Teach Me

by Lola Darling

  I don’t know if I can trust myself to stay in control like this. She even smells good, for fuck’s sake.

  It makes me want to devour her.

  “This stanza.” She taps on it with the end of her pencil, and I’m yanked back to attention. We’re only a couple stanzas into the first of the sheaf of twenty poems we’ve got to work with. There’s no time to space out yet. “Really reminds me of the kind of fragmentation Eliot uses in other poems. Only I’m not sure what it would be referencing. It sounds like a partial, distorted quote of something, I just can’t . . . ”

  “Canterbury Tales, I’d guess, based on the way the author alludes to courtly love. He talks about being unable to eat, sleep, think straight, because of the feelings the object of his desire arouses in him.” My eyes meet hers, possibly for the first time since she strode into my office this morning at 6:00 a.m. on the dot, with not just one but two coffees balanced on a take-out tray. For all my talk about functioning better at this hour, I won’t lie, a coffee definitely helped take the edge off the less-than-fruitful night I had.

  Another night of imagining her body. The body I already know by touch if not by sight. The body so deliciously close I can practically feel her warmth radiating on my skin.

  “But she’s not an object, is she,” Harper points out. Her eyes have caught on mine, and I can’t seem to pull free this time. “Eliot took a very progressive view toward women for his time. If this poem is one of his, I’d say we should read it with that in mind. Courtly love was about men pining away for an impossible feminine love, someone who could never feel the same for him. But what if she did? What if she wasn’t as unattainable as she might seem?”

  Somehow, I don’t think we’re talking about the poem anymore. “The poem is about the impossibility of the whole thing. It doesn’t matter what she wants, or what the narrator wants.”

  She’s close. Too close. Her face hovers inches from mine, and I can feel her breath as she murmurs, “What about what you want?”

  I can feel the heat in my eyes, the build-up of lust that would—should—scare any sensible girl away. But she meets that gaze head-on, and the same fire burns in her eyes. “You don’t want to know what I want. Trust me.” My voice drops into a growl. I can’t help it. She brings out the beast in me.

  I could swear she knows it, too, by the way her red lips (who wears lipstick this early in the morning?) curve into a sharp grin.

  She’s a student; she’s not right for you; this is just a phase for her, and she’ll hate you if you take advantage of her right now. I try as hard as I can to remind myself of all the reasons this cannot happen.

  Then those bright red lips part around her reply. “Oh, but I do want to know. Tell me what you want, Professor. Or better yet, show me . . . ”

  That does it. That flips the switch inside. I lose all ability to think straight. Next thing I know, my mouth crushes into hers and my hands dig into her sides, hauling her up from her seat until we’re both standing. Our chairs crash to the floor beside us. I break away long enough to turn the lock on the office door, and when I turn back to her, she’s leaning against my desk, her short skirt hiked just high enough that I can tell that beneath it, what I took for panty hose are actually thigh-high stockings held up by garters around her waist.

  “What I want?” I repeat.

  She came prepared. Or so she thinks. Somehow I doubt she’s ready for this.

  “What I want is to bend you over this desk and fuck you right here, right now.”

  I cross the room again and pull her body against me, hip to hip, chest to chest. “How do you feel about that, Harper?”

  She arches her back to dig her crotch into my leg. “Why don’t you touch me and find out?” She grins and leans up to try and kiss me again, but I grasp her jaw in one hand, tilt her head to the side to expose her long, slender neck. Her hips grind against mine, and the length of my cock digs into her stomach as I lean in to bite the tender spot just below her ear.

  Her sharp gasp only makes me harder. Her hands reach up to bury themselves in my hair, and I drop mine to the cleavage peeking out from the top of her button-down shirt. My fingers fumble on the buttons as our lips collide again.

  Fuck it.

  I yank the shirt apart, sending buttons flying between us, and revealing the lacy red bra that restrains her perfectly shaped B-cups. “You keep asking what I want,” I say as I run my hands over her warm, soft skin and trace the outline of the bra with two fingers until she’s gritting her teeth, her hips bucking against mine in frustration. “What about you, Harper? What do you want?”

