by Glynn, Anne
“I’ll call later, I promise.” Leah checked her wristwatch. “I’m late for an appointment with my art teacher!”
Chapter Ten
Your power is growing. Brush against
your lover as if by accident. Lead his
body in a dance of touch and retreat.
– Sun Zu, The Aggressor
Ian didn’t understand what was happening.
“My name is Parkins,” he told the travel agent, repeating his name for the second time. “Not ‘Perkins’. This is my third call to your firm tonight. I keep getting dropped.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Parkins, we’ve had some computer problems. How can I help you?”
“I’ve never received an email confirming my flight. I’d like to know if my reservation is in your system.”
He’d used this travel agency twice before and they’d always been smoothly efficient. He prized efficiency. It left him feeling in control.
From somewhere in the cyber universe, the agency employee tapped at a keyboard. Finding him in the company logbook allowed her to acknowledge his electronic existence. Her tone grew less mechanical and more welcoming.
She read back his flight number and travel date. “You’re in the system,” she said politely. “You have a one way, nonrefundable ticket for Heathrow Airport, exactly as scheduled. Feel free to pack those bags.”
Two months ago, going on-line to book his ticket, Ian hadn’t hesitated to select the nonrefundable option. It was almost two hundred dollars cheaper. On that particular evening, completely and forever done with the United States of America, he couldn’t wait to walk up the passenger ramp.
Now he felt less certain about his choice.
Ending the call, he heard her coming down the hallway, her heels clicking lightly over the tiled floor. His sex stiffened at the thought of seeing her. He was aroused at the mental image of her legs, her body, even her shoes, all unseen this evening; unknown, really.
What would my bastard dick do if she showed up in sweat pants and a pair of stained tennis shoes? he asked himself. Would it shrink as I sit here?
Or would it grow perversely stiffer, knowing what lay beneath those clothes?
“Professor?” Leah Preston said.
She leaned into the opening of his office. She was wearing a subdued blouse, cream-colored and draped alluringly over her breasts. A black pencil skirt caressed her highly desirable ass and silk stockings ran down her legs into the perfect pair of shoes. White straps, gold buckles, white spikes.
His bastard dick pressed hard into the fabric of his slacks, reminding him of its presence.
Leah’s one of your students, he told himself. Simply another student. Treat her appropriately.
“When I took this course,” she said, “I had no idea I’d have to write a final paper. All semester, most of us expected you’d cancel the project.”
“If it were my choice, I would have,” he told her, his voice sounding distant and distracted. “I’m just obeying my Master’s voice.”
Harlan Etterman’s nagging, nasal braying is one reason I booked my flight, he wanted to tell her. It was probably the biggest reason.
The administration at this school buries their teachers under an avalanche of commands, all disguised as ‘suggestions’ or ‘ideas for improvement’. Every week, there are new suggestions, new opportunities for improvement.
New rules.
We can’t park in the empty lot behind the sports field, for example. No reasonable explanation offered, we just can’t. We shouldn’t be seen passing pamphlets or offering support to any particular candidate or cause, no matter how worthy.
Outside of the classroom, we’re to avoid socializing with our students.
Etterman particularly dislikes it when a professor meets a student in a social setting. He mentions this personal irritation at nearly every one of his meetings. He has suggested we dash from a room, should we stumble across a pupil in a casual setting.
All nonsense, of course, but that particular suggestion never truly bothered me. Until now….
“Writing about one of the early masters won’t be a problem,” Leah said. “I’m thinking Donatello or Bernini. But I’m lost when it comes to a modern artist, someone from the last hundred years. I don’t want just anyone. I want someone interesting.”
“The textbook isn’t much help, is it?” Ian asked. “The author acts as if all significant art ended in the 18th century.”
He looked up at the ceiling, as if seeking an answer to her question. Somehow, he seemed incapable of clear thought. It was as if all the blood had rushed from his brain to other areas. “Have you talked to any of your classmates?”
She sat on the corner of his desk. “They’re all doing one of the standards. I’d like to write about somebody different.”
Her body, curvaceous and tantalizing, taunted him. A noise jingled and he saw she was wearing an ankle bracelet, a tiny bell in its center.
Which made him think of the bell on her garter belt. Which brought his eyes to her fantastically desirable legs.
The smell of bergamot and vanilla gently wafted from her. YOLO?
Yes, it was. Leah was wearing his favorite perfume.
“There’s, um, a Swiss artist,” he said. “Hildi Hess, one of Switzerland’s greatest sculptors. It’s hard….” He stumbled for a moment, his words betraying him. “It’s difficult to find a great deal about her, in the USA, anyway, but there’s enough out there to fill an essay.”
“Hess.” She brightened. Reaching out, she touched the back of his hand briefly. “I think I’ve heard of her. Sure.”
In the reflection of her eyeglasses, Ian saw his own face. His jaw was tight. Lust filled his eyes.
He lowered his head, hiding the expression from her. Inhaling slowly, he calmed himself.
Screw Harlan Etterman and all of his rules, he thought.
Leah checked her cell phone. “Is that the time? Oh, I’ve got to fly.”
