“I’m sorry,” I said awkwardly. He was on a tear, exorcising a few demons, and I had no idea what to say.
“Thank you,” he said, his sad liquid eyes growing large and haunted. “Thank you. It’s sad you know. I’ve worked so hard for everything I have, to separate myself from him, to become my own man. And now, it hardly matters, because the minute that bastard dies, his title goes to me.”
“Oh,” I said. “And that’s bad?” I asked cautiously.
“Yes, it’s bad! A title bestowed by the sovereign precedes a title begotten from any other source, no matter how hard earned. Goodbye Dr. Thomas Grayson, hello Sir Thomas Grayson of Pelham Bt.”
“Oh, that sucks. Will you have to use that title all the time? I mean, you’ll still be Dr. Grayson at your university, right?”
“No, I won’t. Northbrook is a small school. A baronet on the letterhead is far too tempting. Hell, they’ll probably throw a bloody party.” He took off his glasses and set them down, rubbed his eyes with his hands and then stopped, his face resting in his palms.
“I’m so sorry,” I said softly. Boy, that escalated quickly, I thought, wondering how I could redirect this conversation.
“Actually, don’t be.” He lifted his head and put his glasses back on, then looked me in the eye. “I apologize. I just heard myself. I just heard how that sounded out loud, and I am repulsed.”
“What?”
“I’ve been very fortunate in my life, very privileged. And now I’m waxing maudlin about unwanted titles and having too much money.” He laughed cynically, the corner of his mouth curling into a sneer. “It’s obnoxious, and disgusting, and I think I may be drunk.” He lifted a hand to his head, wobbling a little.
“Oh I think you’re a bit past drunk, my friend. You’re full-on blotto.”
“Good God, I am. Let me get a cup of tea,” he said, rising from the computer. “And when I come back I want you to share something ridiculous with me.”
“Like what?” I said.
“I don’t know. Anything, as long as it’s equally embarrassing as my horrific ramblings.” He disappeared from my screen presumably to his kitchen, for tea.
* * *
My stomach flipped, from whiskey or from nerves, I wasn’t sure.
Something embarrassing, I thought. Great. What? How embarrassing?
My stomach answered with another flip flop, so this was definitely nerves. But why was I nervous? I stood up, put away my mother’s liquor, got myself a glass of water from the kitchen, then carried it and the laptop to my bedroom.
“Just waiting for the kettle,” the Professor called from somewhere off-screen.
“Take your time,” I called back as I set the glass of water on my bed stand. I plugged the laptop in, then slid into bed and settled in with a stack of pillows behind me, and the computer in my lap.
Let’s be honest, by embarrassing what he really means, whether he knows it or not, is vulnerable. And you don’t do vulnerable well, Jane. Vulnerable makes you itch, it makes you run. It makes you hide. And we are getting too old for that shit.
I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled slowly, my sister’s words echoing in my head, amplifying the anxiety that was building in my chest.
“Oh, Janie, be careful,” she’d said. “I don’t want you to get hurt again. Like last time.”
But this time was nothing like “last time”. Was it? When I’d met the Professor I was definitely not looking for Mr. Right. Mr. Right-now-with-a-big-cock was the only thing on my mind. Well, it was all that had been on my mind. But that was changing, wasn’t it? The more I got to know him, the more I craved his company. And I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. If I was honest with myself, I knew there was more going on here than just chemistry, more than just sexual attraction.
What? I asked myself. What else is going on?
DON’T ANSWER THAT! my mind screamed in response.
Well, that was an interesting reaction, I thought.
Now you sound like Mom, my brain answered. Fantastic, now I was psychoanalyzing myself.
“Penny for your thoughts?” The Professor’s voice fell over me like a bucket of cold water.
“Oh God! Sorry.” I laughed. “I was off in lala land.”
“Spill it,” he said, taking a careful sip of his tea. “What were you thinking about?”
“Er,” I stammered. Fuck, think of something.
