Arrogant Professor

1. Elle

Chapter 1

Elle

A nother business class. Another big fat F on my paper.

I sighed and shoved my laptop away, flopping back on my bed. My father was going to kill me. And my sister—oh-so-perfect Helene who never did anything wrong in her life, would help him bury my body in a shallow grave.

A mountain of homework was sprawled across my bed all around me as if a tornado had ripped through, spreading stress and destruction in its wake.

You will get your act together, young lady, and stop pissing on this opportunity I’m giving you. Show a bit more appreciation and bring your grades up.

The echo of my father’s voice left a sour taste in my mouth. Ever since starting school at East Regent University, he’d been hounding me to be the best, crush my fellow students, and come out on top of the competition. I was barely scraping by, which wasn’t acceptable for a man who graduated from Harvard at the top of his class. As if that wasn’t overachieving enough, he then proceeded to take the financial world by storm, founding a billion-dollar investment firm—DR Investments—within three years, earning international claim.

He would be livid when he saw the state of my grades.

I suppose I should have been upset about it. Instead, I couldn’t really bring myself to care. It wasn’t anything new. For as long as I could remember, I’d been the family disappointment who needed to be straightened out, scolded, reprimanded, punished. My father, Daniel R. Roche had never wasted an opportunity to remind me that I was a black mark on the family name and he would do everything in his power to polish me up so I stopped tarnishing his reputation.

My phone buzzed with an alarm. When I glanced at the screen, a small bloom of warmth spread in my chest. Romantic English Literature and Poetry started in five minutes. The one bright spot among my dreary, mind-numbing business classes.

Abandoning my homework, I shoved a few notepads and pens into my backpack, along with any books I’d need. Then I set off across campus.

Thanks to my father’s obscenely large financial contributions to the university, the staff folded like a house of playing cards when he demanded access to my coursework, cherry-picking which classes I would take, throwing out anything else he deemed frivolous.

The only reason I managed to wheedle my way into this one class was because of some fast-talking on my part, bullshitting my way through a long-winded speech about the benefits of literary analysis and how it could give me an edge on sizing up my competition in business.

All that buzzword lingo I’d vomited up in a panic was like music to my father’s ears. To my relief, he allowed me to continue the class.

I sighed, making my way across campus and into the lecture hall. At twenty-three years old, I should have more control over my own life by now. But that was the problem with living under the thumb of a wealthy father—he knew how to keep the purse strings as tight as a noose, yanking me around like a marionette. I had some meager savings from working various odd jobs at college—waitress, barista, cashier—until my father found out I was doing menial labor and put a stop to it by getting me fired.

By the time I arrived at the lecture hall, I was early and the cavernous room was empty. My sneakers squeaked on the hardwood floor as I took a seat at the back, slouching deep into my chair.

Sometimes, I wondered why I continued the charade of going to classes, writing papers, enduring tests. I wasn’t going to graduate anyway. The threat of flunking out loomed over my head like a thundercloud on a daily basis. I might be Daniel R. Roche’s daughter, but I wasn’t a cutthroat genius like him. I was just an average girl, trying to find her place in the world and drowning in the process.

The door opened and the chatter of voices filled the room. I grumbled to myself and slid even further into my seat to escape notice as three students filed in—two guys and a girl—laughing and shoving each other. Clearly flirting. They flopped into the seats at the front, backpacks spread haphazardly around them.

The girl knocked over her stack of books with her elbow and sent them tumbling to the floor. They landed face down, spines straining unnaturally, threatening to crack and break. She made no move to retrieve them.

More students poured in. Some jostled each other to get the best seats. Others wandered in with headphones on, or tapping away at their phones.

I felt like a ghost, observing the world around me that teamed with life I wasn’t part of. Sure, I lived in the dorms and ate in the cafeteria like everyone else. But I didn’t belong here. My father was the one who wanted this—an undergraduate degree in business administration—to prove that he had raised me right, carrying on the Roche legacy that he’d built.

These students had a blank future ahead of them. They could mold it, shape it, carve out a name for themselves that was all their own.

My future had already been laid out in a neat and tidy blueprint for me to follow according to my father’s standards. That’s what set me apart. That’s why I didn’t feel like I was really here—I had nothing in common with these people.

The classroom was nearly full by now. A student tentatively approached and gestured to the empty desks that flanked me.

“Are these seats taken?”

Slowly, I turned my head, fixing her with a long, silent stare. She shifted in place nervously and glanced away.