Before he could speak, she left the office. The scent of her perfume lingered in the air.
Ian hurried around his desk, ready to follow after her, when he noticed the outline of his cock, full and large, pressing against his trousers. Eager to announce its presence to the world.
Muttering a curse, he dropped back into his chair.
Chapter Eleven
Skilled in seduction, it is time to
act. Your lover is eager to fall into
your arms. Desires to be conquered.
And will forever be ready for you.
– Sun Zu, The Conqueror
“Ah, Professor, right on time,” Fogarty said. “The usual?”
“If you would, Foghorn.” Ian let his gaze sweep the room. Distractedly, he played with the knot of his brown tie.
The bartender pushed a glass across the bar.
“Appreciated.” Ian tilted the glass to his mouth, draining it. “All this time, you still can’t make a proper English drink.”
“You haven’t complained before.”
“Nor am I complaining now. What you put in a mug is better than the best Bitter Shandy ever offered to the Queen Mother herself.” He slid the mug over the polished wood. “It just isn’t proper.”
Fogarty dropped the empty glass into the bus container below the bar. “Something the matter, Ian?”
“Nothing, my good barkeep.” He ran his hand through his hair. “And everything, perhaps. I don’t know.”
Taking a pair of shot glasses, Fogarty poured a splash of whiskey into each of them. Setting the first beside the other man, he raised the second into the air. “To clarity of thought.”
“To clarity,” Ian agreed, finishing the drink. “How about another of your sour abominations?”
“I think I know why you like them so. Along with the bitters, I add a healthy touch of scotch.”
“Which would explain my last hangover.”
“It would,” Fogarty agreed, preparing a second glass. “What you need tonight is a spot of fun
. One of your students is in the game room. Might be open to a little competition.”
“There are rules against such things.”
“Are there? I thought your semester had ended.”
“True enough. But still.”
“Claims to be the darts champion of the entire district.”
“Huh.”
Fogarty thumped the glass onto the bar top. “I mentioned your name. Heard a few disparaging remarks about our British cousins.”
“Did you?” Taking the second mug, Ian straightened his shoulders. “Well, one only lives once, don’t you agree? You can watch while I show him what it means to be a true champion.”
“Thinkin’ of a wager or two, Ian?”
“I am. Not enough to hurt the lad, no. Just enough of a financial impact to remind him of his manners.”
“Watch the bar for me, Tyrone,” Fogarty said to his assistant. Walking side-by-side, the two men went to the back of the building. Opening a door, Fogarty beckoned for Ian to go forward.
The sculptor entered the game room.
Holding a set of darts, Leah turned to face him. A tan-colored long coat wrapped around her, covering her body from neck to ankles.
“Ian here is a betting man,” Fogarty told her. “Says he’s open to a challenge.”
Stepping out of the room, he closed it.
Ian heard the door lock.
# # #
Game on, Leah thought. She held up the darts. “Want to play?”
The surprise of finding her in the room had frozen him. He stared at her blankly.
“What’s the matter, Professor?” she asked.
Her question stirred him out of his look of stunned surprise. “You?” he said incredulously. “You’re a darts champion?”
“If you come to my place, you’ll find the proof,” she said. “I have a very attractive trophy in my bedroom closet.”
Of course, the trophy is for the Sixth Grade Spelling Bee, she admitted silently. I took the championship with the word camouflage, remembering to add in the ‘u’ that Terrie Avenell forgot.
When it comes to darts, all I’m really good at is spelling the word.
He viewed the closed door. “Well….”
“Scared?”
That single, taunting word brought his attention back to her. “What’s the wager?”
He really is so damned sexy. “I hate your tie.”
“What?”
“The brown cloth you wrap around your neck on a weekly basis,” she said. “It’s hideous.”
He looked down at the tie, as if seeing it for the first time.
“You’re an artist, Ian. Artists should have good taste.” Hmmm, she thought. I wonder how you taste.
“It’s my school tie,” he said, offended. “I’ve worn it since University days.”
“If I win, it goes in the trash.”
Ian’s hand went to the neckwear, as if to savor its touch. “What do I get if I win?”
“You won’t.”
“You think?” He smiled. “But what if Fortune favors me?”
“I’ll do the same for you. I’ll remove any single piece of my clothing that you don’t like.”
“Strip darts, then?” His expression changed, growing disappointed. “I can’t, sorry. Truly, truly sorry.”
“Why not?”
“College regulations.”
“But you’ve already given notice.”
“I may require a job recommendation somewhere down the line. At this point, it would be foolish to anger the powers-that-be.”
“And you mustn’t do that.”
“This is a touch too bold.”
Leah crossed her ankles, hearing the whisper of silk as her stockings brushed one another. “I won’t tell anyone. Besides, it isn’t strip darts. It’s one game, winner take all, for a single article of clothing.”
“I like this tie,” Ian said. He reached for the game room door.
“You should leave, then, if you’re certain you’ll lose.”
The gibe worked. Ian returned to the center of the room. “One game.”
“Only one.” The one that Sun Zu taught me, Leah thought. “If you have the courage, let’s up the odds. Not just one game.”
“No?”
“One dart.”
