by Melinda Minx
He won’t know it’s me, because I decided to take my mother’s last name five years ago. The divorce was messy, and my father was a total asshole about it. So I’m Nicole Weissman now, and Professor Leeds will have no reason to suspect his interview with Ms. Weissman is anything more than one with just another grad student looking for a job.
The elevator stops and lets me out onto the floor below Professor Leeds’ office. There are classrooms on this floor, and the area just outside the elevator is filled with undergrads who seem to be cramming for a test.
A few of the guys look up at me, and their eyes linger. I can see them trying to figure out if I’m a student or not. When they look reluctantly away, I realize I must at least be dressed professionally enough that I don’t look like an undergrad. Then I catch them sneaking looks at me, and I know that my outfit is doing exactly what I’d hoped.
Time seems to slow to a crawl as I wait. I look over my resume a few times, trying to think of any questions he might ask me. I realize I’m having to prepare both for the real interview and for my reunion with Professor Leeds. If I focus too much on the interview, I might blow a chance with him. If I direct my attention the other way, I might not even get the damn job. I don’t have any idea how he’s going to react to me. It would be incredibly naive of me to assume that even after six years he still cares about some exchange student with a crush. He might still care, and he might still have thought about me from time to time, but I can’t assume it.
I have to fight for this. The worst case, I realize, is that he’s totally over me, and that he refuses to hire me because of our past. He was so hung up on being professional back at Oxford, so why would I expect him to act any differently now?
When my watch hits seven minutes before the hour, I head for the elevator and go up one floor. I exit onto a floor filled with offices. The central area is full of tables populated by grad students working on various projects or having coffee. I give a smile to the people sitting at the table nearest me—realizing they could be my future coworkers—and ask them where Professor Leeds’ office is located.
“Down the hall,” one of the men says. “Turn the corner, and then it’s the first office on your left.”
I thank him and proceed down the hallway. When I turn the corner, I see the door. The nameplate looks brand new. Elijah Leeds, Ph.D. He’s Dr. Leeds now, of course.
As I look at the door, realizing he’s just on the other side of it, I have a sudden urge to just run away. Back at Oxford, when I wanted to be with him, all the risk was on his end. If we had been caught together, he’d have been the one to be penalized. I would have just been the poor innocent girl he corrupted. I didn’t realize back then how selfish I had been.
Now, though, if something was to happen between us and we’re found out...no one in the field will take me seriously again. How will any of my professional achievements be taken seriously if I’m banging my boss?
Then I remember him holding the tie in his hands, and am overwhelmed by my desperate need to feel him wrapping it around my skin. My body shudders, and I know that I have to give in. I have to surrender to this. To him.
I take a breath in and knock on the door.
“Come in.” His voice is muffled, but it’s his. This is about to get real.
I turn the knob, open the door, and step inside.
He’s sitting at his desk, facing away from the door. I can only see the back of his head, and he’s hunched over a book. His computer doesn’t even look like it’s turned on.
“Have a seat Ms. Weissman,” he mutters. “I’ll be just a minute. You’re early.”
His office is fairly neat, save for the piles of books. Many are open and annotated. There’s an empty chair in the corner. I could just sit down like he asked, but I want him to see me before I sit down.
“You can just call me Nikki,” I say.
I see his broad shoulders tighten, and he freezes for a long moment. Finally, he swivels his chair around, and he looks at me with wide eyes.
He looks just like he did before, but somehow he’s become even more handsome. There are slight wrinkles around his eyes, and a few strands of grey running through his hair near the temples. Still the same square, chiseled-cut jaw, and the same muscular body. He hasn’t grown a gut or let himself go. His dark eyes meet mine, and then they wander slowly down my body.
I feel wet already, just watching his eyes running across me like before. I want him to drink in every inch of me. Will he take me right now? Is that hoping for too much?
“Ms. Faria,” he says, finally.
“It’s Weissman now,” I say.
“So you’re married?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. I hear profound disappointment seeping into his voice.
“Oh,” I say, feeling like an idiot. “God, no. My parents divorced, and I took my mother’s name.”
He nods, then pulls my resume off his desk. He looks down at it. “Are you going to sit down?”
I slide the chair forward and sit. I cross my legs and try not to feel nervous, but my heart is pounding so hard that even he must hear it.
“You just got your Master’s in German Literature,” he says, grinning, “Last I remember you were undecided.”
I wait for him to look up at me, and as soon as he does, I say, “Not anymore. I know exactly what I want now.”
“And what’s that?” he asks.
“This,” I say.
He frowns.
“This job,” I add hastily. “Being your TA would really do wonders for my Ph.D. studies.”
“I’m not just looking for a TA, Nicole.”
My heart pounds harder. Blood rushes through my ears so loudly that it feels like I’m standing in the ocean as waves break all around me.
“What...what are you looking for?” I ask.
Someone to obey. Someone to dominate.
“A mentee,” he says.