  “For you to do whatever you want to me.” Her baby blue eyes flash to mine, and even though she’s trying to hide it, I can see the frustration in them. “Take me however you want,” she urges.

  Only then do I grin and reach to undo the snap, letting her bra fall away as I bend to circle her breast with my tongue.

  Her hands clench in my hair. I smile, and let my teeth brush the tip of her rock hard nipple.

  “Fuck,” she hisses.

  “Mmm, if you say so,” I breathe against her. Then I step backwards. She tugs at me, frustrated, but I catch both of her hands in one of mine and lift them over her head. Her eyes go wide in surprise, but the fire’s still lit in them. She’s enjoying this as much as I am.

  My other hand wraps around her hip and uses it to flip her around until she’s facing the desk. I let go of her wrists now and wrap my fist in her ponytail instead, bending her over and pushing her down until her breasts dig into the desk. I flip her skirt up to reveal a narrow, lace thong, in a bright red that matches her lips.

  “I see you dressed for the occasion,” I say, my voice a low growl in her ear as I lean over her.

  “You said I should come prepared, Professor.” She wriggles beneath me.

  I bring my hand down on her bare ass, just sharp enough to make her feel it, not enough to leave a mark. She inhales sharply, her hips bucking. “And have you, Ms. Reed? Or will I need to reprimand you more thoroughly?”

  She lifts her head just high enough that I can see her lips melt into a curve, the red lipstick now slashed across her jawline, messed in a way that makes her lips look irresistibly puckered. I can imagine those red lips closing around me, the way her hot mouth would feel if I sank my cock into her throat.

  I twitch where I’m still leaning against her ass, and she must feel it even through the fabric of my pants, because her smile widens.

  “I’m afraid I’m a slow learner, Professor. You’ll have to go over that again.”

  I spank her again, harder this time.

  Her back arches, her eyes shut in pleasure. “Again,” she gasps.

  But I can’t take it any longer. I undo my jeans and let them fall around my ankles, though not before I pluck the condom from my office drawer.

  While I rip open the package and slide on the condom, I lean alongside her to murmur, “I’m going to fuck you now.”

  She bursts out something between a laugh and a groan. “Finally.” Her voice has a faint quiver in it that I can’t help savoring with a grin.

  “But first you’ll have to beg.”

  Her head whips around and her eyes narrow at me. “Seriously?”

  I slap her ass again, the other cheek this time, hard enough to leave a bright red impression. Her eyes open wide, and her mouth forms a tiny O.”.

  God, she’s gorgeous.

  “Please,” she breathes. “Please fuck me.”

  I position my hips behind hers and slowly trail my cock up the inside of one of her thighs, then down the other. “Louder.”

  “Please!” Her voice catches again.

  God, I love hearing that. I hook her thong, yank it down to her knees. The tip of my cock presses into her clit, rubs back and forth, forceful enough that she can feel it, but too lightly for her to get off. She bucks her hips, trying to grind against me, but I wrap both hands around her waist and pin her in place.

  “Please what?” I mu
rmur.

  “Fuck me!”

  Before she’s even done shouting it, I sink deep into her pussy. She’s wet, and so, so fucking tight. She contracts around me, trying to adjust to my girth. I don’t give her time to get used to it; I pull back and slam into her again, loving the animalistic, guttural sound she makes as I do.

  My free hand fists in her hair, yanks her head off the desk and toward me as I continue to pound into her, so deep my balls slap against her swollen pussy. Still holding her hair, I reach my other hand down to circle her clit while I thrust. Her groans turn to keening wails that only make me move harder, faster. Her walls clench hard around me when she comes, moaning, but I don’t slow down, my hips crashing into hers again and again, burying my cock so deep in her pussy I can feel every inch of her. She clenches hard around me again and I angle my hips down so my tip digs into her G-spot. Her whole body writhes along the desk with her second orgasm, and with one final thrust and a loud, harsh groan, I come too.