“Aren’t you a bold lass?” Slowly, he circled her. “My tie only cost a few quid. A loss might prove costly to you. Your lovely shoes, for example. I’ll wager they came dear. Would you let me throw them away?”
“One item, not two,” she reminded him. “The left or right shoe only, your choice.”
“Your stockings?”
“One or the other, you can’t have both. Or you can take my garter belt.” Separating the bottom of her jacket, she exposed her leg. She wiggled the bell, hearing its musical tinkle. “Or do you think the bell should count as a separate piece?”
His gaze found her exposed leg. Meeting her eyes, he said, “Remove your jacket. Let me consider my other options.”
“If you want my coat, you’ll have to win it from me.”
He plucked a dart from her hand. Casually flicking his wrist, he sent the metal barrel flying forward. Its steel tip lodged into the dartboard’s outer green ring.
“Caught the iris,” he said.
Is the iris good? Leah wondered.
The dart was close to the center of the board so she supposed he’d done well. She thought, I should have looked up the rules before I got here.
Ian continued, “Not a stunning throw but far from an embarrassment. Possibly good enough to win. Twenty-five points, anyway.”
Transferring a single dart to her throwing hand, Leah cocked her arm. Ian said, “Not like that.”
He stepped behind her, bringing his head close to her neck. “Are you wearing YOLO?”
“Those tiny bottles cost so much money. Do you like it?”
He inhaled softly. This close to him, she could feel the warmth of his body. Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his head up.
“You can’t hold your wrist in that position and hope to control your throw,” he said. Gently, his fingers moved her hand. “As a darts champion, I expect you know this.”
She lifted the dart.
“Not fair,” he told her. “You’re on the line.”
Following his gaze, she saw a worn, black strip under the points of her stiletto heels. Leah moved back, thinking, I’m just hoping to hit the board. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.
She threw the dart. Finding a red inner ring, it stuck in place.
“A double bull?” Astounded, he looked at her as if she’d grown wings.
“I win?”
“You know you did.” Yanking at his tie, he pulled it off and dropped it to the ground. “Once more.”
“What about the college’s rules?”
“Damn the rules!” Crossing the floor to the rear wall, he tugged the darts from the dartboard.
“Your tie’s gone,” she told him. “Which means I get to pick again.”
Slowly, she walked around him. When he’d pulled out his tie, it lifted his shirt half-out of his trousers.
I love that cute butt. She said, “Next time, it’s your pants.”
At her request, he appeared boyishly alarmed.
“What’s the matter, Ian?” she asked. “Don’t you wear briefs?”
“You’ll never know.” Standing at the line, he lifted a dart in the air. Dropping all pretense of disinterest, his face tightened in concentration. Focused, he threw the missile.
It struck the innermost red circle, burying its point inside the fiber surface.
“Bullseye,” Leah said.
“You’re up.”
“I can’t do any better than that,” she said, standing behind him. There was a rustle of cloth and her long coat fell to the floor. “I concede.”
He turned to her. Beneath her jacket, she was naked except for her stockings, garter belt, and shoes. Reaching for her eyeglasses, she tossed them onto a red-
flocked settee.
“Winner take all,” Leah said.
Chapter Twelve
Give him a few drinks and the professor drops his guard, Josh had written in his notes about Ian. When we were finishing up our last round, my arm around his shoulder as we staggered out of Fogarty’s front door, he told me this: “Some sweet day, I’m going to find the woman of my dreams and do her on the game room’s pool table. If she’s willing to play that particular game with me, I swear, I’ll marry the girl.”
Leah retreated from Ian. Facing him, her bare buttocks touched the side of the pool table. She placed her hands on its polished rim.
You’ve practiced this, she reassured herself. You can do it. Smoothly, she lifted her naked body over the edge of the pool table. Laying her back across the green felt she spread her legs.
“I’m ready for you, Ian,” she said, her voice growing small.
A guttural sound came from inside his chest. He kicked off his shoes. Undoing his belt, he dropped his slacks to his ankles.
Boxers, Leah thought, not briefs. Seconds later, they fell, too, and were forgotten.
His sex was swollen, so large and erect it brushed his stomach. He tore his shirt off, sending the buttons flying, before climbing onto the pool table.
“Ian,” she said, a whisper of alarm in her voice.
He held himself above her, the head of his cock brushing her labia. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he commanded, in a voice heavy with desire.
“What if I do?”
His cock pressed forward, teasing her cunt. She could feel him, hard and eager, at her opening.
“You won’t,” he said. “You’re ready for me.”
He leaned down, kissing her softly. His tongue teased inside her mouth and Leah felt wetness drip down the curve of her ass.
“Fuck me,” she begged.
He slid himself inward, filling her, and she gasped. Supporting himself on his muscular arms, he rocked forward. His large dick thrust into her, stroking her, slowly at first and then faster, deeper, as she wrapped herself around him. Her pleasure built as he plunged into her, harder still, the strokes controlled and sure until a long, pleasured moan escaped her lips. Losing all control, she cried out and then he did, too, his arms trembling. He fell beside her on the table, his sex still in her, and he pulled her close.
