by J. L. White
Most of them anyway.
A week into the new semester, I’m on Shane’s floor on my stomach doing homework, even though I’m considerably less stressed about grades now than I was last semester. Though I got a B in my neurology class, I managed to squeak out an A in my other classes and salvage my summa cum laude. Spring grades aren’t factored in, so it’s a done deal.
Now I’m just waiting to find out if I get to go to the school of my dreams or not.
But what of that? As much as I’ve been dreaming about that, I’m already starting to view the end of the school year with dread. While graduation could theoretically mean we would no longer have to sneak around because our professor/student relationship would be at an end, it also means we’ll be that much closer to going our separate ways.
It’s getting more and more difficult to put that thought out of my mind.
Shane’s in jeans and a tee, sitting sideways on the couch with his legs stretched out and his laptop open. I may not be as stressed about homework, but he still has plenty to do in the way of grading papers and his own coursework. I’m trying to be a good girl and let him alone for a while.
I glance at him, looking all yummy in his tight tee. I’m wearing a loose skirt that comes to my knees. I’m casually kicking my bare calves and feet behind me and fantasizing about him taking full advantage of the fact that I’m wearing a skirt. I sigh. It just sucks trying to be good sometimes.
I force myself to go back to my work but my pen dies. I rummage around in my bag but don’t have another one.
“Do you have a pen?” I ask.
He glances at me, wearing that look of concentration he gets when he’s working. “Should be some in the office,” he says, going back to his laptop.
I’m even more tempted to pull him out of his reverie now, but instead I pad barefoot into the office in search of a pen. We agreed to work for a couple hours before taking a break. One hour to go.
I step into his office and the first thing I see is the sculpture I gave him, sitting on its own pedestal in the corner.
“Shane?” I call.
I slowly walk up to it, running my fingers along its smooth surface. I have this unpleasant tingling feeling on my skin, and I can’t even say why.
He comes through the door and heads for his desk. “Couldn’t find one?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look. Why is this here?”
He looks at the sculpture and gets a funny look on his face.
“I bought this for your office at school.”
“I know.”
In the back of my mind, I know I’m being silly. Why should I feel bothered? It was a gift and he can put it anywhere he wants. He could put it in the garden if he wanted to, really. But I have a strange feeling about seeing it here. I don’t know why. The look on his face only encourages my feeling that something’s wrong.
“Don’t you think it looks nice there?” he asks.
“Is that why you put it there?” I ask, looking him in the eye.
He’s getting a different look on his face now, one I’ve seen on him before. One thing I’ve learned about Shane Brooks: he won’t lie if asked about something directly.
“No,” he says.
“Then why did you put it here?”
He presses his lips together, then says, “Because I didn’t want a reminder of you in my office at school.”
I straighten, feeling a little slapped.
“You don’t want reminders of me?”
He looks apologetic and comes to me with his arms outstretched. “Honey—”
I put my hand up to stop him. I’m acutely aware of his bracelet on my wrist. I’ve worn it every day since he gave it to me.
“Honey,” he says again, dropping his arms. “That’s my office at school. That’s where I’m Professor Brooks. I just... I couldn’t handle the guilt of having a gift from you, one of my students, in my office like that. Surely you can understand.”
My blood is pulsing through my body. I understand. I do. But I still don’t like it and I can’t pretend to. “When are you going to stop looking at me as just a student?”
“You aren’t just a student, but you are a student. How am I supposed to forget that when you show up in my class twice a week? When I’m entering your grades into the system?”
“Ugh,” I say, pressing my palms to my eyes. “We’ve been... together,” I say, not knowing what word to use and hating that too, “for four months now, Shane. I can’t believe you’re still holding back.”
“Isabella, I—”
“How are we supposed to have a relationship when you’re holding back?” I exhale in frustration. “Is this a relationship? What are we even doing?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing,” he says, grabbing me by the arms, “I’m hanging on for dear life! All I want is to take you and make you mine but I can’t.”
“I’m right here,” I say desperately. “You have taken me. I don’t understand what more needs to happen.”
Still holding my arms, he closes his eyes and presses his forehead against mine. His breath is coming in short, sharp pants.
“What would be different,” I say, “if you weren’t my professor? Aside from being out in the open, because I don’t think that’s what we’re talking about.”
He shakes his head slowly, eyes still closed, still gripping me. “That’s not what we’re talking about,” he says, his voice tight.
“So what would be different if you weren’t my professor?”
“I am your professor.”
“Look at me!” I say, bringing my hands to both sides of his face.
He opens his eyes and I’m holding him close.
I need him to see me. I need him to hear me.
“What. If. You. Weren’t.”
Something clicks inside him. I see it. His eyes sharpen on mine and his breathing halts. His body tenses up, like an animal ready to strike.
In the next second, he does.
He presses his mouth hard against mine and backs me up until we slam into the wall. His whole body is pressed against me, crushing me, and I feel his erection against my thigh.
