Page 298 of In Love with a Cruel Billionaire

Him

THE PROFESSOR WAS GETTINGused to cursing his stupidity.

Consternation struck him the moment the system sent his confirmation slips out to the wild. He had never been the type to second-guess himself, but ever since that girl happened—-

Matthijs raked a hand through his hair.

Had it really been only a week since he met her?

Necessity had made him a creature of habit, with every minute of his day accounted for. And he had been fine with that. Until - again -shehappened.

For the entire week now, he had been doing things out of character. Pleasuring himself in front of a student. Saying fucking sorry. And his latest insanity? Actually sayingyesto meeting her on hours they would be least supervised...and anything could happen.

After a discomfitingly sleepless night (or despite it in this case), the professor still woke at exactly a quarter to five on a cloudy Sunday morning. It was his least favorite day of the week, but he had long learned to make do.

His morning routine took up ninety minutes of his time, followed by an hour's session at his personal gym. After this was desk toil: assignments and essays to grade, correspondence to reply to, and journals to read and analyze.

Seminars and conferences were supposed to take up the remaining hours of the day, but there were rare occasions when the rest of the world refused to cooperate. This week's Sunday was such a day, with most of his professional acquaintances opting to honor Sabbath the way the Lord meant to, thus leaving his calendar glaringly empty.

With nothing to keep him from dwelling on his fuck-ups, the professor found himself brooding over the latest cause of disturbance in his otherwise orderly life. Diana had sent him a text message last night, thanking him for approving her schedule request. It was, they both knew, also an invitation. To flirt. Play sexual games. Stay fuckingconnected.

And fuck yes, but the invitation had worked, and it had him typing as fast as he could.

A thank-you text won't cut it. I want you here with me, on my lap, your pussy impaled on my dick.

That was what he had typed.

But what he ended upsendingwas:You're welcome.

Two words that were supposed to be the right thing to do, but it sure hadn't felt right, and it still didn't, with the silence from her end driving him crazy and making his Sundays even more intolerable than they usually were.

What if his rather impersonal reply had her entertaining stupid thoughts? What if he had hurt her without meaning to, driven her to someone else's arms, like that boy Lars?

Too many goddamn what-ifs, but he somehow managed to control himself from doing anything stupid.

Sinning, at the very least, could wait until Monday.

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