Total pages in book: 17
Estimated words: 15350 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 77(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 51(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 15350 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 77(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 51(@300wpm)
A Master’s class that includes Emma McMann.
It takes an extreme amount of effort to get through my introduction because I find my gaze constantly drawn to the end of the second row where she’s sitting. I can only hope none of the other students notice.
She’s always been beautiful, but in the few years since we graduated, she’s blossomed from a girl into a woman. And God, does womanhood look good on her. Her honey blonde hair is longer than I remember it being, and today she’s got it pulled back from her face in a loose ponytail, wispy strands framing her face in a way that has my fingers itching to sweep it behind her ears so I can take in her features better. In the coffee shop, I wanted to devour her whole when her big blue eyes nearly swallowed me. Then her pink glossy lips popped open in surprise sending a shot of heat rushing through me.
Her outfit is simple but on her, it looks like something off a damn runway show. A tight, dark brown long sleeve t-shirt and dark wash jeans that perfectly cup her ass, not that I’d been looking. Okay, who the hell was I kidding, I’d definitely been looking.
I clear my throat, adjusting my stance as I suddenly become very grateful for the podium hiding the way my trousers become too tight around my cock.
As undergrads, we’d been in similar classes, and had run in some of the same circles. I’d have had to be blind not to notice her, but I was never sure if she’d thought of me the same way. So I’d admired her from afar, and then we’d graduated and my career had taken up all of my time and energy, any idea of romance falling to the sidelines.
And now she’s here. Back. Right in front of me, a temptation that I can’t have.
She’s my student.
I’m her professor.
And that means I can’t have her, no matter how much I might want her.
Forcing my gaze away from Emma, I continue explaining the assignment schedule for the class.
“Your last assignment will be a short film focusing on an emotion of your choice,” I explain, detailing how I want to see them use multiple techniques we’ll learn throughout the semester in their final piece. I smile as I see multiple students nod in understanding, the majority of them taking notes as I speak.
I truly enjoy my work, and I’m well aware that as a newer, younger professor, I have to maintain a high level of professionalism. I can’t afford distractions or temptations, not when I’ve worked my ass off to get to where I am now and not when I have aspirations to keep climbing the career ladder. I need to keep my head down, focus on teaching and my personal projects, and remove all thoughts of how Emma’s lips would taste on mine out of my head.
But, shit, I can’t help the way my thoughts run off in directions they definitely shouldn’t. I remember Emma as a kind, shy, intelligent girl who was impossible not to like, and from the way I catch her handing over a spare pen to the student next to her with a big smile on her face, I doubt much has changed there. Her awkwardness at the cafe was adorable, and her embarrassment when she’d run into me in the corridor only endeared me more to her. The way her cheeks had turned pink, her eyes wide and her words stuttering out an apology…
Shit, someone’s got their hand up. I call on them, answering their question about deadlines, and finish up my lecture as fast as I can. I need to get out of Emma’s presence as soon as possible if I stand a damn shot at not derailing this entire year getting distracted by her.
I thank the students for their attention, tell them I’m excited to see what this semester brings, and dismiss them five minutes early. As they funnel out of the lecture hall, I pack up my things in a rush, shaking my head as though I can force the image of Emma out of my mind.
But then she appears in front of me, making my attempts absolutely useless. Dammit, does she have to be so damn beautiful, so damn tempting?
“Emma,” I say, trying valiantly not to think about how good her name feels in my mouth.
“Oliver,” she answers, and goddammit the way her plush lips form the syllables is sinful. “I mean, Professor Page.”
She blushes, and all I can picture is her calling me that, Professor, as I bend her over a desk.
Shit, I’m already failing at my vow of professionalism.
I run my hand through my hair, tugging a little at the strands. “Oliver is fine,” I assure her, mainly because I’m not sure I can handle her calling me Professor again unless she’s screaming it.