Change of Course: A MM Professor/Student Novel (Change of Hearts Book 3)

by Sierra Hill

  Lucas’s words filled my mind with the hottest sexual fantasies I’d ever had. It not only got me off but also inspired a painting of soft pastels that I began and finished earlier this morning. An impressionist painting of two men, one older and taller than the other, wrapped up naked in each other’s arms. Their bodies lax and languid, cocks hanging limply to imply their sated states of arousal, as if they’d just gotten each other off in the most magnificent of climaxes and were satisfied to simply hold onto one another until the next round of lovemaking.

  It was probably one of the easiest paintings I’d ever done, the brush strokes flying over the canvas as I envisioned the positions of their bodies and captured it in the visual art. And it all stemmed from the fantasy of the two men as Lucas and me.

  So yeah, it’s not as if I’m not horny and down-to-fuck, but Atlas’s offer doesn’t quite have the appeal that I’m looking for. He’s not Lucas.

  “Well, maybe some other time, then. But damn, Monet, you sure put on a great show tonight. Very hot.” He calls me by my stage name and licks a finger, pressing it to his ass that he juts out with flare and signals it with a sizzling sound.

  I throw my head back and laugh at his antics, waving a goodbye as I meander through the crowded hallway toward the back door. As I do, I’m greeted with all sorts of filthy debauchery on my way out. Tongues, mouths, bodies, and flesh seeking out the desires they need to have fulfilled.

  By the time I get home, it’s after one a.m. and as I walk into my silent apartment, with Pey-Pey having long since gone to bed, I wonder why I didn’t take Atlas up on his offer.

  I’m horny and need a release from all the sensual activity from tonight’s shift.

  Pussy Cat follows me into my room, jumping on my bed with a soft thump, curving her body into me as I plop down across the mattress, brushing against me with a soft purr.

  I lay face up, tipping my chin down to watch her seek my attention. I give her a nice head rub as she begs me for more by pushing her head into my palm.

  “You’re such a needy girl, aren’t you?” Her only response is a mewl.

  God, I’m needy too.

  I turn to face the fall where I’ve set my painting earlier this morning and I’m suddenly craving my professor’s critique and reaction to the painting. Shifting suddenly, I reach over to the bedtable for my laptop, startling Pussy Cat who leaps off the bed and looks back at me in a huff, her bright blue eyes staring me down as if I’ve disrupted her entire evening.

  Opening up my email, I pull up the last exchange I had with Lucas. I snap a picture of the piece perched on a stand over in the corner of my room, and attach it to my email.

  Dear Professor Mathiasson,

  I’m curious to get your opinion on this impressionist piece of art. Do you find it a realistic depiction of gay lovers in a romantic embrace or would you characterize it as sexually explicit, an erotic portrayal of two men after they’ve made each other come so hard that they can barely breathe?

  Your Student,

  Kyler

  I swallow, suddenly so thirsty and eager to hear from him, but certain I won’t get anything back this late at night.

  Setting my laptop back on the side table, I jump up to run to the kitchen for something to drink when my phone pings in my pocket. Thinking it’s the boys from the bar, I give it a quick glance before opening the fridge. My eyes grow wide and fixate on the number and message that draws my attention down to the screen.

  Unknown: This is your professor. My professional opinion is that the painting has beautiful and exquisite detail, and I would dare say it’s simply a romantic illustration of two lovers embracing.

  Unknown: My personal critique, however, is that I think it is hot as fuck, which I can’t very well include in my email back to you. And I feel like I’ve lived out that scene with one of my lovers who looks an awful lot like one of your models. I assume that you painted this from a real-life experience? Perhaps one that you continue to fantasize over?

  The water bottle slips from my hand and drops to the floor as I gape at the message.

  Holy shit. This is bad.

  Very, very bad.

  But wouldn’t you know it’s exactly what I want and need right in this very moment and time.

  9

  Lucas

  This is wrong.

  So very, very wrong.

