Page 8 of Ruthless Temptation
I tell myself I’m just making sure I present myself the way he is used to.
At five thirty, I leave my dorm room. It’s a fifteen-minute walk to the Faculty Building, but I chose to wear platform heels and I can’t be late under any circumstances. The sun is still high enough in the sky to coat the campus in a silky, warm glow.
I get a few looks from the other students—mostly guys—as I pass them, but I don’t pay them much attention. My thoughts are filled with what awaits me inside Professor Holmes’ office. What will he want me to do to make up for the assignment?
Knowing him, it could be some sort of essay or a test I’ll have to do in his office within a specified time limit. I put a few pens and pencils in my handbag just in case, and I even had the presence of mind to ask Cassidy to lend me her notes from the last three classes.
As I walk, I find that my mind wanders to other things.
It wanders to the prickles of shame I felt as he degraded me in front of the entire class, and how similar it had felt to the heat blooming in my core when he put his hand on my cheek. I think of how much I wanted him to kiss me, and how right it felt in that moment, even though it would have been absolutely wrong.
That wet heat between my legs returns; I’ve taken my thoughts too far again. This certainly isn’t the sort of thing I should be thinking about right now. I shelve the feelings away as best as I can.
By the time I make it to his office, I think I have it under control.
Taking a deep breath, I knock firmly on the heavy wooden door.
Professor Holmes’ office is at the end of the corridor on the second floor of the Faculty Building. I’ve only ever been inside once before, when Cassidy and I had to drop off an assignment on the weekend. I feel my heartbeat in my soles.
There’s muffled shuffling on the other side before the door swings open.
Standing at the threshold is Professor Holmes. He’s wearing the same clothes as earlier, but there’s an unusual softness to him. The first button of his shirt is undone, and his hair is a little messy, like he has been running his fingers through it.
When he sees me, he narrows his eyes slightly, a smile twisting his lips. He glances at his watch.
“Miss Vásquez,” he says, a hint of surprise to his tone. “You’re pleasantly early.”
His approval makes my cheeks heat up.
“I didn’t want to be late,” I say lamely.
Professor Holmes steps aside so I can enter his office and closes the door behind me but doesn’t leave the threshold. There are bookshelves on almost every wall, each stacked with thick,heavy books. I catch a few familiar names—B.F. Skinner, Emil Kraepelin, and Jean Piaget.
The focal point of the room is a huge wooden desk that looks like it could be decades old. There is a massive red leather chair behind it, and two plush armchairs are positioned in front. The wall behind the leather chair is made entirely of floor to ceiling windows looking out to the courtyard below.
I take tentative steps deeper into the room. The wooden floor is covered by a heavy detailed rug of gold, red and yellow stitching. It’s intricate and seemingly hand-woven. It muffles the sound of my heavy shoes.
Looking to Professor Holmes, I’m about to compliment his taste in decor when I realize he has been staring at me the entire time. I catch him just as his eyes leave my bosom. There’s a different kind of intensity to his gaze now.
“That’s a nice color on you,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets.
I give him a small smile, trying not to seem too happy. “Thank you.”
I’m over the moon though, as I chose this aubergine-colored shirt out of sentiment. The day I wore it was the first time his eyes lingered on me. He might not remember it, but that day was pivotal for me. I thought about it for weeks after.
Now that I know hedidlike it, this whole thing feels like a fucked up meet-cute—my favorite kind.
“Please, take a seat,” he says, crossing the room in a few long strides and settling into the seat behind the desk. I do as he instructs.
The light streaming through the window behind him gives him an otherworldly glow. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I allow myself to appreciate his appearance in this light. He looks ethereal, like a fallen angel sent to torment my piteous soul.
"Have you given any thought to how you will make up for what you’ve done?” he asks, picking up a pen from his desk and twirling it between his lithe fingers.
I shrug. “No, I thought you would already have something set,” I say. “Like a test, or a timed essay question.”
Professor Holmes grins. “On no, little one,” he coos, and something within me stirs to life at his words. “The only option on the table is punishment.”
I pause. “Punishment?” I ask, swallowing thickly.
