Page 1 of Meeting Melody
1
JACOB
Ihave a hard-on for my professor. Currently. Which is a minor problem, because she’s lecturing at the front of a room filled with students.
I stare down at the redxmarks on my paper and her tight, scribbled notes in the margins. At the top:see me after class. No grade. Not like the rest of the papers that she passed around at the start of class.
But that’s not enough of a distraction, and I’m left trying to will away my erection like a teenager. This doesn’t happen every class—but it does happen enough to be a problem. Because she’s just too damn perfect, and she doesn’t even know it.
As far as distractions go—she’s the biggest one I’ve ever encountered.
This class was supposed to be easy. One of my teammates had recommended it after I got chewed out by Coach in front of the whole team. My grade point average is dangerously low. If it goes lower, then I’ll be fucked.
No more hockey.
My other classes came a bit easier. I actually like numbers. Equations. Calculations. With steps to follow, things make sense in my brain.
This class, though, is fucked up. It’s all hypothesis and subjective opinion.
I don’t really care what Chaucer thought when he wroteThe Canterbury Tales, or what a certain phrase fromThe Iliadmeans when we put it against a modern-day backdrop. Have you seen those stories? They’re not even in normal English. If not for those sites that break them down for dummies, I’d be in a much worse place than I am right now. Even though I’m still two papers away from failing the class.
Our professor, Melody Cameron, wets her finger with her tongue and uses it to flip the page. I almost groan out loud, and my dick pulses again. Thelastthing I need is to be turned on by the one person who has my hockey career firmly in her grip.
That’s not all I want in her firm grip.
Shut up, brain.
She’s saying words, her pretty mouth moving, but I can’t hear a damn thing. Her light-brown hair is down for once, the ends curling level with her nipples. Her chest is to die for, although she hides it away most days in slouchy sweaters and oversized jackets.
There was one time, though, that I saw her in something sexy. At a bar. She was out with her friends… that’s where my infatuation started, I think.Monthsago. And as hard as I try, I can’t seem to focus on any other woman. Doesn’t matter who I make out with at parties or hook up with after games—it’s her face I see when I close my eyes.
Behind her good-girl persona and grandma outfits hides the body of a curvy goddess.
Today, her black slacks hug her thighs, her ass. She seems so much more real than any of the girls who hang around the hockey team. They’re too thin, too bony. And even though it’s often hidden, she’s got a body I dream about way too fucking much.
Melody doesn’t give me the time of day. But I think we’d get along. She seems… quirky. From the jokes she makes, to the way she interacts with other students—the good ones, who know their stuff. The way her eyes seem to spark sometimes. And her goddamn smile will upend me one of these days.
All too soon, she closes the book on her podium, and her gaze lifts. Her hazel eyes flick across the room behind her tortoiseshell glasses, landing on me for a brief moment. Someone in the front raises their hand.
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. I think of anything that’ll get me calm enough to face her without this fucking erection. My grandma. Coach. My grandma kissing Coach.
I wrinkle my nose, but it does the trick.
Now I just need to keep my cool when I’m facing her.
A million questions later, and she dismisses us. I take an eternity to collect my things, until I’m the last one in the room with her.
“Jacob,” she says, climbing the theater-style classroom steps and stopping just below my chair.
It puts her eyes level with my lap, but I try not to focus on that. Or anything. In fact, my plans of playing it cool go right out the window when I remember what’s at stake for me.
“You can call me Jake.” I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. And maybe I flex a little, drawing her attention to my biceps. Putheroff balance, instead of me. “What’s this ‘see me after class’ bullshit about?”
She takes a breath. I swear to God, if she wets her lips, or bites them, or even so much as presses them together, I’m a fucking goner.
“I can’t flunk this class,” I say instead.
We’ve got a week left, then the final exam the week after. And if I don’t do well onthis, and then that, I’m screwed. But as of right now, I still have a chance.