  I know I shouldn’t have texted Kyler tonight – knew it like I know the sky is blue. I should’ve done the right thing and waited until Monday when I could give him an altogether professional response in-person that wasn’t dripping and heavily laden with sexual innuendo.

  But instead, because I’m feeling buzzed after coming home and drinking two very strong martinis, which had me already thinking of Kyler in all manner of inappropriate ways, I went there and did exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do. I cornered Kyler into telling me about the painting he created and sent me. The painting is clearly the two of us.

  How do I know this? Because I remember the scene perfectly, etched in indelible stone in my head, as if it just happened yesterday, not months prior.

  The painting depicts the afterglow of our lovemaking. After my cock had been inside Kyler’s impossibly tight body, having depleted myself of everything I had, as his dick erupted in my hand between us, his hot release gushing over our already sticky bodies.

  It was that quiet moment between us, as our bodies and breaths came down from that momentous high, as he bent his head into my neck, my nostrils taking in his intoxicating scent of citrus shampoo and his salty essence.

  He was so warm against me, our connection having changed course, turning from lustful to revering over the course of a few moments. Our dicks began to soften, but it was hard to relinquish my embrace long enough to take care of the condom. Something inside me shouted, “Don’t let him go.”

  It was precisely why I impulsively texted him tonight upon the receipt of his email instead of waiting until Monday. The painting evoked too many heady emotions and feelings in me to wait.

  I needed him now.

  I somehow knew he’d be awake, assuming he’d been out doing whatever college kids his age do on Saturday nights. Which bothered me to think of all those wild parties and hookups he’d be participating in. Jealousy consumed me.

  And I made my response overly implicit.

  Surprisingly, there wasn’t a long wait long for his reply, which is good, since I think I’ve been holding my breath.

  My body burns with the desire to be dirty tonight.

  No, I amend that thought. I want to be dirty with Kyler.

  The line that I drew less than a week ago has already blurred like the lines of his impressionist painting. Blurred so boldly that I can no longer see the variance or distinction between the role I play as Kyler’s professor and as his lover.

  I sit on my leather ottoman, knees spread wide, a nearly empty martini glass in one hand resting on my thigh, the other hand holding my phone that lays face down against my chest.

  And then the ping and the articulate vibration of the phone signals his response. It sings like the Hallelujah chorus in my empty living room.

  It’s almost comical how fast I pick it up and read the words scrawling across my screen. The nickname I gave his contact number, in the event…well, in the event things veer off academia.

  Art Boy: I’ve had many of these real-life experiences.

  Art Boy: Perhaps it’s just you that fantasizes over this painting? And it speaks to you about one spectacular fuck you can’t seem to forget?

  Art Boy: Maybe it brings to mind, like all good art should, a personal experience where you were fucked so good and so hard that nothing can ever compare to it again?

  I finish my drink in one swig and move the glass to the end table, gripping my phone with both hands as I type. Fueled with something bold and daring clawing its way out of my chest and my soul. My body hungry to walk this tight rope of sexual awareness and to stay lucid while not falling off into the unk
nown.

  Before I can stop myself, I’m pressing his contact number in my keypad and allow my carefully laid lines of behavior — the ones where I promised I’d remain professional —completely distort their shape and turn hazy, as if they never even existed.

  “Hello, Professor.”

  Kyler’s tone is amused but has a heavy, smoky sensual vibration in his voice. My cock stirs viciously in my shorts, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip in anticipation of this conversation. Because I know exactly where it’s going.

  And I’m going straight to hell if I believed those sorts of things.

  I’m agitated and horny, so my response doesn’t come out sweet.

  “Don’t fucking pretend that your painting isn’t us. You’re the one who painted it and it’s derived from your scandalous mind, which can only mean that you’ve been the one to fantasize about me.”

  I press my ear against my phone so it’s snug against my chin and drop my hands to my groin. It’s no secret where this is going, so I might as well be good and prepared. I unbutton and unzip my shorts, not an ounce of guilt coursing through my head as I slide my hand over my growing erection.