He breaks free and I gasp for breath. His hands dart up under my skirt and hook around my panties, thrusting them down and off me. When he looks at me, I realize I’ve never before witnessed the full extent of his desire for me. He looks like he wants to devour me.
His jeans come off next and I try to brace myself but I’m unprepared for the intensity with which he comes at me, pinning me hard against the wall. He lifts my legs and wraps them around his waist, thrusting into me with more violence than I’ve ever experienced.
I’m stretched to the limit, full of every inch of him as he hits bottom.
“Wait,” I breathe, but something in him has been unleashed. He rams me again, almost frantically pounding me and claiming me. Unable to move, I’m the helpless receiver of Shane’s passion. The heat in my body blooms as he ravages me and I open to him, heart, body, and soul.
“Shane,” I gasp, “Yes.”
I’m gripping his shoulders for dear life. He doesn’t slow and my muscles tighten around his cock as he takes me like he’s never done before. He grunts again and again, like an animal, and I feel him building. I’m building too, and pinned in like I am, I’m unable to move with it. It feels like I’m going to be torn apart by my own pleasure.
He pounds me fiercely, pushing me rapidly to my climax. When it comes, it explodes with such violence I cry out again and again, digging my fingernails into his shoulder, my legs quivering helplessly. In the middle of my orgasm he thrusts and hits bottom once, twice, three times and then lets out a long, loud cry as his hot semen spills into me. Gasping, I cling to him as he takes more than I thought it possible to give.
The last spikes of my climax shatter me and depart, leaving me limp against the wall. My limbs are heavy as he starts to release his body’s pressure against me at last.
Coming away from me only slightly, we sl
owly sink helplessly to the floor. Too weak to do more than collapse where I land, I lie on my side, my back to him. The room is filled with the sounds of our rough panting.
Slowly he tucks in behind me, cradling me so lovingly and gently. His cock is still partially erect, gradually coming down from the high.
Catching my breath, still too weak to move, I whisper, “Am I yours now?”
His arms tighten around me and he gently kisses my neck. “Mine,” he whispers in my ear, kissing me again. “Mine.”
Chapter 19
Sam and I are in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast.
“How are things going with your professor?” she asks. “Still having fun?”
I give her a cheesy grin and she laughs.
“Good. Just don’t fall in love. That’s when things get dangerous.”
Too late for that advice. “I already know falling in love with my professor is dangerous.”
“Falling in love with anyone is dangerous.”
I give her a rueful look. “Which is why you avoid it.”
“Damn straight. Because you know where love ultimately leads you? Heartbreak. That’s something I can live without.”
Ashley bursts into kitchen with open letter. “I got in! I got in!”
Sam and I exchange glances. “Got in to what?”
“Hartford’s Music Masters program.”
I blink. “Wait. What? I didn’t know you wanted to get your masters.”
“Well, I didn’t want to say anything and curse myself. The grad program here is really good. I wasn’t sure if I’d get in.”
I raise my eyebrows. Didn’t know if she’d get in? Is she serious?
Sam rolls her eyes. “When are you going to open your eyes and see how good you are?”
Ashley just smiles and holds the letter to her chest. “I gotta go call my parents.”
She disappears and I turn to Sam. “What about you?” I ask. “Do you have any secret grad school aspirations I don’t know about?”
“Hell no. I’m not signing on for any more school than I have to. If I want to get better at design, I just need to get out there and get a job with a good firm. That’s where I’ll really learn stuff.”
“Have any places in mind?”
“Yeah. A few. There’s this one in Portland I’d love to work for. They take on paid interns every year and pair you with upper-level designers. A student here a couple years ago went to work for them and ended up collaborating on the Strike Stream campaign. Lucky bastard.”
Not for the first time, I imagine what things are going to be like come fall. Aside from the thing with Shane, the Firework Girls are going to be scattered all over the place, though it sounds like Ashley will still be here.
“I wonder what Jack’s going to do,” I say.
“Jack’s in denial,” Sam says. “He doesn’t want to imagine life without his girls and his frat parties. Though, he did just get another big freelance job, did you hear?”
I shake my head.
“That boy’s raking in the dough right now.”
The very next day Chloe comes in the front door holding an envelope in her hand and grinning at me. I’m the only one home.
“Look what came for you in the mail today,” she says.
I scramble off the couch and take it out of her hands. Sure enough. It’s my letter from Harvard. I’m holding it with shaking hands.
“I can’t do it. You open it,” I say, shoving it at her.
She takes it and starts to wedge one manicured nail under the flap.
“No, me.” I take it back from a grinning Chloe and tear into the envelope. I hold onto the letter while it’s still in the envelope, not pulling it out. For a moment I’m frozen. I look at Chloe for help.
She nods and gives me an encouraging smile.
I pull it out, flip open the paper, and don’t even try to read it. My eyes are too busy scanning for the key words—and there they are!
“We’re pleased to welcome you to the graduate program...” I practically shout, then I don’t even bother reading the rest.
Chloe and I both start screaming and jumping up and down. We’re bouncing around the living room as I shout, “I did it! I did it! I did it!”
