Page 4 of Damaged Professor

Luckily for her, I’m not uncertain at all. I plant a hand on the top of her thigh, running it over her bare skin, up to the very edge of her denim shorts. A shudder runs through her. “You’re not just coming back to my place for a drink, are you?”

“I’m not,” she says, her voice low. Abby takes a breath, and then places her hand on my upper arm. She leans forward, tilting her head back and kisses me. There’s something gentle about the way her lips slide over mine.

To be honest, her gentle touch catches me off guard. It’s been years since I was in a real relationship—my heart got broken eight years back, and it’s been hard for me to get past that. Mostly, I do bar hook ups that end up frantic, with us trying to undress each other in the car.

But that kiss—something about it makes me want to savor this night with Abby. I pull away and look at her. Her eyes stare back at mine confused.

“Take us home,” I tell Jeremy, without moving my gaze. He looks back briefly, probably questioning the change of destination, but says nothing.

I curl a hand in the back of her neck, tangling my fingers in her hair. Slowly, I run my tongue over her lower lip, and when she parts them, I plunge it into her mouth.

But it’s not desperate.

I want to prove to her that this is going to be a good night, a good time, something that she doesn’t need to worry over. The longer that we kiss, the more confident she seems. She moves her hand from my arm to my chest, groping my pecs. She doesn’t mess with the buttons, but her touch is still electric.

Jeremy has seen way worse than this over the years and doesn’t even bother glancing at the backseat—Not until he’s pulled over right in front of my house.

He clears his throat. “We’re here.”

I’m irritated that I have to pull away from her, but then I realize it gives me a good view of her pretty freckled cheeks that have gone dusty red with embarrassment and her green eyes have turned even brighter with excitement.

She’s practically squirming in the backseat as I get out of the car. I nod to Jeremy and hold my hand out to Abby again.

This time, Abby takes it and keeps going, leaning against my chest, and pressing a few close-mouthed kisses to the side of my neck. The car pulls away leaving us near the white-stone stairs leading to the front door.

“This is your place?” Abby asks, looking over it.

I fish a ring of keys out of my back pocket and unlock the front door. “Clearly.”

“Okay, stupid question,” says Abby. “I just meant—it’s big.”

It is.

Money is not an issue for me, and my living situation makes that clear. The front door swings open, letting us into the two-story foyer. There’s a map of the world on the far wall, framed by two lights that burst into being with a flick of the switch.

“It’s not the only thing that’s big,” I joke, and then instantly wince. “I spent too much time at the bar tonight. Ignore that I said that.”

“Maybe I don’t want to ignore it. Maybe I like a guy with college humor,” Abby teases.

“You should have left with your friend then.” I lead the way into the large kitchen. There’s a marble island at the center of the room, with black topped counters on the far wall. Everything is new; I replace the appliances every few years, liking the way that the new chrome stands out against the dark wood of the walls.

It adds a splash of the present into an otherwise purely historical village.

“How about another drink?” I offer.

She follows me into the room, her head practically on a swivel as she looks around. Her gaze lands on one of the oil portraits on the far wall. “At least you have better taste in paintings than you do jokes.”

“That one was a gift from my mother,” I explain. There’s a bottle of wine in the back of my fridge. I pour us each a glass, carrying the glasses over to where she’s stopped in front of the picture.

Abby takes the drink. “Alright then, your mother has good taste. You’re really determined to make me think that you have shit taste, aren’t you?”

Moving to stand behind her, I loop my arm around her waist, tugging her towards me. Her back presses on my chest, a line of warmth against my skin. “I asked you to come home with me. I think that makes it clear I have great taste.”

“Oh, you’re pushing me into a corner with that one. I literally can’t protest it.”

“That was the point,” I tell her. “You like art, then?”

“I love it,” says Abby. “Not, you know, making it or anything—but I’ve always loved the history behind it. I know it’s a cop out answer, but Francisco Goya’s works are incredible.”

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