Page 7 of Too Hostile

“Careful, Ronan here is only twenty-six.” Nathan wraps an arm around my shoulder and teases.

“Oh my God, I forgot you’re a damn fetus,” Annie jokes.

I shove Nathan off me playfully. “I’m not a fetus. I’m nothing like the freshmen we teach.”

“True. No one would ever describe you as young and fun,” Annie says, wiggling her eyebrows at me, and I roll my eyes at her with a familiar smile on my face because I can’t seem to help it.

Most of the time, I hide my smile. I keep it completely professional when I’m on campus. I can’t imagine throwing away my career and reputation for some likely inexperienced sex with a twenty-year-old who became clingy.

Because, of fucking course, he became clingy. She should have known better. His brain is still forming, for Christ’s sake. “I can’t believe she did that.”

“I can’t either,” Nathan agrees. “She’s not speaking, and neither is the college, but it’s all over the news. It’s a damn mess.”

“Her ass is getting fired,” Annie says nonchalantly as she eats a pretzel.

“As she should,” I say because the rules are pretty damn clear. Why a professor would want anything to do with a student is beyond me. But anyone in a position of power should avoid a relationship with someone who’s relying on them.

A cold chill goes through me as I think back to my early teen years. Of the feeling of being helpless and never being able to rely on one single soul.

A darkness settles over me, begging me to push it away. I don’t want to go back there.

“Good riddance.”

They both nod in agreement, and we move on to lighter topics as I do the all too familiar dance of forcing away the memories of my past and trying to convince my brain that I’m now safe.

A battle I’m not sure I’ll ever actually win.

FLETCHER

“What can I do for you, Mr. Moore?” Goddamn, I love how growly his voice gets when he’s irritated. Which around me, is 90 percent of the time.

I offer him my biggest, most charming smile—hell, I think I even bat my eyelashes at the man. When it comes to Professor Ronan Barlowe, I have no shame. Class just ended, and people are filing out, so I keep my voice fairly low. “I was wondering if you need a TA for next semester.”

The man before me looks at me incredulously. And just stares for what feels like forever. I mean, honestly, I’m not one to get nervous, but the guy is making even me a little twitchy. “Are you serious?” He also keeps his voice pretty low but deadly as he looks me square in the eyes.

The last person leaves, but the door is open, and the halls are bustling. “Of course. Why not? I’m an excellent assistant,” I say with a little hint of a tease to it.

Those hazel eyes are shooting downright daggers at me now. He looks almost murderous. And fuck, if that doesn’t make my cock hard. I can’t explain it. There’s just something about this man that makes all common sense go out the window.

I know he’s dangerous. I know he’s a professor at the college I attend and that it’s maybe a little inappropriate for me to have this big of an obsession with him. But the dude haunts my dreams. What can I say?

“No,” he says firmly and simply before grabbing his bag and draping it across his chest, the strap lying over his broad shoulder.

He moves past me, but of course, I keep up with him, not able to let it go. “No? Just like that?”

He stops, his face a mask of indifference, but I see the irritation bubbling just under the surface. God help me, but I love making him lose his cool. Just a little. The guy doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t falter. He’s too serious all the time. Too buttoned-up, and I don’t like it.

For some reason, from the moment I saw him, I knew it was my job to loosen him up. I’d like it if I could make him a little more fun and happy, but I’m settling for that little vein in his temple to pulse and his body to grow so rife with tension that he gives me a verbal lashing.

I like what I like.

Don’t judge me.

My blood races through my veins, full of excitement when he steps into me. His height matches my own, though I’d say I have about twenty pounds of solid muscle on him—but still, his stance is intimidating and sexy as all hell.

Yeah, I’m for sure in trouble here.

“Yes, Mr. Moore,” he bites out, his voice clipped and stern. “Just like that. No. Absolutely not. I would never ask you to be a teacher’s assistant for me. I have a week and a half left with you, and I’m counting down the days. After that, you’re someone else’s problem.”

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