Trapped With My Teacher

by Penny Wylder

  I rub my eyes for a second, just to make sure they aren’t playing tricks on me. Unfortunately, Professor Lakewood remains standing right where he was a second ago, with a fistful of kindling in one hand, and the other poised on the oven door, which he’d clearly just opened in order to restock the fire. To judge by the way his eyebrows shoot upward and his gaze drops over my body, as though double-checking to ensure I’m real, I can guess I’m every bit as unexpected and unwelcome a sight to him as he is to me.

  He finds his tongue first. “Caught out in the cold, Corina?” He tosses the rest of the kindling in into the oven and slams the door shut. The kitchen seems to warm instantly—though maybe that’s just all the blood rushing to my face as I blush.

  Damn him. Somehow it’s more irritating to me how attractive he is. His sharp-cut cheekbones and the dark stubble dusting his strong jaw, below his thin-frame glasses and his dark hair, tousled like he’s just rolled out of bed but in the perfect I-woke-up-this-way manner, make him even more infuriating. He would be exactly my type if he weren’t a) my professor, and b) the worst, most aggravating man I’ve ever known.

  “Guess that makes two of us,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorframe. “What brings you all the way out here in the middle of a blizzard?”

  “I could ask the same of you,” he points out. “Though I won’t. I can already guess what brings you here. Escaping to some glamorous ski holiday rather than actually committing to your studies again, I assume.”

  “To assume makes an ass out of you and me,” I retort with a scowl. Even though he’s right. Only partly, I remind myself. It’s not like I normally escape on ski weekends. And he’s the reason I need to right now.

  “If you spent the time you took to run away like this on your work, you might actually have a passable grade in my class at the moment,” he laments while turning to reach up and check that the flue is open. Doing so exposes his lower abs for a second—a flash of tanned, perfectly muscled stomach that makes my belly clench in response. I can’t help ogling his washboard abs, or the way his jeans hang low on his hips, so different from the formal outfits he normally wears to class. His jeans sag low enough that I catch a glimpse of his boxers, and the V-line pointing below them, directly at…

  My cheeks flush even brighter, and I tear my gaze away. Only to find him watching me with a self-satisfied smirk.

  “So easily distracted, Corina.”

  I clear my throat hard. “If by easily distracted, you mean concerned about how much wood we have for that fireplace, then yeah, sure. Call me impractical, but I don’t fancy the idea of freezing to death out here. And you’ve built that fire pretty high for the time being.” I nod my chin in the direction of the chimney.

  That, at least, quiets him for a moment. He steps back to study the fireplace, arms crossed. “There’s a wood pile out back. Plenty of supplies.”

  “Let me see,” I reply, not trusting the unsure note in his voice.

  With one last scowl, he leads me through a narrow kitchen—gas stovetop, that’s good, in case we lose power—and out back. Sure enough, there is a wood stack, complete with a tarp over it to keep the wood dry in the snow. Still, I cross my arms and lean back to study the sky, assessing. “We should bring more of this inside,” I say. “Just in case it really starts to come down. We’ll want to have enough dry wood so we can use it to dry off any wet wood if we need to delve into the deeper reserves later.”

  He casts a sideways glance at me, assessing as well. But if he wants to argue, he bites his tongue over it for now. Tony pulls the tarp back a little, and working together, we carry armful after armful of wood into the little mudroom off the kitchen. Every now and then as I pass him squeezing through the narrow back door of the cabin, our arms brush, and a fresh riot of tingles shoot along my skin.

  I ignore that and keep my face expressionless, my attention focused on the task at hand. I don’t have time to be distracted by anyone right now, much less him. I need to make sure we’re prepared in case this storm gets as bad as the radio claims it will.

  Once we’ve brought in enough wood to last us at least three days, just in case it’s a really thick blizzard—it’ll take the snowplows a while to make it this far up into the mountains—I fix the tarp over the remaining wood and head back into the house to assess the rest of the cabin.

