Page 3 of Rolling with my Professors

I thought I did anyway… If it wasn’t weird enough to take classes from my ex’s dad, who I’ve had a massive crush on ever since I can remember, he just walked into the sex club with Professor Rutherford, his cocky colleague.

Given the dead-end nature of Belova’s dare, I took it. I also only give her about a two-percent chance of actually taking a guy up on an offer. If she doesn’t complete the dare, I don’t have to, either.

Although, I need to do something. My pent-up sexual frustration is getting unbearable.

An idea bigger than the dare is brewing. I grab Belova’s arm. “Maybe we should lose our virginity here, like those women did on Virgin Night—with guys who know how to please a woman. Set our expectations high.”

“Not stopping you.” Belova reinforces her statement by playfully holding her hands up and backing away.

It all happens so fast, I don’t have time to warn her that a man is walking up behind her. She crashes into him, losing her footing, but he steadies her. He flirts with her. And he does the one thing that strikes fear in me… makes her an offer.

“I’d like to buy you a drink.”

Being a properly selfless friend, I wink at her. “That’s a nice offer.”

But if she accepts the drink, I have to hit on my professors. I swallow the lump in my throat.

My jaw goes slack when she takes him up on it.

Crap. She did it. I’m excited for her, but I’m also cringing hard.

Needing to clear my head and to give her space to flirt, I make myself scarce. Will I ever have the sexual bravado of the people openly having sex here? My ex did a number on me. We’d been childhood sweethearts, turned prom king and queen, but it was all small town. Too confining.

I should have listened to the kind souls who cautioned me about only having one boyfriend my entire life. The second he got out of town and flapped his wings, he flew away. And I didn’t even get sex out of our long-term relationship.

And here I am in a sex club watching couples and larger groups. It looks so fun, so intimate, and so… hmm, judging by the couple using a swing in a nearby room… athletic. In any case, thanks to visits to Aubergine Affair, I’m certain sex is better than the boring textbook descriptions.

The real stuff is way hotter. I pull at the front of my shirt to get air circulating.

“You showed up for Drinks and Dicks.” Professor Rutherford’s tone hints that he’s testing how the straight-A student will respond as he approaches. And it doesn’t take a genius to know that guys don’t see me as anything more than a good friend. Let alone older, sexy, swagger-licious guys like him. Leave it to the cocky professor to push the boundaries of propriety once we’re off campus.

I smile as he stops beside me. The dare begs me to play it out, and I could knock out two tasks at once if I really want to have sex for the first time with an experienced guy.

His five-o’clock shadow, leather motorcycle jacket, and broad chest strike me as even more sexually appealing than his classroom attire of a button-up shirt and slacks.

When my brain stops fantasizing long enough to take note of him staring at me, the rest of reality threads itself back into place. Professor-student relationships are strictly forbidden.

Deescalating my hormone rush, I say, “Just here to celebrate our victory.”

“By yourself?”

“If you can’t party with yourself…” I let the rest of my thought taper off. It sounds lame at best, wrong at worst.

“If you don’t want to party alone, I’d be happy to party with you.” His eyes trap me in battle of wits. I’ve seen him do it with students who think they’re more clever than him, but never with the sexual undertones he just unleashed.

Surely, it’s just banter. He wouldn’t hit on me. The good news is that I think I can count this as making good on the dare.

I survey the room to escape his gaze, and to find Belova. She happens to look my way. We’re both surprised.

A firm but gentle finger tucks along the side of my jaw. “Feeling festive?”

Yep! The streamers are hung, I’m blowing the noisemaker, and all guests have arrived—in my mind.

“If you want to party solo, that’s fine.” He glances at a nearby sex room where a woman is watching a man jack off. “Some people are entertainers. Others prefer to be entertained.”

I can’t decide if I’m humored, horrified, or horny at his continued play on the terrible analogy I started. The room sways slightly. I clamp my eyes closed and when I reopen them, Rutherford’s waiting patiently. Struggling to keep my expectations in check, I say, “We shouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Do you have something against parties?”

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