Page 9 of Bewitched By the Mountain Man
"Shh," I hiss, unable to look away from him.
He's moving now, pacing slowly across the front of the room as he talks about expectations for the rest of the semester.
My face burns hotter.
"Today," he says, pulling up a slide on the projector, "we’ll focus on situational ethics. How ordinary people make extraordinary choices when placed in extraordinary circumstances. How we rationalize crossing lines we never thought we'd cross."
His eyes flick to me again, just for a second, and I swear I see something hungry in them before he looks away.
This is torture. This is actual, literal torture.
I force myself to look down at my notebook, to write something, anything, so I don't have to meet his gaze. But my hand is shaking so badly the words come out illegible.
Situational ethics. Crossing lines. Rationalization.
I crossed so many lines last night. I had sex with a complete stranger, a masked stranger, in a sex club of all places. I’ve never even had a one-night stand before.
And now that same man is my new professor.
"You," he says suddenly, and my head snaps up.
He's pointing at a guy in the front row with his hand raised. I exhale shakily, realizing I've been holding my breath. He wasn't calling on me. Of course he wasn't.
But he will eventually. He'll have to. That's how classes work.
Madison leans over again. "Are you okay? You look like you're about to pass out."
"I'm fine," I whisper, even though I'm very much not fine.
The lecture continues. He talks about conformity and deviance, about how social contexts shape behavior. Normally, I'd be taking detailed notes, asking questions, engaging with the material. I love this stuff. It's why I'm in this program.
But right now, all I can think about is the way he looked at me while he was inside me. The way he told me I was beautiful. The way he said he wasn't done with me, like he could've had sex with me for days on end.
"For next class," he says as the hour winds down, "I want you to read chapters ten through twelve. We'll discuss the psychology of evil and whether ordinary people are capable of extraordinary cruelty under the right circumstances."
Students start packing up, sticking laptops into bags. I shove my blank notebook into my backpack with trembling hands. I need to get out of here. Now.
Madison stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Want to grab lunch? I'm starving."
"I can't," I interrupt, my voice coming out strangled. "I need to... I have to talk to the professor. About the homework."
She raises an eyebrow. "Okay, weirdo. Text me later?"
I nod, watching as the classroom empties. Students file out in clusters, laughing and complaining. And then it's just us.
Me and him.
The door clicks shut behind the last student, and the silence is deafening.
He doesn't move from behind the desk. Just stands there, hands braced on the lectern, staring at me with those ice-blue eyes.
"Ms...?" he prompts.
"O’Reilly," I manage. "Tessa O’Reilly."
He moves from behind the lectern, taking his time as he walks toward me. He stops just short of touching distance.
“This doesn’t change anything,” he says, like he’s strangling the words. “What happened... it can’t happen again. Do you understand?”