  For his part, Professor Lakewood just leans back against the gas stove and watches me move around the cabin.

  Right. So there’s a tiny little living room with a small couch—not big enough for anyone to sleep on unless they curl up into fetal position. Aside from that and the wood-burning stove, there’s the kitchen—really just a galley kitchen with the stovetop, a tiny sink, and a little icebox with some basics inside. I find a few jugs of water, some dry goods—mostly cereal and preserves, so that’s something. Aside from that, some frozen meat and fish in the tiny fridge—hard to judge how old it is, but when I scrape off some ice patches to read the sell-by date, it still looks good. And we can stick that out in the snow to keep if the power fails.

  Beyond the kitchen is the real dilemma, though. I stop short on the threshold and stare a moment at the bedroom. It’s tiny, even smaller than the kitchen. “Bedroom” is a generous word for it, really. More like “sleepable closet.”

  Professor Lakewood steps up beside me to peer over my shoulder. “Going to be a cozy fit,” he points out.

  That’s putting it lightly. The bed takes up the entire “room,” and it’s a single bed. Plenty of fuzzy blankets to keep warm, and a cute little reading nook beside it stacked with books and a lamp. But definitely not made for more than one person. Let alone two people who currently hate each another.

  “I’ll take the couch,” I say.

  He scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. A child could barely fit on that couch.”

  “I’ll make it work.” I spin around and brush past him. Our shoulders collide, and damn him, that distracts me all over again, because I can’t help thinking if we shared that bed, what it would feel like to have his warm, muscular body curled up against mine. How would those washboard abs feel against my backside, with his strong arms wrapped around my waist? And if I arched back against him, pressed my hips to his, would I feel something else? Feel him getting excited by my proximity, growing hard against my ass? How big is the cock he’s hiding in those loose jeans?

  I shake myself. Stop it. You hate him, remember?

  Luckily, he doesn’t make it easy to forget. “I know problem-solving isn’t your strong suit, Corina, but you have to admit we’ll both need to share the bed. Especially if the temperature drops more than it already has. We’ll need to conserve body heat.”

  I grimace with my back still turned. He’s right. That doesn’t mean I need to admit it yet. “Well we’ll just have to wait and see what the temperature does,” I reply. Then I step into the kitchen and eye the wood stack. About a quarter of it is smaller bits and pieces—kindling we’ll be able to use to get the fire started. The rest are big logs. They’ll be good for once we have the heat roaring, but we’ll need a little more in-between pieces.

  I grab one of the logs. “I’m going to go chop this,” I say. I let the back door slam behind me, cutting off whatever reply he might have.

  3

  Preparations

  I find a little shed past the woodpile. There’s a locked door in the back of it that I don’t bother opening. The front of the shed contains the basics I need for now—snow shovel, a couple axes, one is duller than the other. I take the sharper axe and trudge to the chopping block set up between the shed and the cabin. Squinting at the sky tells me we have maybe another half an hour before the storm really starts to bring it down. Already the snow is thickening in the air, coming down in fat, sticky flakes. My feet sink up to my ankles when I cross the yard, which makes me a little nervous. Only a few minutes ago, when we were bringing the wood inside, it barely came halfway up my boot.

  This is going to be a bad one, every in
stinct in my body is shouting. I’ve been through enough storms with Daddy, when we came up here for ski season, to recognize the signs. Normally, though, I have Daddy and my older brothers to help prepare for the weather. Today, I just have to hope I remember everything I’ve learned from them over the years.

  I settle the first of the couple bigger logs I’ve brought out on the chopping block and heft the axe.

  At that moment, I hear footsteps behind me. I glance over my shoulder and find Professor Lakewood settling another log on a makeshift chopping block he’s made out of a dusted-off tree stump. He has the other axe, the duller one.

