Page 21 of The Professor's Holiday Surprise

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She turns and closes the door. The lock snapping shut feels like an electric fence being activated.

Danger.

She stands across from me for a long, painful beat.

Then she sits in the chair she was in before. But this time, she’s not struggling to meet my gaze. Now her eyes are trained on me, watching and thinking and observing andseeingme.

I feel stripped bare.

“This is weird,” she finally says.

I laugh. “Yeah.”

“You feel like you’re in quite a spot right now because you’re my teacher.”

“Yes.”

She nods, her lips pursed together. “Can we pretend that you’re not?”

“No.”

Another nod.

Then she grabs her backpack. “In that case, can you take a look at my report?”

I jerk back in surprise. “Of course.”

She hands it over. I pace slowly as I read it. It is comprehensive, detailed, and in a few places, unexpectedly funny.

There isn’t a ton of writing in my course, so I haven’t read anything this detailed from her before today.

By the third page, I know I can’t be the one who marks it. Even if we don’t do anything else, I’m not neutral when it comes to Paisley Stevenson.

When I get to the last page, I grab my chair from behind my desk. I drag it around so I’m sitting across from her, our knees close enough to brush.

She shrugs out of her vest and pushes her sweatshirt up her forearms.

I catalogue little pieces of her that I didn’t allow myself to notice before. A pair of small moles on her arm. A white scar on her thumb. A bright pink hair elastic on her wrist, just in case she has a ponytail emergency.

The way her hair looks like silky ribbons of fire and sunshine.

When she was watching me on Sunday nights, did she put it up? Or did it tumble around her shoulders like it is now?

She finally breaks the silence. “How is it? Is it okay?"

I pass the assignment back to her, and after she takes it, I stay leaning in. “I think you know I can’t answer that question.”

Something I can’t interpret flickers across her face. “Why not?”

“Because I think you’re so fucking bright, and clever, and funny, I will give you an A+ every time, and that’s not fair to you. You deserve to know you’ve earned that A+ from someonewho is more…objective. Because you deserve for someone else to teach you, and I should have been honest about that months ago. Because every time you watched me stroke my cock, I was thinking aboutyou. Because my honest answer is that I think it’s so fucking good, you deserve to sit on my face and be rewarded like a good girl.” My chest heaves as I finish my confession. Or almost all of it. I leave off the most important part.Because I’m in love with you.

That should probably wait until at least our third or fourth kiss.

Her expression goes from unreadable to surprised to absolutely delighted. She licks her lips, her gaze like honey. “You think it’s good?”

“That’s the part you latch onto?” I laugh and poke at her knee. “Yes. It’s excellent.”

“But you’re biased.”

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