  There’s silence on the other end. “Kyler, answer me. Do you think about it? Our night together? The way you opened up for me and called me Daddy when I pressed deep inside your body?”

  He groans and the sound makes me grow impossibly harder. “Yes, fine. I have.”

  His words are clipped as if struggling to leave his throat. And oh my God, his throat.

  I remember exactly what it felt like to skim my wet lips over his smooth perfect throat. Or when the head of my cock slid over his tongue and ventured so far down his throat. I’d jerked and pushed farther as he swallowed down to gasp for air.

  “Yes, what?” I rasp, squeezing the head of my dick so I don’t go off in seconds like an inexperienced teenager.

  I want him to say it exactly the way he did the night we were together. It’s a fetish and a kink we both seem to share, but on opposite ends of the spectrum.

  “Yes, daddy.”

  Because I’ve been very closeted in my sexuality and haven’t much explored or pursued anything with men on a regular basis, it surprised me to find myself so turned on when Kyler called me daddy and asked that I punish him for being a naughty boy.

  Now, of course, being an academic and always curious about the underlying psychological explanation, I theorized about the psyche related to this domineering and submissive form of kink. And I was certainly interested to learn what pushed Kyler to seek out that type of sexual play.

  Our short night together only allowed for tame punishments, such as a few solid spankings against his bare ass and terse instruction I’d given him to follow. But it had me realizing what I’d been missing all this time in my sex life.

  Perhaps it was the freedom it gave me to explore my dominant side for the first time in my adult life.

  “That’s right. Now be a good boy and take out your cock, Kyler.”

  I can hear rustling but it’s only momentarily until he returns with a breathy voice. “Okay. My cock is out just like you want.”

  I suck in a breath, exhaling slowly, enjoying the heightened awareness between us. Knowing the line we’re about to cross and feeling that heady thrum of excitement from the illicit nature of this call.

  “Are you leaking for me?”

  “Yes, daddy,” he pants breathlessly.

  Goddamn, I want to see him.

  I want to see his face and the need flashing across his marbled hazel eyes. I need to see his pulsing cock, it's color a deep purple hue and see with my own two eyes just how much I turn him on. And in turn, show him exactly what he does to me.

  Everything about him pushes me past my carefully constructed limits.

  But warning lights come on in my head, the distinct blare of an alarm buzzing for me to wake up and get a grip on reality.

  This has gone too far already. I promised him I wouldn’t do this. I will not use my advantage and my position—which I’ve worked so hard and so long to achieve—to prey upon a student, regardless of whether said student is just as willing of a participant. Or whether said student and I have had previous sexual relations.

  My silence must be noticeable, as Kyler’s breath halts in my ear, his voice soft and tenuous.

  “Luc? Are you still there? Did I…”

  Swallowing my guilt, I zip up my jeans but leave the button open, hastily standing up in my living room to give me the solid footing I need to end this before I make a mockery of my life and become another statistic.

  “Kyler, I’m sorry. I can’t do this with you. I’ve got to go.”

  Reluctantly — but quickly so I don’t talk myself out of it — I end the call.

  And feel like shit the remainder of the weekend.

  10

  Kyler

  I tossed and turned all night, questioning every little detail of the call last night with Lucas. Still dissecting it, while turning it over and over in my mind, wondering what I could have done to make Lucas veer off course so suddenly and abruptly without warning.

  The clock on our kitchen microwave says it’s eleven forty-five. Being that it’s Sunday, all I have going on today is laundry, the much needed grocery shopping, and studying.

  “Morning,” calls Peyton from her spot on the couch where she’s sprawled out in a short pink bathrobe, legs and feet bare, the television on one of the design shows we usually record and then watch together. “I was going to wait for you to watch, but it’s been hours! You must have had a late night last night.”