  She bucks her hips against me, keeping the movement going as I finish, milking every last drop from me. When I step back, a rush of her wet juices pour down her legs, which are still trembling around the knees.

  Gently, I roll her over to lift her from the desk, smoothing her skirt back down as I do. I left marks, I notice. A bright red spot on her ass, and two bruises blooming along her neck, one under her ear and another at her collarbone.

  I should feel bad, but instead, it ignites a fierce spark of pleasure. Harper gazes up at me through half-closed eyes, a soft smile on her face, and I look from those brands to her soft, angular face and think, She’s mine. No one else’s.

  Except that’s not true. She can’t be mine. Not a girl like her, not like this. I wanted to fuck her, and I did. The beast has been exorcised. Now it needs to stop.

  I break eye contact and unroll the condom to toss in the trash, fastening my pants quickly. Then I bend to sweep up the papers we’d been working on before, which have scattered around the desk. “Finish the train of thought you were working on earlier, the courtly love angle.” I drop the papers on top of her laptop bag. “Write up your best theory, leave it under my door tonight.” I snatch a business card, which has the address of my university housing complex on it, and drop it on top of the files.

  “Where are you going?” she asks, sitting up, her arms wrapped around her body to hold her shirt closed. “I thought we were going to work on it together.” The hurt in her voice cuts me, deep. But I can’t show that. I can’t have her thinking this was anything more than a one-time deal.

  It’s better this way. Hurting her now will spare her later.

  “Yes, well, clearly that’s not working. And I have a class to teach, so.” I pause in the doorway. “Get yourself together.” I slam the door behind me, so hard the tiny frosted glass panel at the top rattles.

  Only once I’m in the hallway, empty now between classes, do I let myself take a deep breath, my eyes shut, my chest searing.

  What have I done?

  Harper

  What have I done?

  He’s an asshole. A complete and total asshole.

  An asshole who made me come harder than anyone I’ve ever slept with. Derrick could hardly manage to make me finish once every two or three times we hooked up, and Matt, my sophomore year roommate (oops), left me to finish myself off every time.

  Jack is even better at getting me to the finish line than I am.

  I can still feel the echo of him every time I shift in my seat—that sweet, deep ache that reminds me of every thrust he gave me.

  I groan out loud—in frustration this time—and let my forehead drop hard onto the stack of papers he left me with. I’ve been holed up in my dorm room all night digging through these, along with the reference pages from Canterbury Tales that we think the first part of this poem might allude to.

  Things I don’t recommend: Trying to decipher medieval English writing while simultaneously working on forgetting the hottest fuck of your life.

  My head aches. I can still see his expression when we first finished, when I rolled over on the desk and he smoothed down my skirt, pure pleasure in his eyes, that normally stern face of his relaxed and open for once—still handsome, but so much more vulnerable in that moment. I could tell, right then. He wanted me. He took me. He liked it as much as I did.

  But he’s my professor. This is possibly the worst wrong guy I’ve ever fucked. Even worse than the time I slept with my high school best friend’s brother, and she walked in on us in the middle of it.

  Harper, you are the worst. I raise my head an inch just to thump it back down harder this time.

  Plus, as if hooking up with your professor isn’t bad enough, he acted like a total jerk at the end, freaking out and leaving me alone and half undressed in his office, stuck with nothing but his paperwork. Luckily it’s cool outside this time of year, so I wrapped myself up in my coat before I had to trudge back across campus, dodging classmates at every step. I cleaned myself up in the dorm showers, and donned a turtleneck to hide the worst of the bruises he left.

  But cleaning up my outsides has done nothing to fix the turmoil inside. When we were together it seemed so obvious that he felt this same pull between us, this inevitable, irresistible urge.

  Now? I’m just painfully aware of how I’ve made the same mistake I always do. Yes, I’m twenty-one, not exactly some doe-eyed youthful babe he’ll corrupt. But hell, professors can get fired for this kind of thing, right? And I could probably get kicked out of the study abroad program.