“Come on, let’s hear it. I spent the past twenty minutes making an idiot of myself, it’s your turn.”
“I was thinking about my mother,” I said. It wasn’t a total lie, my last thought had been of Mom. A childhood spent with a therapist for a mother meant that my sister and I were pretty good at dodging questions we didn’t like, with answers that were half-truths and re-directs. With relief I realized that I’d been overthinking this whole assignment. I had my “embarrassing story” after all.
“Go on.” He smiled.
“My mother,” I began, “is, along with my sister, my best friend. She’s poised and intelligent, beautiful and incredibly supportive, she’s the strongest person I know, and she’s also…” I paused for suspense.
“Yes?” The Professor raised an eyebrow.
“A sex therapist.”
“R-really?” the Professor sputtered over his tea. “That’s fascinating.”
“Yeah, everybody says so, but none of them had to grow up with it. Just try going through adolescence in a small town with a mom that leads ‘Get to know your vagina’ classes down at the local YMCA.”
“Oh no, she didn’t.” He laughed.
“Oh yes, she did.”
3
“That must have been brutal.”
“Oh you have no idea. And that class happened during my freshman year of high school. You can imagine the comments I got in the hallways between classes.”
“Unfortunately I can,” he said, laughing. “My God, why didn’t she take pity on you?”
“She had to work, and it was a tough time for everyone,” I said, shrugging. “She wasn’t always a sex therapist. When we were younger she was a stay at home mom, taking us to ballet and soccer practice, throwing dinner parties for my dad’s friends. My father is an attorney at a very prominent practice, so for years she played the dutiful attorney’s wife.”
“I see.”
“She had her own career as a counselor, but she put that all on hold for my father, and to raise us.”
“A pretty common story.”
“Yeah, with an all-too-common ending. My father cheated on her with a twenty-one-year-old intern at his practice.”
“Jesus, what a horrible cliché,” the Professor said, grimacing.
“That describes him perfectly,” I said, laughing. “That’s what he is, one giant, walking, sad mid-life crisis cliché.” I reached for my water and took a sip, stalling for time.
The conversation was starting to make me itch. I’d gone from talking about my mother’s unusual profession to my parents’ divorce. And that event was the beginning of a larger story, the story that had me running from my hometown, from everything and everyone, at just eighteen years old. I definitely was in no mood to share that tale right now, but I also wasn’t ready to say goodnight.
“My father,” I continued, “used every dirty trick in his arsenal when he decided to divorce my mother.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He tried to ruin my Mother,” I said. “He intimidated local businesses into not hiring her, so that she had to drive forty-five minutes to find work. She had to drive two hours to see her attorney, because none in the area would take her case. See, he put the word out to all the practices in town that if they wanted to maintain a good relationship with Traynor, Michaels, Claremont and Associates, they’d better steer clear of my mom.”
“So they did,” he said.
I nodded, and swallowed another sip of water, resolving to choose my next words carefully. Turns out I didn’t need to.
“That’s terrible,�
� he began, “and I can tell from the look on your face, this is not a topic you wish to discuss any further.”
I nodded again, grateful for the reprieve, grateful for his intuition and his generosity.
“Shall I change the topic? Deftly segue into some new and exciting subject? Something less distressing perhaps? World politics? Global warming? Human trafficking?” he said, arching an eyebrow, dimples flashing at the edges of his smile. “Stop me when I hit on something you like.”
I laughed, coughing on my water, as I fumbled to set the glass back on the bed stand.
“Hang on, have you changed venue?” he asked.
“Yes, I moved to my bedroom when you were getting tea.”
“Oooo,” he said, widening his eyes. “I’m in Jane’s bedroom again, am I?”
“In a sense.” I smiled.
“Oh what bittersweet memories.” He sighed, and rested a hand on his chest.
“Bittersweet? Memories?” I asked.
“Yes, when I was last here, just hours ago, you treated me most discourteously.”
