Page 33 of Forbidden Professor

Doesn’t he have pajamas he could wear? A t-shirt, at least?

But no. He heads to the coffee machine and I watch as the muscles of his arms flex with every movement he makes. When he reaches up for the coffee from the cabinet, his bicep twitches.

So does my pussy.

When he bends over to get the milk from the fridge, I see how tight his ass and thighs are.He’s a runner, of course he’s fit, I think to myself.Lots of people are fit.

Carter isn’t anything special,I tell myself.

But I know I’m lying to myself. He’s extraordinarily special, in so many ways, and the sober light of morning only seems to highlight that fact.

He didn’t take advantage of me last night. He isn’t making things awkward now. He’s making coffee, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for me to wake up on his couch. No big deal, just the two of us, alone in his home.

Practically naked. Yep. Totally natural.

If ‘natural’ means it makes my body shudder with pleasure just by watching him bend over, then sure. I can see the outline of his cock pressing against the fabric of his thin boxers and the urge to run my fingers over it overwhelms me.

I want Carter. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get him, but I know I want him.

He’s off limits. He’s forbidden. He’s taboo. Having him, the way I want him, is going to ruin both of our lives.

He’ll get fired. My father will disown me. I’ll get kicked out of med school for not paying my tuition. And yet, all I can think when I look at his mostly naked body, is:I want that.

“Do you want cream?” Carter asks.

His words are jarring.

“What?” I ask, bewildered.

“You want coffee, right?” He looks so innocent standing there with his perfect skin, his rippling muscles, his bright smile.

If only, I think. If only basically everything in both of our lives was different, then I could have what I wanted. And yes, I most certainly want cream, too. Lots of it.

“Yes, please,” I murmur, feeling the heat on my cheeks.

He brings the coffee over to me and sits on the couch next to me. He’s so close, all I have to do is reach out a few inches and my fingers would be sliding along his bare skin. Instead, I let my eyes rake along his frame, drinking in the view like a woman dying of thirst.

“About last night…” he begins.

I still don’t remember much. I consider if I should confess that fact while he goes on, hoping his words will shed light on my darkened memories.

“We probably went a little too far, don’t you agree?”

I blink. Just how far did we go?

“I’m not sure,” I finally say. “I don’t actually remember.”

“Look. I know we’d both had a bit to drink last night. But we need to be much more careful.”

“You’re the one that brought me back to your place. I could have gone home,” I remind him.

“I wouldn’t have been comfortable leaving you alone.”

“You’re not responsible for me.”

“Then why do I feel like I am?”

“I’m not sure. Only you can answer that.”

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