  She pauses the show and slips off the couch to join me in the kitchen, sliding up next to me with an expectant look. There’s still hot coffee in the carafe, which I pour in my cup and drink down like it’s the water of life.

  Then I wrap an arm around her and give her a sideways hug.

  “How’s my Pey-Pey Le Pew doing this morning?”

  She sighs. “Fine. Although you may be stuck with me this summer because I received another internship rejection in the mail yesterday. That’s two in a row now, which leaves only two others left. What if none of them want me, Kyler?”

  I spin her around so fast she gasps and has to grab hold of my biceps to catch herself from toppling over.

  “Listen to me, Pey-Pey. You’re an amazingly talented designer. Better than any Stella McCartney, Tom Ford or Tom, Dick or Harry for that matter. The right one will come along and when it does, they’ll swoop you up so fast your head with spin like the Exorcist. But eww, please don’t puke like she did, that shit was just gross.”

  Peyton laughs lightheartedly at the reference to the horror movie we just watched together for the first time and pushes me away with her hands on my chest.

  “You’re such a dork.”

  “Ah, but you love me, don’t you Pey-Pey?” I snuggle my cheek across her shoulder, similar to the way Pussy Cat preens for love and affection. Speaking of which, I glance around to see where the cat is.

  “Did you feed Puss this morning? Where is she?”

  Peyton gestures toward the patio sliding door. “Oh, I let her out. She was meowing loudly and I didn’t want her to wake you.”

  My mouth gapes open in surprise. “You what? You know I don’t let Pussy Cat outside. She’s too pampered to be out with the likes of outdoor cats.”

  Panic laces my voice as I rush to the patio door finding it locked. When I look back at Peyton she’s smiling a huge, cheeky grin.

  “Gotcha! I can’t believe you fell for that. Geesh, do I look that stupid? Either that or you must need more coffee.”

  “Why you little brat...” I stomp toward her waggling my finger and grimacing playfully. “Just for that, I’m not going to paint your nails or do your hair today. Or make you brunch.”

  She pouts. “Oh, come on. It was a joke! Lighten up. Plus, look at these horrendous nails. I need you!” She wiggles her fingers in front of my face and I take the opportunity to grab her hand,
pretending to be disgusted by the state of her chipped nails.

  That’s another thing we typically do together on Sundays. Ever since I moved in, if we’re both home on a Sunday afternoon, we curl up on the couch to watch our shows and paint each other’s nails, as well as play with the other’s hair. I’ve become very good at highlighting her straight blonde bob with blues, pinks, and purples. And she’s also allowed me to practice my unicorn pattern because rainbows and unicorns are my favorite.

  I concede, dropping her hand and pouring myself some more coffee, leaning a hip against the counter to continue our conversation.

  “Fine, only on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  I step forward, moving my coffee cup to the side, and place a kiss on the top of her forehead before looking down at her seriously.

  “You, my friend, have to do the grocery shopping today.”

  She tries to slink past me but I reach around her belly and yank her back. It’s these moments with Peyton that I love. We’d be perfect for each other if we weren’t both interested in men.

  When I finally let her go, she swivels to open the fridge, looking at it with despair.

  “Ugh. We don’t do this adulting thing very well, do we?”

  “Meh,” I shrug half-heartedly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There’s plenty of time in the future when we’re settled down with Mister Right and have to grow up.”

  Peyton nods in agreement. “Oooh, speaking of Mr. Right. Who were you with last night? I heard you chatting and laughing, and well, then I fell back asleep to block out all the other sounds coming from your den of iniquity. Our walls are just too thin for that.”

  My innocent little virgin roommate blushes sweetly.

  “Nobody. Just a guy I met at the club. It’s nothing.”

  I turn away so she can’t see the lie across my face. While it’s true I did meet Lucas at the bar, there’s also that teeny, tiny fact that he’s my professor and we’re not supposed to be talking at this point. While she knows I’ve slept with him in the past, I don’t want to spill the beans that there’s still something there between us.