“What?” I said, gaping at him.
“You threw a towel at me, completely obscured any glimpse I might have caught of that luscious body of yours.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I pouted at him in mock sympathy.
“You should be. I was seriously bereft for close to an entire minute.”
“Just a minute?” I teased.
“Well, truth be told,” —he frowned, his voice deepening, a twinkle dancing in those deep blue eyes— “I’m still somewhat disconsolate.”
“That is truly tragic. If only there was some way you might be consoled,” I mused, as a flush rose in my cheeks. Flirting with the Professor was a recent but very welcome addition to my list of favorite activities. I was very happy with this change in the conversation.
“I think,” he said, lifting a finger to his chin, “I think perhaps, if you were to be more naked, I think that might help.”
“It might?” I asked, laughing.
“Yes, yes, actually I’m certain of it, ” he said.
“Well, I’m afraid I won’t be able to accommodate you…”
“What?” he asked, eyes wide.
“At least, not without some reciprocity.” I wiggled out from under the laptop and knelt on the bed, placing my entire torso in view of the camera. I snagged a strand of hair from my nape, wrapped it around my finger and hugged my breasts together with my elbows.
“Oh you cunning minx.” The Professor’s eyes glazed over for a moment, his gaze flitting from my face to my chest and down to the hem of my nightie, that barely skimmed the tops of my thighs. “First you ply me with devil juice, and now you seek to denude this sacred form?” He raised his voice, feigning offense.
“Sacred?” I rolled my eyes at him. “You’ve already seen me denude. I think it’s time to even the playing field.”
“Play? God, don’t tell me,” he said, lifting a hand to his head. “No more drinking games, please. I may never recover.”
“No. No shots.” I smiled. “Strip Scrabble. If you want to see any more of this luscious body,” I said, relinquishing the strand of hair and running my hands down my torso. “You’re gonna have to battle for the privilege.”
I leaned over the laptop, clicked open the Scrabble app on my desktop and invited him to a game. A second later I heard the invite chime on his screen.
“Oh this is it, then. We’re really playing?”
“We are really playing.” I nodded. “What’s the matter, Professor? Chicken?”
He took a large swallow of tea, swiped a hand across his mouth, and sniffed. “I’m an English Professor, Claremont, surely I can best you in a simple game of Scrabble,” he said as he clicked on the invitation to accept it.
“No doubt,” I agreed, my eyes catching his when he looked up. “I’m sure you’ll do quite well,” I ran my hands back up my torso and walked my fingers across my breasts to the tips, massaging the tingling buds till they grew hard and protruded behind the thin fabric of my nightie.
“That’s cheating,” he said, pointing at my breasts. “That’s completely unfair, distracting the opponent with…with…breasts.”
I clicked on the app, and our first set of letters appeared on the board. Then I moved my hands to the hem of my nightie and drew it up slowly till the barest hint of panties was visible. Hot pink. Satin and lace. His gaze followed the movements of my hands, then locked on my center. He licked his lips, a slow glide of his tongue over that plump lower strip of flesh. I wanted to bite that lip, to feel that soft pink heat against my own, to capture that tongue, follow it.
“Oh you are going down, Claremont!” he cracked his knuckles and his eyes met mine in challenge.
“Did I mention?” I asked, keeping my tone casual as I sat back on my heels and pulled the computer into my lap, “I’m a champion at competitive Scrabble.”
“Fuck me.”
“That’s the plan.”
* * *
“Smilets?” I stared, incredulous, at the game screen. “That is not a word!” I shouted. The Professor had just turned my seven-point word into an eighteen-point word, with just two tiles, and the aid of a double word score square. I was down to my last letter, and there were no more pieces left in our virtual game bag. I was also down to my last article of clothing. So was he. His pajama bottoms and my short nightie were the only articles of clothing that still stood between us. Honestly, despite my wailing about cheating, I couldn’t wait till we were both naked. But I didn’t let him know that. After all, a champion Scrabble player has to put up a worthy fight.