“Oh,” I croak. “I...I didn’t think I’d have a mentor this soon, but…”
“I’m looking for the most qualified candidate,” he says. “Someone whose interests align most closely with mine. I’ll not let our past involvement influence my decision.”
Does he mean…?
“I’ll evaluate you exactly as I do all the other candidates,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “I understand.”
“Now,” he says. “Tell me how you came to be in Pittsburgh.”
“I wanted to live in a real city,” I say. “And the German department here is really good. It was my first choice.”
“So you got your first choice,” he says. “Do you always get what you want?”
I shake my head. “No. Not always. I’m used to being denied what I really want, but I don’t give up.”
He smirks. He’s looking down at my resume, not making eye contact with me.
“How do you feel about balancing teaching with research?”
“I think teaching is really important,” I say. “And I enjoy it. A lot of grad students think it’s just some annoying obligation that gets in the way of their research. For me, it really helps my research to be around undergrads. Teaching others solidifies everything in my mind.”
“Smaller classes here,” he says. “You can’t just talk in a big lecture hall. You’ll need to engage with individual students.”
“All the better,” I say. “I like...engaging...one-on-one.”
“I know you do,” he says. “At least you liked to as a student. I’d want to see that same passion from you as a teacher.”
God. Is he—is he doing what I think he’s doing? He’s not denying what happened—or almost happened—between us. Even though he’s not denying it, he’s acting like it almost doesn’t matter? Like it’s completely irrelevant. And yet, at the same time, it feels like he’s dropping hints. Like he’s trying to entice me back to where we were before. I want the job too badly to say anything outright, to be blunt. Once he’s taken me on as his TA and becomes my mentor, then I can start to tak
e bigger risks, but first I have to get this damn job.
“You know I’m passionate,” I say. “I won’t let you down there.”
“Good,” he says. “Though there is such a thing as being too passionate.”
I feel my blood freeze. Is he saying what I think? I try not to blush or show outward signs of panic. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs and grins. “You’d know it when you see it.”
I meet his eyes. “Do you see it then?”
He shakes his head. “Not now, no.”
“I have just the right amount of passion then,” I say. “As much as you want.”
He nods and looks down at my resume. “I think we’ll do it then.”
“Do it?” I ask, realizing only after it leaves my mouth that there is a definite double-meaning there. I hold my tongue instead of digging myself in any deeper.
“The job, of course,” he says. “What did you think I meant?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot, but there’s a glint of playfulness in his eyes. It’s like he loves shifting me off balance like this. He loves watching me feel uncomfortable. At least I think he does. What do I really know about Elijah Leeds? I thought he wanted me back then, and I thought he’d take me, but he didn’t. Maybe now he just needs a TA, and maybe I really am the most qualified candidate.
“Nothing,” I say. “I mean, I thought you meant the job, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. So...I’m hired?”
“Of course,” he says. “Can you start Monday?”
I nod enthusiastically, and I stop myself from jumping out of the chair and hugging him or doing something else equally as idiotic.
He gives me a curt nod, and a devilish grin overtakes his face. “Well then,” he says, pointing toward the door. “Good day, Ms. Faria.”
Usually I savor the weekend. Even though I never really manage to get all of my work done to have a fully clear weekend, I usually manage to at least take it easy. In summer, I’ll find time to hit the pool, and in winter, I’ll bundle up on the couch and read a book that has nothing to do with German literature—something trashy and steamy.
This weekend, on the other hand, is torture.
It reminds me of being in middle school, back when “dating” used to mean a boy walking up to you and asking, “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” You’d say ‘yes,’ and then feel butterflies every time you saw each other in the hallway. At least for a week or so, until you realized you had nothing in common and were too afraid to even touch each other. It feels like that again, that same exhilarating fluttering feeling in my stomach, and all that I want to do is feel that. It means I want to see Dr. Leeds again, and soon. I don’t want to wait two days.
I decide to focus as hard as I can on preparing to become a TA. I’ve only ever taught a few classes as part of my master’s program. Not full semesters, just single classes. My supervisors said I did a good job, but I still feel horribly inexperienced.
I’ll be teaching a freshman course: Intro to German Literature. I’m pretty sure that Dr. Leeds will supervise me closely. I hope he will. Still, I decide to draft up some sample syllabi. I spend most of the weekend burying myself in books, deciding what would be a good introduction for my students. I do anything I can to keep my mind off just how badly I want Dr. Leeds
8
Elijah
“Good Day, Ms. Faria.”
I watch as she blushes and flusters. My cock turns hard as iron. The scent of her perfume has filled my office, and it’s set me off. I can barely hold myself back.
Nicole Faria—or Weissman—has grown up. She’s lost some of the youthful innocence in her face and eyes, but she’s grown into a woman. Even if it’s against the rules now, I no longer care. Despite any university rules, I know in my heart that it wouldn’t be wrong now to take her as mine.
Her breasts are fuller and larger, and her legs even seem longer, though I’m sure I’m imagining that. Those little freckles on her nose are still there. She stands up, and I take the view of her body in again. I have to squeeze the drawer below my desk to keep myself under control.
