

Professor Ronan Barlowe letting his guard down and giving in just for a moment.

What would that be like?

Heaven. That’s all I can imagine it would be. Then hell, when he’d undoubtably push me away. Because one thing I know from an entire semester of being obsessed with the man is he doesn’t let his guard down—not ever.

And though Blair would have been totally cool with it, all of it, if I’d have told her, I just couldn’t.

Because everyone thinks I’m straight.

When I’m really, really . . . not.

RONAN

He’s late again. This little shit. I swear to God, I’m only twenty-six years old, and he’s going to give me a stroke. An actual goddamn stroke from the anger flowing through my veins when he saunters into my classroom with that cocky damn smile on his way too handsome face.

No. Not handsome. He’s a kid. A damn spoiled brat. A real pain in my ass. Good-looking or not, it doesn’t matter to me in the slightest.

“Late again, Mr. Moore?” I try to sound bored, but I know he hears my irritation. I can’t hide it when it comes to Fletcher Moore. He gets under my skin. He makes my blood boil with his nonchalant, careless attitude.

Not a care in the world, this one.

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