  He smirks when I stare. “What? Did you think you were the only one with any survival skills?” he comments. Then he sets a hunk of wood on the block, positions himself, and takes a swing. The wood splits on the first hit, even though it’s a dull blade. I can’t help watching his body move. His arm muscles, especially, bulge as he sweeps aside that wood and lifts another piece to split. I watch him swing the axe twice more before I remember I have wood of my own to chop.

  “This generally goes faster if you don’t spend half the time drooling over your partner,” he points out.

  I scoff aloud, shoulders tensing as I lift my own axe. Aim for the center of the wood, swing hard… I bring it down and grin a little as it splits with a loud crack. “What were you saying about faster?” I call over my shoulder.

  He cracks another log in response. “Going to have to be faster than that to beat me,” he responds.

  My grin widens. “You’re on.”

  Soon we’re both in the swing of it. I lose track of time, lost in the rhythm. Set up, swing, crack, and repeat. Before long, I’ve gone through all my wood—halved most of the logs, and quartered some others that we’ll need to stoke the flames back up if they dwindle. Only once I’ve finished do I wipe sweat from my brow and glance back at my professor again, a triumphant grin on my face.

  It falters a little when I notice that he’s already done—probably has been for a while. But at least he seems every bit as distracted as he accused me of being. His jaw snaps shut when I meet his eye, though not before I catch a glimpse of him ogling me right back. And his eyes are still wandering, all over my body, lingering on my arms and the axe dangling from one hand.

  “Where did you learn how to do that?” he finally asks.

  I just smirk and start collecting my wood pieces. “There are some advantages to growing up the only girl in a house of boys.” I make a point of bending over real slow, just so his eyes will linger on my backside as I collect the wood. It works. One glance back shows me he’s too busy staring at my ass to even notice me looking at him.

  Is he thinking the same thing I am? Is he wondering what it would be like to bend me over this chopping block right here, tear my jeans off and fuck me across it?

  When I straighten, arms full of wood, Professor Lakewood finally manages to force his expression back to one of bored neutrality. “It’s a shame you can’t put that kind of effort into your classes,” he comments, with a glance at the wood piled in my arms.

  I roll my eyes. “You know, none of my other professors complain about my work ethic,” I reply as I elbow past him toward the cabin.

  “Then your other professors aren’t pushing you hard enough.”

  “Oh, is that it?” I snort and kick my way into the cabin, then dump the wood back into our little mudroom pile. “You’re a complete ass to me because you want to push me harder?” Then I realize how that sounds, and my cheeks flush.

  He notices too, his smirk widening as he drops his pile of wood beside mine. “Yes, Corina, I must admit. I do want to push you harder. Because you’re better than the work you’re putting out currently. And if people didn’t spend their whole lives bending over backwards to give you everything you want, then you could be so much farther ahead in your studies than you are now.”

  I frown, tilting my head. “What are you talking about?”

  He holds my gaze for a long moment. I never noticed his eyes before. They’re dark green behind those glasses, flecked with tiny bursts of gold around his irises. He holds my gaze long enough for me to forget what I just said, to feel my body starting to tilt forward, unable to resist his gravitational pull. Then he blinks, and the illusion snaps for a moment. I shake my head, pull myself backward. “You don’t think you’re spoiled, Corina? You don’t think you get everything you want, whenever you want it?”

  I laugh once, harsh. “You don’t know me, Professor Lakewood.”

  “Please.” He rolls his eyes, and I think he’s going to retort that he does know me, somehow. Though I don’t know how he possibly thinks he does, after just two months of torturing me in his classroom. But instead, he gestures at the cabin around us. “Although I never tire of being called professor, I think in a setting like this, Tony will do just fine.”

  I set my jaw. Is this his idea of a peace offering? Screw that. “You don’t know me, so quit acting like you do. My work ethic is just fine. If I’m distracted at all, I’m distracted by you constantly picking on me, calling me out in front of the whole class, when I’m doing the same work as everyone else.”

