11. Ivy
Chapter 11
Ivy
T he buzz of a thousand academic minds hums through the corridors and classrooms like bees in springtime, but I barely notice. Books hugged against my chest, backpack over my shoulder, and a lemongrass tea in my hand; I weave through the sea of students with practiced ease at this point. I slide into a seat in the front row as the second hand ticks its final tock before class starts. The energy in the room shifts. And it's not from my classmates. I don't need to turn around to know Harrison has arrived.
Anticipation crackles in the air like static as he strides between the seats to the front of the room. It's ridiculous that he commands attention without trying. Today, his tailored pants and crisp shirt are too not so casual. He’s definitely not your average professor.
Every girl in the room notices him. Wants him. I'm not immune, and I've had him. Or rather, he's had me. Can the others tell? Can they see the difference in me? Since that night, I feel like everyone knows. I've even skipped calls with Mom, not wanting her to guess based on some inflection in my voice. I’ve promised to call in a few days when the aura of my missing virginity has faded.
“Morning, Ivy.”Harrison greets me, his voice silky smooth as he passes. His hand brushes against my shoulder as it swings with his steps.Or did he do it on purpose?
“Good morning, Profession Ashe.”Pushing my hair behind my ear, I avoid looking anywhere but straight ahead.
He stops and turns, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. Is it my imagination, or did his stare linger in a few spots? Because those areas of my body certainly fluttered.
“Everything okay?”Concern flanks his tone, and I can feel the weight of his gaze, studying me like I'm some kind of intricate poem he needs to dissect and parse on the chalk board.
“Yep, all good,”I reply, a little too quickly, and flip my textbook open. If I can lose myself in the words, maybe I can forget the warmth of his skin, the way my name sounded on his lips, the way his mouth felt on my…
A frown spreads across his sculpted face, as well as a momentary display of confusion before he lets it go, all too aware that now’s not the time or the place. He spins away, giving me a welcome break from his penetrating gaze. As he begins the lecture, his words wash over me like waves, but occasionally, I sense his attention returning to me.
“Let's discuss the...”
His voice fades into the background as I automatically scribble notes, my handwriting a mess of curves and lines, a mirror of my thoughts. I came here for knowledge, power—the power to make something of myself. But this magnetic pull towards Harrison threatens to upend everything.
And I can't tell if I should be excited or terrified.
Later, in Harrison's office, where I'm trying to focus on reviewing and grading last week's assignments, my concentration wanes, and I gaze out the window. It's been raining, leaving the sky sad and grey and the trees naked as the last of their leaves fall to the ground. There's even a scent of snow in the air.
But inside his quiet office, I'm caught in limbo, wondering where things stand with him. We have yet to talk about that night at his apartment. About the night I have him my virginity.
School has kept us both busy, and he's mentioned the upcoming review of his tenure package. I know that means a lot to him. It’s important. But when I sit in class and watch him, while I listen to other girls speculate about what he’s like in bed, I can't help but wonder if I was a one-and-done. Was I a disappointment? Did I do something wrong? Am I too young? Maybe I didn't satisfy him.
My phone rings, and I dig it out of my purse without looking at caller ID. “Hello?”
“Ivy, honey, I can’t believe you finally answered. How are you?”
“Oh, hi, Mom.”
“How’s school? Busy I bet. Have you made any friends yet?”
Did Harrison count? “Yes, Mom. We've been having lunch together and studying together sometimes.”It's not a complete lie. Sandra and Deanna are in my Shakespeare class, and we bonded over Twelfth Night. Plus, they're in the same study group as I am.
“Oh, I'm so glad to hear that. And how are your classes going?”
“Good. I'm doing well so far.”
“Are you coming home for Thanksgiving? We can send you the money for your flights.”
The holiday is still a few weeks away, and I have yet to give it much thought. “I'm not sure yet. It will depend on my assignments.”
I can hear the disappointment in her sigh, but she's trying not to let on.
“I'll try, Mom. I promise.”I'm sure she's smiling while she fights a few tears. “And even if I can't make it for Thanksgiving, I'll be home soon after for Christmas.”
We talk for a few more minutes, and I tell her about the weather, the new plants I purchased for my apartment, and the homeless man I brought a blanket to one day on my way into the city. I ask how Dad is doing and get the gossip from home. I miss my parents, as I know they miss me. As an only child, I'm sure the house feels empty without me there every day. Soon, we say our goodbyes, and I'm back to staring out the window again.
It's been days since Harrison and I crossed that line—days of small talk, sidelong glances, and me pretending that I'm not thinking about his hands on my skin every damn second. I hate that I got spooked and ran out of his home. But I had no idea who his visitor was, and I didn’t want to get him in trouble. When the Uber driver dropped me off, I texted Harrison to let him know I'd arrived safely home and thanked him for the evening. But I thought thanking him for having sex with me seemed wrong, so I deleted that message and instead told him I enjoyed the evening and everything that had happened. I did thank him for making me feel special and taking care of me afterward.