  A crash in the hallway interrupts my not-very-successful study session. A glance at the clock on the computer screen reveals that I’ve been at this for almost ten hours. It’s 7:00 p.m. now, well past dinnertime. My stomach growls in agreement. The only thing I’ve eaten all day was the banana I had before I hurried across campus to meet Professor Jerkwad.

  The crashing sounds get closer to my door. Bleary-eyed from staring at text all day, I open my door and peer out.

  “Harpy!” A drunken Nick rockets past in shorts, cleats, and a blinding yellow soccer jersey, which I’ve learned to call a football jersey lest I be subjected to long lectures by my Brit classmates. “It’s almost time for the game! Oxford United versus Portsmouth!”

  “Are they good?” I ask MK, who’s trailing him down our dorm hall in a much more sedate outfit. Just jeans and a T-shirt in the same colors as the jersey, an indulgent grin on her face as she watches Nick jump so high that the whole floor shakes on his landing, which explains the source of the sounds I heard.

  “Not nearly as good as he’s making them out to be,” she replies. “Though I’ve gotta admit, I love you Americans’ enthusiasm. Come on, Harps, we’re all going down the Bird and Baby to watch the match.”

  “Oh, I wish I could, but . . . ” The stack of papers, still untouched on my desk, call to me. Harper, they say, you promised Professor Jerkwad you would analyze us by the end of the night. “I’ve got work,” I tell her.

  Mary Kate crosses her arms and plants herself in front of me, the very picture of disapproval. “Harper Reed, you are not standing here telling me that you crossed an entire ocean to be with me for a semester, only to spend it holed up inside your dorm room like you’re still at home.”

  “It’s important work!” I protest.

  “When else are you going to get this chance?” she counters, throwing her arms wide. “The chance to experience British culture at its best.”

  “Also, beer,” Nick butts in, elbowing me aside in his crazed dance back up the hallway.

  “Besides, Patrick’s coming.” Mary Kate’s eyes twinkle.

  I roll my eyes. “Not helping.”

  “Look, you only study abroad once, Harps. When are you going to live in another country again? When are you going to live here, and more importantly, right down the dorm hallway from me?” She sticks her tongue out. “You need to live a little.”

  “I’m really sorry, I just can’t.” I shut the room door on her befor
e she can protest further. I listen to her humph loudly outside for a few minutes, before her footsteps fade back up the hallway.

  But I don’t sit back down at my desk. I stand there, staring at the folder, and all I can think is that he probably wouldn’t sacrifice his social life for me. Professor Kingston isn’t sitting around feeling guilty for what he did this morning, for sticking me with all the hard work, and dumping me like I was nothing but some random hookup.

  My inbox pings, and my heart leaps in my chest. It’s him! my heart cries, even as my head insists there’s no way. Not unless he’s written a detailed apology for this morning.

  I open my email and sigh. 1 new message from F. Reed. Not him, just Mom. Subject line: Hope you’re having fun!

  But it’s good to hear from her. I click into the email. Harper darling, just wanted to write and let you know that we’re thinking about you! Your father finally got around to sweeping up the leaves today, and wouldn’t you know it, the Loughlins’ dogs got into the mess, and then . . .

  I scroll through her usual rambling stories about our neighbors and extended family members, my smile growing wider and wider as I do. Much as these stories can get boring sometimes in person, it’s a nice reminder right now that some things—like my mom—never change.

  It makes me miss her. Especially when I get to the last paragraph, all about how proud of me she is, her star student, and how she misses me.

  Screw homework, I need to say hi to her.

  I hit the call button, and luckily she must still be sitting at her computer, because a moment later her smiling face lights up my screen.

  “Harper! What a pleasant surprise.” She leans around the computer to shout, “Honey, Harper’s on!” presumably at my father, though the deafening nearness of her mouth to the speaker makes me flinch.