7. Harrison
Chapter 7
Harrison
I can’t get her out of my mind.
The memory of that kiss is like a live wire sparking under my skin, and it’s relentless. Ivy’s lips, soft and yielding against mine in the quiet sanctum of the classroom—it’s a moment etched into my every thought.
It’s probably a good thing Frank appeared. A few minutes later and…
When we left the room, I called her an Uber to get her home safely. I might have taken her and probably should have, but I wasn’t strong enough. I knew, without a doubt, that if I had, I would haven’t left until the next morning.
That was Friday.
I spent Saturday cleaning my apartment, doing laundry, working, and keeping busy. When I bought this penthouse in Manhattan, Mom tried to convince me to hire a cleaning company. I guess she figured if I couldn’t keep my childhood bedroom tidy, I had no hope of maintaining a twelve-hundred-square-foot luxury apartment. The joke’s on her, though. I actually enjoy taking care of my own space. I don’t need or want strangers traipsing through my home, touching my things, messing with the energy of my bachelorhood.
Sunday, my neighbors and I watched a hockey game on television. The Las Vegas High Rollers is a young team, a couple of years old, but they’re having a great year. Sam and Lily are planning their wedding, and Markus and April are already discussing starting a family. So, while we watched the game, the women were hunched over an array of bridal magazines, speaking in excited tones while they sipped virgin cocktails.
The following two weeks have been pure torture. I’ve managed to maintain a respectful distance, only speaking with Ivy about assignments I need her to mark and limiting my time in the lecture room after class. I’m trying to be good. I haven’t quite brought myself to regret the kiss, but I’m doing my best to ensure it doesn’t happen again. For her part, she’s fully engaged in her other classes and a study group. We’ve had little time to meet alone and face-to-face with the term well underway. This is good.
Or so I tell myself.
I try to keep myself distracted so I won’t dwell on her taste, her scent, how my hands felt on her narrow waist, or cupping her soft cheeks.
It doesn’t work.
I’ve used the gym equipment I set up in my spare room more in the last few weeks than I have in the last few months. Always followed by a cold shower.
Ivy’s presence pulls at me like gravity. Her eyes follow my every move. She anticipates my needs, and when she rises from her seat during class to assist me in some way, my gaze involuntarily follows the gentle sway of her hips or the way her hair swings back and forth across the back of her neck when she has it pulled up in a ponytail. I imagine it wrapped around my hand, flowing over my bare chest, or down my thighs. The air between us crackles with unsaid promises and secrets we’re both desperate to dive into and explore.
What hurts the most is the confused looks she gives me, wondering why I haven’t said or done anything since that night.She feels rejected and it kills me.
But being so close, within touching distance, but not allowed to, is pure agony. It’s the sweetest torment, knowing what her mouth tastes like and being unable to claim it. Wondering if the rest of her body is as lovely. I pretend to scan the room, but my eyes are traitors, returning to her repeatedly. No one else seems to notice. If they only knew the wildfire of yearning threatening to consume their composed professor—the blog from last year pops into my brain, causing me to stumble during my lecture, so I cough to cover the misstep.
I blame that on Dean Martens. I’ve passed him in the hall several times since kissing Ivy. And each time, guilt crashes over me like a tsunami wave. Especially since I’ve been doing the final read-through of my tenure dossier. My hands start to shake each time I look at it or see him. The submission deadline is days away, and I don’t want to fuck this up.
I also don’t know if I can stay away from Ivy.
My resistance is running out.
Midterm test day comes, and with it, an air of tension. Students file in, eyes bleary from late-night studying. I’m waiting for Ivy to arrive, my anxiety teetering on the edge as, one after another, my students take a seat, some desperately reading their notes in a last-ditch attempt to memorize the material.
The room is almost full, and Ivy hasn’t yet arrived. I start to worry. Is she sick? Has she been hurt? Did she miss the train into the city? Even though I’m sitting at the desk, my head down as though I’m reviewing the papers in front of me, my attention is glued to the door.
Finally, she walks through it and stops. Her long red hair is in a ponytail today, and it swishes against her back as her gaze sweeps over the room, searching for an empty chair.
With no small amount of effort, I pull my eyes away and do the same, realizing there isn’t one. The room is packed. It never fails; everyone shows up on test day. Even kids I’ve never seen before.
Ivy looks at me, and I motion to the chair beside me. There happens to be an extra chair by the desk today, a chair from the break-out room. Probably pulled out during the previous class. Today, she’ll be close enough to touch.
But I won’t.