“Actually…never mind.”

Then she hurried off, wading through a few rows until she found another vacant desk. Within seconds, she started chatting up the student sitting next to her. Thank God I’d dodged that bullet.

After a few more minutes dragged by, the door opened, admitting Professor Vincent Stonebridge—the real reason I was so attentive in class.

I shouldn’t find him as attractive as I did at forty-eight years old—twice my age. But I wasn’t the only one. It was no secret that the professor had a decent string of admirers, especially among his female students, and a handful of male students as well. I overheard them often enough, whispering to each other before class started.

“God, I need him to just bend me over his desk and rail me into next Sunday.”

“If Professor Hot Stuff offered extra credit for sitting under his desk and sucking him off, I’d get an A in this class, no problem.”

“He’s always so stoic. Do you think if I flashed him my tits in class, he might pop a boner? You know his dick is big. He wouldn’t be able to hide it.”

Did they realize how ridiculous they sounded? As if a guy like that would look twice at any of them, with nothing between their ears but cotton.

“Good morning, class,” Professor Stonebridge said in that perfectly smooth, unhurried tone. He knew he had his audience hanging on his every word and he didn’t even need to raise his voice to get their attention.

His thick, wavy hair had been a gorgeous inky black at one time. Now it was streaked with silver at the temples. He dressed impeccably, too, with snug-fitting trousers cinched at a firm, slim waist that suggested he spent a decent amount of time keeping himself in shape. On most days, he wore a jacket and tie, but today, it was simply a long-sleeved shirt, the cuffs rolled up to reveal his forearms. The thin, dark gray fabric clung to his straight shoulders, and strained at his biceps.

Stonebridge’s dark gaze fell on the books the girl had knocked over, still lying on the floor. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Sliding his hand out of his pocket, he came to stand in front of the books, gazing down at them with pointed disdain.

The girl didn’t seem to notice. With a little smirk and a coy tilt of her head, she looked up at him, as if feigning confusion. She couldn’t understand why the professor was standing so close to her without speaking.

Finally, Stonebridge arched an eyebrow and slowly crouched down. He retrieved the books, stacking them into a pile again. He smoothed his large hands over rumpled pages, ran his thumb along the crease of a book’s spine as if he could soothe away the damage by massage alone.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, Professor,” the girl gushed with a flutter of her eyelashes.

I groaned and crossed my arms at how obvious she was. I propped one foot up against the back of the desk in front of me. The student seated there twisted around and glared at me but I didn’t budge.

Stonebridge set the stack of books on the girl’s desk with a harsh thud.

“Books belong on shelves and desks. Not the floor. Anyone else who chooses to abuse their books in such a manner will find ten points docked from their final grade for every title they tortured. Is that clear?”

A murmur of agreement went through the classroom. Stonebridge pressed his lips into a thin line and returned to his desk, his back facing us. I swallowed around the lump in my throat, chastising myself for the thirsty fantasies racing through my mind.

My father maintained his control through fear. Stonebridge maintained control through precision, respect, and power wielded only when necessary. Never abused. Nothing rattled or intimidated him. The way he carried himself, the way he spoke suggested he knew he would be obeyed because you wanted to obey him of your own free will. You wanted to earn his hard-won attention and good opinion.

It was wildly intoxicating to witness.

At last, Stonebridge selected an old, dusty edition of English poetry from his satchel. He cradled the book in his hands like a lover, one large palm curved around the spine in a protective gesture. His other hand lay against the pages, fingers following the neat lines of text in an attentive caress.

“Today, we’re studying the words of Thomas Carew. At the time of his writing—in the late 1500s and early 1600s—his work was received with a mix of praise and censure, as all great writers often are. While I read this passage, I want you to note the way he uses the rhythm of his words to match the passion of his subject.”

Then he began to read and this… oh …this is why I’d fought so desperately to stay in his class.

Even though the writing was riddled with stuffy old English— thee, thy, thou —there was no denying that the words themselves painted a sensuous, sinful, and erotic display in the mind’s eye.

…there I’ll behold

Thy bared snow and thy unbraided gold;

There my enfranchised hand on every side

Shall o’er they naked polish’d ivory slide…

A few snickers rippled through the students. Others shifted in their seats, whether aroused at the professor’s voice or uncomfortable at the graphic nature of the poem, it was impossible to tell.

