Page 13 of The Professor's Possession (Crystal River Billionaire Brothers)

“It’s the only reason we’re taking the English Lit class,” another one explains to the third. “He’s so gorgeous. I saw a glimpse of him yesterday in town as he was heading to lunch and he’s even cuter in real life than online.”

“No one knows anything about him,” the first girl continues in a hushed murmur. “No one knows why he’s back. He’s teaching at college, but he must be so rich. Why would he do that? Why would he come here? He’s such a mystery.”

They all giggle as I turn on my laptop and pretend not to overhear.

The hottest professor on campus? This will be interesting.

So I guess the professor may not be the type wearing tweed, then.

But I’m not here for swooning over men twice my age or anything; I am here to study and get the good grades needed to give me a life after college.

I glance at the clock. Whoever this professor is – however gorgeous he may be for a group of college girls – he is certainly one thing.

Late.

By ten whole minutes.

Wow. Already off to a good start.

“He should be here by now,” one of the girls whispers to the others. “What’s the hold-up?”

And then, as if to answer her question in the most dramatic way possible, the doors to the lecture hall suddenly burst open and in strides a man.

And, oh, he ismost definitelya man.

He’s tall, wearing a dark, well-tailored suit. Broad-shouldered and perfect straight posture. A noticeable Adam’s apple. A killer jawline and sharp cheekbones. Black hair as dark as his tie.

He must certainly be the hottest professor on campus, and at least on the Eastern Seaboard.

But his gorgeousness is not what I’m looking at. Because my mind is currently occupied by one blaring thought.

It’shim.

The beautiful man from last night. The man I sprinted into as I ran home in the dark and the rain. The man who lifted me to my feet. The man with indecipherable sky-blue eyes and full lips who regarded me with an intensity that made my heart jump.

That same man is my English Lit professor.

And that means I’m in trouble.

Big fucking trouble.

He strolls in with an aura of relaxed confidence. Like nothing can stop his stride. He looks out at all the students waiting for his lecture, his blue eyes scanning the crowd. His gaze passes by me, and I wonder with a drop in my stomach if he recognizes the nervous, clumsy runner who asked him for directions in the pouring rain.

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.

I sink myself into my seat and imagine digging the deepest hole for myself to hide in. Anything to escape the penetrating glare of this beautiful man and the reminder of how much of an embarrassing mess I was last night.

But he doesn’t seem to pick me in the audience.

Before he reaches his desk, he begins to speak.

“The best works of art are about the two sides of the soul,” he says. His voice is deeper than what I remember. Deep and bombastic. Vibrating my very soul. He fills the room with his presence. The girls beside me fall deathly silent, as do the rest of the lecture hall. All are spellbound. “And what are these two sides of the soul? The good and the bad. The light and the dark. It’s the dichotomy at the heart of life. The best writing moves you by connecting these two disparate sides. Words are merely gateways into thought. The greatest works of literature aren’t so renowned and studied because of their use of fancy words and elongated sentences, but of the way they can easily penetrate you and reveal those two sides of lightness and darkness within you.”

Yes.

I completely understand what he means by this. It’s like the professor’s putting into wordsexactlywhat makes me love reading. He’s verbalized exactly why I’ve spent so many of my childhood and teenage years staying up way past my bedtime under my covers with a flashlight in one hand and a book in the other. The way he speaks is crisp and eloquent. Perfect diction. Perfect manners. A man who’s unafraid of the power of language and has a full repertoire of a vast vocabulary at his disposal. It’s like he’s been pulled out of a more chivalrous time in the past. A time of authors writing by candlelight and scholars studying parchments in stone monasteries.

He even makes me momentarily completely forget about what happened last night in the rain.

---