I stand and wait for her to make her way to the front of the room and take the seat before I hand out the test papers and give my instructions.
I could have used the break-out room myself while they did the test. I could have put Ivy in the break-out room to take the test. Neither solution is suitable or acceptable. I retake my own seat next to Ivy not the least bit disappointed in the situation.
Today, she’s wearing a thigh-length black wrap-knit dress that molds her body, black tights, and brown knee-high boots with a small heel. I close my eyes and breathe in her lavender scent, letting it fill my nose and work through my senses to calm me.It’s the first time I’ve been so relaxed in days.
The rest of the class is hunch over their papers, lost in a world of essay responses and character analyses. Only the sounds of papers being flipped, the occasional cough, or feet shuffling on the floor can be heard.
Ivy cocks her head, tilting it enough to see me. “Professor Ashe?” Her voice is a soft caress, all innocence and hidden depths. But her eyes are full of questions.
“Later.”
She stares at me for a long moment and then nods before she turns back to the test.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t concentrate on my work for the next hour and a half. Her presence fills my mind and distracts me completely. Something needs to be done before one of us explodes.
The last student trickles out of the classroom, and with their exit, a heavy sigh of relief is expelled from my chest. The door clicks shut, sealing us in a silence that pulses with expectation. My heart drums an exhilarating and terrifying rhythm—I want Ivy, completely, irrevocably.
And she wants me. Which floors me, to be honest. She could have any other boy her age, but she wants me. That knowledge is potent, I’m not going to lie.
“Harrison?” The sound of her voice neutralizes the tension that vibrates through my body.
The inexplicable need to close the distance between us is almost unbearable. But I’m worried that if I lay a finger on her, get close enough to smell her, see the shades of green in her eyes, and watch her pupils dilate, I won’t stop this time.
I admit I’m weak.
She looks up at me with those wide eyes, an ocean of purity and curiosity. “Is everything okay? We’ve hardly talked since… Are you mad at me?”
“No, Ivy. I’m not mad at you,” I assure her, my voice husky. I’m achingly aware of her proximity. It would be so easy to kiss her again, to drop my mouth over hers and lose myself in the sweet taste of her mouth.
But not here.
“Listen, Ivy...” I start, trailing off as I search for the right words. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that patience is a virtue, especially now. “I want you to know that whatever happens between us, it has to be your choice.” I don’t want her to feel obligated or to think I expect anything from her. Given the things she’s said and that kiss, I think she wants me as much as I want her, but I need to be sure. I need her to make the move.
She nods, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks—a delicate bloom of pink that makes me wonder if she gets darker red when she comes.
“Here.” I scribble down my address on a scrap of paper from my desk and the key code to my apartment building in case the doorman isn’t around when or if she arrives.
She takes the folded paper, her fingers brushing against mine and a shot of heat surges through me.
“Harrison, I—” she begins, but I hold up a hand, stopping her mid-sentence.
“No pressure. If you want... more, come to my apartment. I’ll be home tonight. And if you don’t, that’s fine too.”
“Okay.”
“Only if you want to, Ivy. No obligations, no expectations.”The lie tastes bitter on my tongue because, hell, I expect the world to conspire in my favor.
Her eyes meet mine, and I see the same fire, the same hunger I feel mirrored back at me.
I have to leave her now before I press her up against the wall, bend her over the desk, or lock her in that tiny room and show her how much I want her.
Leaving the note in her trembling hand, I pack up my briefcase with exaggerated slowness simply to torture myself. With one last longing glance, I finally force my feet toward the door. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done—walking away from her, not knowing if she’ll follow.
As I stride down the hallway, my mind races with possibilities. Will she come? Does she resist the pull between us as poorly as I do? If she does, will she stay the night? Or will she only want to talk?
The streets of New York City are a symphony of chaos and life, but none of it matters, I don’t see or hear a thing as I hail a cab. The city lights are a blur as they pass by the car’s window, my thoughts consumed by red waves and green eyes the entire drive.
At home, I wait in the quiet of my penthouse while my heart pounds loudly in the silence. For a while, I pace the length of my living room, each step a drumbeat of impatience. My apartment feels too big, too empty, too quiet. Then I grab a cold beer and sink into my couch, trying to focus on anything other than the ticking clock, the weight of waiting, the hope that she’ll knock on my door.
Time stretches thin and taut as I wait for Ivy to decide whether to leap into the unknown with me or not. I’m ready to catch her and dive headfirst into whatever this is.But only if she says yes.
And if she says yes, then tonight we’ll pick up where we left off a couple of weeks ago, this time without interruptions.