“Smilets,” he said, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Challenge it if you must, but you will lose, Claremont.”
“I am going to challenge it, this is gibberish! You can’t just make up words to get me naked, you scoundrel.” My fingers flew over my keyboard, googling for any verification of ‘smilets’ online.
“Ah, excuse me, but I hardly need to cheat, love,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “I’m sorry if you find the scope of my vocabulary intimidating.”
“Ha! We’ll just see what the internet has to say about smilets.”
“Right, you google. I’m off for more tea.”
“Fuck,” I said as confirmation popped up on my screen.
“Oh, somebody sounds disappointed,” he called.
“Fucking Shakespeare,” I yelled back and closed the browser window. “It’s always fucking Shakespeare with you. I should’ve known.”
He walked back into view, and I had to stifle a sigh of appreciation. I could stare at that sculpted torso for hours. He was just too beautiful, with tousled brown hair flopping over his forehead, and a scruff of stubble roughening his jawline. The long elegant fingers of one hand massaged a lazy pattern down his neck and across his bare chest, while the other hand held a steaming mug of tea. He was all lean muscle and smooth skin, the epitome of masculine beauty. He grinned at me, lifted the mug to his lips, and took a cautious sip before setting it down.
“Those happy smilets, that play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know what guests were in her eyes.”
“Yes, Mr. Smartypants. King Lear,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I found that quote, and Freedictionary.com has it listed as ‘a little smile’. I still think it sounds made up.”
“Well it is,” he said, sitting down. He propped his elbows on the table and leaned into the screen. “Shakespeare made up thousands of our words, many we still use today. Although I confess, smilets is not in common usage.”
“You think?” I sneered.
“You” —he laughed— “are not amused. And I don’t blame you. This game was hardly sporting. Our wits are too well matched and each of us underdressed for any chance at strategy. That said, I am very pleased to have bested you.”
“You don’t look merely pleased, Professor. You look positively insufferable.”
“You look radiant. Irritation agrees with you. Your eyes are flashing
and your cheeks are flushed.” His dimples deepened, framing his smile. “I can’t wait to discover what else is flushed.”
“You are such a poor winner.” I laughed. “It’s bad form to rub your triumph in the loser’s face.”
“Then shall I let you rub it in mine?”
“That doesn’t even make sense, not really.”
“No, I know. I’m still a little drunk.”
“Oh God.” I hung my head in my hands. I was completely turned on. Drunk Professor was just as adorable as sober Professor and I definitely wanted to see where this ridiculous exchange might be going. But I’d also caught an unexpected case of the shys. Our lusty banter had gone back and forth for hours now, the buildup had been agonizing and some of my natural bravado was slipping away. How did this man always manage to unnerve me?
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’ll denude if you do too.”
“Oh, listen to the cheeky loser trying to negotiate terms after the fact. You’ve got some nerve.” He sat back in his chair and stretched, flexing his arms over his head. Muscles danced down the length of his arms, strong and hard and delicious.
I placed my laptop on the bed and stood up in front of it, adjusting the camera till my entire upper body was in view. I fluffed my hair with my fingers, starting at the nape of my neck, then walked my hands higher, raising my elbows so that the hem of my nightie started to creep, slowly, up. The Professor nearly fell off his chair.
“Now who’s cheating?” he said, his elbows propped up in front of the computer again.
“I play to win,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned that first round ended in a tie.” I raised my arms a little higher, my nightie quivering at the edge of my pussy, every movement of my arms teasing him with the barest peek of flesh.
The Professor squinted at the camera and leaned in close, his eyes laser focused on my dangerous hemline. He took off his glasses and sighed heavily. “Alright,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face before reseating his glasses. “You drive a hard bargain, Claremont, but I’ll acquiesce to your demands if it means I can share in the prize.”
Commencement (Becoming Jane) Page 4