I sink into the chair with my arms raised in victory and slide down until I’m practically on the floor. “Yes!!!”
Chloe bounds over and sits down. “Come on! Come on! You gotta text the girls.”
“No, no, I’ll show them the letter when they get home.” I sink to the floor and spread the letter on the coffee table with both hands and look at it lovingly. “This beautiful,”—I kiss it—“beautiful,”—I kiss it again—“beautiful letter.”
Chloe laughs.
“I’ll text my parents though.”
I send them the text, then think about Shane.
My smile fades a little and I look at Chloe.
“Are you going to tell him?” she asks.
I nod. “I don’t think I want to do that one in person though.”
Chloe nods.
Me: Just got my letter. I’m in!
There’s a slight pause, then my phone dings.
Apollo: Congratulations! I knew you could do it!
I read the text to Chloe then lean heavily on the table. “This part sucks,” I say.
“I know, honey.”
My phone dings again.
Apollo: We have to celebrate. Can I take you to Swan Pointe? Tomorrow night?
He knows I already have plans with the girls tonight. Ever since they found out, I’ve been trying not to completely neglect my friends, with mixed success. But tonight we’re going to a club over on 8th Street.
Me: That would be wonderful. Thank you.
Apollo: I’m proud of you.
“Well,” I say, “I guess it’s official. In four months I’ll be in Boston, and Shane will be here.” School doesn’t start until the beginning of September, but our lease is up at the end of June, so that’s when I’ll have to move.
I still don’t want to say I think I’ve fallen in love with him. It’s too scary, especially now. The fact is, there’s only one way for us to be together over the long haul. Someone would have to give up their dream school.
“Although I guess it doesn’t matter,” I continue as Chloe looks at me sympathetically. “It’s not like he’s said he’d want to stay with me. I mean, maybe he’s okay with it being over when I go off to school.”
“Do you really think so?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. How would I know? We don’t talk about the future like that.” Or say a toast when we drink champagne, or say ‘I love you’, or do anything that couples with longevity do.
“I know how you feel,” Chloe says.
I straighten. That got my attention. “You do? How?”
“Well, Brad and I kind of talk about the future, but...” She sighs. “It’s like he’s expecting me to follow him to Texas, but he hasn’t said a word about what that really means. Is he going to marry me? Are we just... dating? What is this?”
“Yeah.”
I look at my letter, lying on the table in front of me, and I smile at it. “Okay, enough moping for me. I’m not going to ruin this moment. I’m in!” I say, smiling at Chloe. “I’ve been wanting this for two and a half freaking years and I’m in!”
Chloe jumps up from the table and dashes into the kitchen. I can hear her rummaging through the pantry.
“What are you looking for?”
“Celebratory Nutella,” she says.
“Bottom shelf,” I say grinning, and caressing my letter from Harvard.
I can’t believe it.
I really did it.
Our dinner in Swan Pointe was lovely, but kind of bitter sweet. For me at least. Neither one of us is in a hurry to get back, so we’re walking along the beach arm in arm, carrying our shoes.
Even though I’ve tried not to think too much about the future, that’s getting more and more difficult. I dread what it’s goi
ng to feel like when we go our separate ways. I wish we didn’t have to, but what am I going to do? Say, ‘Hey, give up everything you’ve ever wanted, come with me, and—as a bonus—spend two more miserable winters in Massachusetts?’ Or, ‘Wait here for me until I come back?’
Back when we first got together and were talking about past relationships, he told me a bit about a long-distance relationship he believes was destroyed by those circumstances. He swore never to put himself, or anyone else, through that again. That conversation with him was so long ago, and before I got in as deep as I am now. It was just an interesting tidbit I’d learned about him, like his love for fish tacos and fear of snakes.
Only in the months since then does it pain me to think back on that conversation and remember him saying with such finality, ‘Never again.’
I sigh. My bare feet are chilly on the cold sand. I feel that chill seeping into other parts of me.
He squeezes my shoulders. “What?” he asks gently.
I think about telling him my thoughts, but I can’t. It’s bad enough we have the whole professor thing weighing on us all the time. Why add more stress? Especially when it’s just so pointless. I don’t want to spoil things. I just want to enjoy it while it lasts—until “it all comes crashing down,” as he once said. He was talking about getting caught, but I’m starting to realize that whether we get caught or not, this is bound to end in heartbreak. For me, anyway.
I squeeze him and we stop, pulling into an embrace. I nestle into his neck, breathing in his scent. In the safety of his arms, I force myself to let go of the future. What we have—whatever it is—it’s always been in the now.
I intend to make the most of it. I look up and give him a smile. “You make me happy.”
It’s not a lie.
He smiles back and runs his fingertips along my forehead and temple, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You make me happy, too.”
He kisses me sweetly and I sink into it, hanging onto the feeling until my fears for the future fade away.
He pulls back and kisses me on the nose. “I want to go somewhere with you,” he says. “One night like this isn’t enough. Are you going home for spring break?”
