Chapter Seven
MADISON
W alking into my second week of university I have a spring in my step. Seeing Oliver over the weekend threw out every notion I had to forget about him, to pretend our week of bliss never happened. But at the community centre he seemed different. Natural. Calm. Content.
He seemed like himself again.
How he was before I officially became a student and our relationship crossed boundaries. Happiness spread through him in that week. And I saw a hint of that come back as we sat by the garden.
He isn’t like that here. Inside these walls he feels closed off. His shoulders are stiff and he never smiles. His laugh is forced. Even his nods are different, short and sharp instead of the enthusiastic head bob I’ve seen.
I want to know why. Is he putting on a show for someone? Or trying to fit into the mould of how he thinks a professor should act?
Whatever it is, I’m going to get to the bottom of it. I just need to convince him that what we have is worth a little running around. We deserve more than stolen moments behind closed doors, but I will take what I can get.
I shouldn’t feel this deeply for a man I’ve only known a couple of weeks, but my heart is constantly beating for Oliver. For Professor Fraser. It sounds so wrong, but it feels so right. One week was not enough, and I know there is no turning back for me.
An email notification pings on my phone, earning me a sour look from the student sitting across from me in the library.
“Sorry,” I whisper. Pulling my phone out of my bag I switch it to silent before opening the email.
I am irrevocably fucked. The universe is out to get me, and I have no idea what I did wrong to deserve this.
Skimming through the details of my scholarship, I struggle to pay attention to what I’m reading. I can’t pull my eyes away from the name of the professor that has been assigned as my advisor.
From: Creative Arts Director Professor Dausset
Subject: Creative Writing Advisor - Professor Oliver Fraser
Message: A meeting has been scheduled for Tuesday 9.30 a.m. in Professor Fraser’s office, located in the CAF building.
Kind of them, to send me an email before the scheduled meeting. Shame it only came through with five minutes to spare. And I don’t even know where the CAF building is.
“Shit!”
I scurry to gather my books into my tote while I ask the grumpy student for directions.
“Creative Arts Faculty?” He scoffs.
Of course! Except that it’s on the other side of campus. I doubt I’ll make it in time, but I rush through the courtyard anyway.
Slamming through the door at 9.34, my chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. Dropping my hands to my knees I attempt to slow pulse.
“Madison?”
Oh God, his voice. It’s like every time we are apart, I forget just how deep and guttural his voice is. It tugs at my insides and sends tingles down my thighs. Just as my heart was returning to a stable rhythm, it skips a whole stack of beats before racing away again. Back to the sprint it tends to perform whenever Oliver is around.
I close my eyes, composing myself before I look up.
I should have kept my eyes closed.
He is dressed more professionally than I’ve seen him. Dark grey suit pants hug his hips, and his shirt is tight over his biceps. With sleeves rolled up, I can see the strength of his forearms. The veins that strain away from the muscle.
My body acts all on its own. I step toward him, reaching for his tie. I tug it, pulling his face towards mine.
“Wait.”
I jump back at his hesitation. Crossing my arms around my stomach, I squeeze my hands into my sides to hold them steady.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
Oliver steps past me to close the door. The click of a lock registers in my brain, and then the heat of his body behind me.
I spin to face him, but his hands hold my shoulders still.
“You are here to discuss your studies,” he whispers. The warmth of his words brushes over my pulse point, and I feel it in my core.
“Yes, professor.”
A groan escapes him, and his forehead drops to rest on the back of my head.
“Call me that later.” Pushing his body into mine, I can feel his erection against my back.
I hadn’t meant for my words to do that, but I can’t help myself from enjoying his reaction. Leaning back against him, I tilt my head to rest on his shoulder and stare up at him. My tongue darts out to lick my lip.
Oliver groans again but guides me off him and walks towards the desk.
“You have a scholarship, Madison. And I’m your advisor. Whatever else happens between us, that relationship has to stay professional. When we have these monthly meetings, your coursework comes first. Everything else comes after.”
He brushes a hand through his dark hair as he leans back in the chair.
We spend the next twenty minutes doing exactly what he asked. Discussing my coursework. He makes note of when my assignments are due, checks I have an appropriate study plan in place, and offers his advice on additional texts and references I should be using. Focusing on the paperwork is frustrating, but when he finally closes his laptop to look up at me my fingers tingle in anticipation.
“You seem to have a solid grasp on your coursework, let me know if you need any assistance with anything. You have my number.”
I take my time packing my notebooks and planner back into my tote, sliding them in one by one. When Oliver doesn’t say anything else, my shoulders droop and a hole opens in my chest. The realisation that I read too much into our situation starts to sting my eyes. I stare up at the ceiling, blinking away the tears that threaten to fall.
“About earlier,” my voice cracks, “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Hands slam on the desk between us. Professor Fraser stands. He towers over me, and I shift my eyes to look at his face. His eyes are dark, pupils so large I can hardly see the rich brown of his irises. The fire reignites. And I know there is no extinguishing it.
“Nothing like that can ever happen on campus.”
I nod, biting my lip but holding his gaze.
“But you will call me professor again.” He pushes away from the desk.
I stand from the chair to take a step to unlock the door, pausing before I open it.
“When?”
“Not now.”
He stares at the tree outside his window. An arm stretches up to the window frame. His cock strains his pants, and he uses his other hand to adjust himself.
“Madison,” he pleas, “you need to leave before I decide to scrap my own rule and fuck you right over this desk.”
My mouth drops open. I squeeze my legs together in a failed attempt to relieve some of the tension that sparks. The last thing I want to do is leave after a comment like that. I drop my bag where I stand by the door and take two measured steps towards the desk.
Oliver growls, turning back into the room.
A knock sounds at the door, and we both jump at the sudden interruption.
“Professor Fraser?” I recognise the voice, the grouchy kid from the library.
Oliver clears his throat before responding for the student to enter. When the door opens, I take my cue to leave, reminded again why campus is out of bounds for Oliver and me.