  That infuriating smirk of his widens. “So you’re saying I’m the reason you’re so distracted in class?” His eyebrows lift, and he takes a step closer. I hold my ground. Lift my chin to glare up at him. We’re barely a foot apart now. The air between us warms, and I can tell my cheeks are flushed again. I don’t care.

  I narrow my eyes. “Sure, Tony. You’re distracting in that you’re unfairly critical.”

  “I just expect the best performance from my students.” His gaze drops, lower than my face. I can feel him studying my body, my curves. I tilt my head to the side to allow him a better view. Let him be distracted for once. But his gaze snaps back to my face, every bit as focused as it was a moment ago. “And you, Corina, are smarter than the work you put forth. You’re smarter than most of the other students in that classroom. So yes, I am going to push you harder than any of them. Because you can take it.”

  I swallow hard. There’s barely any space between us anymore. When did he get so close? I’m staring into those gold-flecked green eyes again, tilting forward, unable to resist. My heartbeat pounds, and my limbs feel tingly, my stomach tight with desire. The flash of fantasy I had earlier about him bending me over outside returns, even harder now. I imagine him pushing me back against the kitchen counter, lifting me onto it and tearing my shirt open. Tonguing my nipple as he peels off my jeans and slides his thick cock between my thighs…

  “Then again, maybe I’m wrong.” He breaks away, steps back.

  All the air rushes back into my lungs at once, making my knees feel weak. I reach back and grip the kitchen counter, this time just to keep myself steady on my feet. Dammit, Corina. I can’t let him get to me like that.

  “Maybe you can’t take it. Maybe you’re just as big a failure as most of the other students I’m stuck teaching.” He shrugs and turns, brushing past me into the living room.

  I glare after him, still too breathless to form a reply. By the time I think of one, I can hear the distant creak of the fireplace door, then the sound of him stacking another piece of wood onto the fire. I shake my head, square my shoulders and turn back to the kitchen supplies instead. Screw him. Tony Lakewood doesn’t know a damned thing about me. He can take his assumptions and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine.

  As for me, I’m going to prepare for this storm as best I can.

  I organize the supplies in the kitchen, then take inventory. We’ve got enough food to last us a week—though I really, really hope we won’t be stuck here that long. It would really take a record-breaking storm to do that. As for the meat and fish, that we should probably eat first. There’s only enough for a few days, whereas there are plenty of dried goods.

  I find a little notebook beside the stove with what appears to be guestbook notes. I guess this place is an Airbnb or something in regular season. It’s cute. I could se
e renting this place out for a private solo getaway. Holing up to do some schoolwork undisturbed and go skiing in the afternoons. It would be cozy—positively homey—if I didn’t have to share it with someone who makes my blood boil.

  For more reasons than just because he’s irritating, my brain unhelpfully points out.

  I ignore that. I tear a spare page out of the guestbook and list our supplies. One way or another, I’m making it through this storm. And if I have to rescue the most frustrating professor in the world alongside myself to make it, well then, so be it.

  4

  A Cold Night

  I find Tony sprawled across the couch when I finally finish my preparations in the kitchen. “What were you saying about productivity earlier?” I ask with an eye-roll as I stride past him and reach for my bags.

  “I’m being productive,” he replies. Then he holds up his cell phone. “Trying to reach civilization is a productive pastime.”

  “Yeah?” I withdraw my own phone and eye the corner. No Service. As I expected. It still hasn’t found any signal. And there’s no Wi-Fi in this cabin—I guess that would be a little too much to ask from this ski bungalow in the middle of nowhere. “How’s that going?”

  “Not well,” he admits with a groan.

  “Got any bars at all?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “I’ve had no service since I left Buena Vista this afternoon.”

  He heaves a sigh. “Guess we’re in this for the long haul. You seen a radio anywhere?”

  “Not in here. We can turn on our cars to check for updates, though I think we should only do that sparingly. If the roads clear up at some point, we’ll want to have enough gas to make it out of here.”

  When I turn around, I find him watching me again, this time with a more assessing gaze. “You get stuck in snowy cabins often, Corina?”