I didn’t take my gaze off Stonebridge, watching the way his lips formed around each syllable with the confidence of someone who knew he could rule a room with nothing but his voice and his presence. Briefly, he flicked his tongue out and swiped it over the pad of his thumb. Turning the page, he paid no attention to the class.

And why should he?

We were there to learn from him. To hang on his every word.

…wherein our panting limbs we’ll gently lay,

In the faint respites of our active play;

That so our slumbers may in dreams have leisure

To tell the nimble fancy our past pleasure,

And so our souls, that cannot be embraced,

Shall the embraces of our bodies taste.

Stonebridge closed the book, slotting a finger between the pages to hold his place. He folded his hands in front of him, surveying the class.

The room was dead silent. A few pages rustled.

“Would anyone care to share their thoughts on that passage?” he asked.

More silence, stretching on and on. Someone coughed and the sound echoed in the room. Then I started to speak before I even realized I was thinking about it.

“They fucked like rabbits.”

A burst of laughter ripped through the class. A student two rows in front of me cupped his hands around his mouth and howled.

Stonebridge remained perfectly still. His gaze scanned the rows for a moment before settling on me. My stomach flip-flopped at being pinned by that intense, icy stare. His expression remained neutral, unreadable. Was he disappointed? Was he dismayed at my blunt delivery and my crass phrasing after the eloquent words he’d recited so well?

I raised my eyebrows in a wordless challenge.

Your move, Professor.

“That’s a succinct way to put it, I suppose,” he said. “And your name is…?”

“Roche,” I said. “Elle Roche.”

“Do you have anything to add to that observation, Miss Roche?”

I lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“I’m not spelling it out for you, Professor. If you need a talk about the birds and the bees, ask your mom.”

A few students snorted with laughter. Stonebridge gave a heavy sigh. I knew the sound of disappointment when I heard it. I’d been subjected to it often enough. He set his book of poetry down on his desk.

“These words are supposed to be inflammatory,” he said. “Far outside the realm of what was deemed appropriate. Carew challenged the convention of his time when he talked about passion like this, which wasn’t supposed to exist in ‘polite society’. He wanted his readers to burn with desire by his words alone. In the modern world, every waking moment is filled with immediate gratification, but Carew understood the nuance of foreplay without touch, and how erotic a turn of phrase could be.”

Stonebridge paused as his gaze found me in the crowded room again.

“Don’t you think that’s more profound than fucking like rabbits , Miss Roche?”

Oh, he was definitely pissed at my choice of words, but his masterful level of self-control wouldn’t let him show it. I couldn’t resist pushing the boundaries a bit more, especially now that I had his attention.

“If it gets the point across,” I said. “Why use flowery prose when a few words will do?”

Stonebridge didn’t blink or look away, but the rigidity of his posture hinted that he had more to say on the subject that wasn’t professional in nature.

“As much as I would like to answer that question, we are out of time for the day,” he said. “Class dismissed.”

A flurry of activity filled the room as students gathered their belongings and filed out. The student who had been reprimanded for dropping her books practically flew to the front of the classroom in order to speak to Stonebridge. I shook my head at her desperation and headed out.

As I made my way back to my dorm, my phone rang. When I fished it out, my father’s name was on the screen. I groaned with dread and answered it.

“Hi, Dad.”

“I just checked your grades, Giselle,” he said in a scathing voice. “What a fucking disgrace. Your sister got straight A’s when she attended university, and she went to an Ivy League school. You’re not even managing a C average at a mediocre school.”

I sighed, suddenly feeling like every step was ten times heavier.

“I’m doing my best, okay?”

Dad scoffed.

“You call this your best? You’re flunking, Giselle. I’m paying a lot of money for you to go to this school. I will not have you failing on my dime and making me look like a bad father.”

I wanted to pitch the phone down the hall. I wanted to scream until my lungs gave out. I wasn’t trying to fail. I just…didn’t get it. All those boring business classes made the text swim in front of my eyes and I couldn’t grasp it. No matter how many times I explained that, my father brushed me off and claimed I was complaining, or simply being lazy.

My father continued to rant for several more minutes. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise anyway. And if I defended myself, it only prolonged his tirades. So, I waited him out, and eventually he hung up. Just like he always did.

I trudged back to my dorm room, cursing myself for answering the phone in the first place. Now my mood was in the toilet, and I still had homework to do.

A flash of neon pink paper caught my attention. Tacked to my door was a flier for a party tonight. Food, booze, games, prizes, dancing.

Just what I need, I thought. The perfect distraction.