When she turns around, my eyes lock onto her ass. I can see her panty line through the tight fabric, which is almost enough to send me out of my chair and onto her, but I restrain myself.
Restraint will give me the biggest reward. The greatest release.
She smiles at me over her shoulder as she opens the door, and when she shuts it, I’m alone. Her scent lingers, as does my erection.
I lean back in my chair, and I put my hand on my throbbing, hard cock. I can feel the warmth radiating through my trousers, and my eyes roll back in my head as I close my eyes and smell her. I imagine her on her knees, begging me, and then I force my hands onto my desk. I flex all the muscles in my body, trying to get the blood to flow everywhere and not just through my dick.
Even though I’m not going to rush things, I’ve decided I won’t cum again until I’m inside of Nicole Weissman.
The rest of the day drags on. I’d been excited about starting somewhere new, but now I can only think about Nicole.
After my contract at Oxford ended, I did a few one-off, year-long contracts in Germany and Austria. When the University of Pittsburgh reached out to me, I decided going to America would be a nice change of pace. I remembered that Nicole had been from Pennsylvania, but it was a type of background awareness. It was not intentional.
I’d thought about her again from time to time. I’d never obsessed about it, or thought of tracking her down. Looking her up on Facebook would have felt wrong, like I was some kind of pathetic stalker. I knew I could have had her, but I chose to let her go. The decision was made.
Still, I have to admit that when I made a woman scream, and I closed my eyes, I sometimes pretended it was Nicole instead. Like a ghost of something I could have had, taunting me for making the wrong decision.
Now that I’ve seen her again, it’s all different. This is a new decision. Fate has brought her back to cross my path, which could only mean one thing. I must act this time.
When I get onto the elevator to go home, just as the door is shutting, a woman shoves in. “Hey, trying to race down without me?”
I look up to see Cassandra. She’s a professor in the French department, and I suddenly remember that I agreed to have drinks with her. That was before Nicole.
I look at her and force a smile, but I can feel my lips curling down, like she is some kind of food that’s been left for too long in the refrigerator.
“Are we...still on for tomorrow night?” she asks, giving me her widest smile.
“On second thought…” I try to think of an excuse, but I decide to not bother. “No, I’ll have to cancel.”
“Oh,” she says. “Maybe another time, then?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, thinking of Nicole in the garden six years ago, my tie wrapped tautly around my hands, looking down at the soft skin of her neck.
“This one,” the man says, holding up yet another tie.
I sigh and show him my phone again. It’s a picture of me wearing the tie from the garden, the one I almost used on Nicole. “Too light, it needs to look just like this.”
As soon as I got home, I checked through all my clothes and couldn’t find it. I must have lost it during one of my many country-to-country moves. I wouldn’t have intentionally gotten rid of it, as that memory of the garden is one that’s never left me. I can still feel her heated breath on my neck, and see the glassy expectation in her green eyes.
Still, I somehow lost the tie.
“Let me see that,” a woman says, craning her neck over the man’s shoulder to look at my phone.
“Huh,” she says. “I think we’ve got one in back like that.”
The man glares at her, then smiles at me as he stomps off.
“It’s on clearance,” she says. “He was just trying to get you to buy a pricier one.”
She tells me to wait, and then she disappears into the back. I’ve already given
up hope. I’ve resigned myself to not finding the same tie. She’ll bring me the one from the back, and there will be some slight difference that ruins it.
If Nicole remembers that night as vividly as I do, the tie has to match exactly. I want her to see it and remember, and I want to watch her reaction. If the white stripes are even a few millimeters too thick, it might not trigger her subconscious to take her back to that night.
“Here we are,” the clerk says, holding the tie out to me.
I tear it from her hands like a starving caveman being presented with a fresh cut of meat. I pull it up under my nose and flip it over. It’s a Gucci, and—
“The style is a wee bit dated,” she says, laughing.
Yes, by about six years. It’s a bit thinner than most ties are now. I flip it over and look at the front side. The white lines are thin, and cutting across the light blue at just the right angle. It’s the same tie. It could—somehow, though incredibly unlikely—even be the exact same style as my tie from before.
“I’ll take it,” I say.
“No charge,” the woman says. She leans in closer and says in a low voice. “We were about to throw it away. That’s why Steve wouldn’t show it to you.”
The weekend is long. So very long. I’d normally relish the chance to explore this new city, but I can think only of Nicole.
I’ve rented a house in Highland Park, a burb on the northern end of the city. The roads are lined with older houses—none as old as in Europe, of course—but it gives me a comforting feeling compared to the suburban sprawl of many American cities. There are no cul-de-sacs lined with identical houses and white picket fences here.
I decide to walk to the nearby bar on Sunday night, and on the way, I hear jazz in the air.
I follow the music, and I find myself in the park. Live jazz is blasting from a makeshift stage, and people have pitched up tents and lawn chairs to listen. There’s shaved ice and barbeque, dogs and kids playing, and the first winds of fall are sweeping across the grass.
