Page 23 of Your Only Fan
He is right, though. I need to take a chill pill. Ezra doesn’t know I’m his anonymous cumdump, and he doesn’t have to know. As long as I act like the professional I’m supposed to be, he won’t.
I check my watch, and before my students descend into the classroom by the hordes, I stand with my eyes closed and focus on my breathing. A little yoga breathing always helps.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
And rinse, repeat.
When I open my eyes again, I feel calm. Iamcalm.
And my first students start pouring in.
So does Ezra.
I don’t fail to notice he barely even looks my way. He just carries on past me in his tiny t-shirt that shows all his muscles and leaves little to the imagination and carries himself with the confidence of a playboy to the back of the class.
Of course, the fact that he always sits so far away from me is further proof of how he doesn’t like me. Or, at the very least, doesn’t care about me.
Hopefully that should make the talk I need to have with him easier.
Pffft.
Even I don’t believe that.
Anyway. Back to work.
* * *
“Mr. Anderson,”I raise my voice as everyone gets up and packs their stuff. “Can I have a word?”
He looks around him as if there’s another Anderson in class before he looks back at me. The shock and horror on his face is apparent by the way he bites his bottom lip and the way his eyes flare wide open.
It makes me want to hug him and reassure him he’s going to be fine. That he doesn’t need to be afraid of me. Never me.
He closes in and takes my breath away. I don’t think he knows.
No, scratch that. Hedoesn’tknow.
My body instantly reacts to his proximity, cool waves blasting through me and straight to my heart.
And my dick.
I sit at the edge of my desk to hide the obvious effect he has on me, and he lowers his head like he’s about to be scolded.
“Everything okay?” I ask him.
Ironic, considering I’m not. Considering what he does to me.
He stands in front of me, inches away but without touching me. It doesn’t matter because it still feels like he is.
“Y-you tell me, Mr. Rivera,” he replies.
Wait. Is he nervous? Talking tome? The guy who fucks in front of a camera for a living? What on earth?
“Please, just call me Isaac,” I tell him.
Is it me, or do his cheeks turn red.