After that, a major dose of embarrassment settled in. I dodged our usual post-class conversations with excuses about studying or doing group projects for other classes for a few days. He seemed to buy it, but there was always a furrow of concern between those striking brows that told me he sensed something was off.And then when I finally relaxed about it, the tables seemed to reverse.
In a few short weeks, I’ve developed some hard-core feelings for Harrison. Because I have no experience with relationships I don’t know if this is normal or not. Anything more than friendship, or professor-student-TA is risky. But I don't want a simple friendship. And I’d give up the TA position in a heartbeat. Because I want more—so much more.
Flipping through the papers before me, I try to absorb the words. But they blur into a meaningless jumble, taunting me with their clarity when all I feel is muddled. Will Harrison give up on me before I find the courage to tell him how I really feel? Will he even believe me this early in our relationship—if what we've done and the little time we've spent together could even be defined as a relationship.
It's getting late, and I've been alone in the office for two hours; my only company is the hum of traffic and the occasional far-off siren. Swiveling in the chair, I stretch, and my fingers graze something unexpected. I turn my head—Harrison's leather jacket is draped over the back of the neighboring chair.
It's such an ordinary thing, but my heart stutters. His scent clings to the fabric—a mix of sandalwood and something distinctly him—and hits me like a freight train, reigniting memories of tangled sheets, whispered promises, and the thrill of my first time. The multiple orgasms. How it felt when he was deep inside my body.
“Damn it,”I curse under my breath, standing abruptly. My legs carry me to the chair before my brain can catch up, my fingers tracing the jacket's lapel. Lifting it off the chair as though it's the most precious item ever, I bring it to my face, shove it under my nose, close my eyes, and inhale deeply.
My body responds instantly. My nipples tighten. My pussy flutters and a hefty sigh falls from my lips.
I want him.
Logic screams that this is crazy, but desire is louder in my brain. I look around the empty office—the desk with its neatly stacked files and papers, the soft glow of my computer screen, the door I forgot to lock—and a reckless urge takes hold.
My skirt, a plaid number that's more cute than practical, rucks up easily and without a moment’s hesitation or any sense of caution, I slide a hand down my waist, past the elastic of my panties. As my fingers find the heat between my thighs, I bite my lip to stifle a moan and lean back against the desk, widening my legs.
Good lord, all I need are a pair of black Mary Janes, and I probably look like the classic schoolgirl in a porno.
“God, Harrison,”I whisper to the four walls, imagining it's his hand, not mine, caressing my folds. His fingers, not mine, slipping between my slick lips. The pad of his thumb, not mine, dancing over my stiff clit.
The image in my mind is enough to send a rush of pleasure cascading through me, and I'm lost to it, chasing the high that only he has ever given me.
Outside, the city may be alive with a million stories, but here, it's me and the ghost of his touch frantically fluttering over my wet flesh, climbing toward a release that threatens to be woefully inadequate in comparison.
The sharp metallic clink of the doorknob jolts me back to reality, and before I can even process what's happening, the door swings open.
I blink open my eyes to find Harrison standing there, his eyes big and round as they take in the scene—me, skirt bunched around my hips, panting and flushed, two fingers plunged deep in my pussy.
“Fuck, Ivy...”His voice sounds more growl than words, and it hits me right in the sweet spot. He doesn’t ask questions. The door slams shut, and the lock clicks into place with a definitive sound that echoes in the charged air.
My heart hammers against my ribs, racing with anticipation and a touch of fear. But it's too late for second thoughts; Harrison's already crossing the room, his gaze laser focused on my fingers, predatory and intense.
He drops to his knees in front of me, his hands sliding up my thighs with purpose. “I can smell how needy you are,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin, his face right in there. “God, Ivy, do you know how often I dream of this? How many times I've wanted to bring you to this office to do this? Or how many times since the other night I've thought about finding you, and begging you to simply let me kiss you again?”
“Harrison,”I whisper, half-protest, half-plea, but then his mouth is on me, and coherent thought evaporates. He devours me with an urgency that borders on desperation, and I'm helpless under the onslaught, gripping the edge of the desk to keep from sliding to the floor. The world narrows down to the sensation of his tongue, the pressure of his lips, the relentless drive of his fingers. I'm close, so close, teetering on the brink when he rears back, leaving me bereft and wanting.
“Stand up.”His voice is so rough with lust that I hardly recognize it.
My limbs are shaky as he spins me around and bends me over the desk. Papers scatter as he sweeps them aside, his actions deliberate and frenzied. All I hear is the tearing of foil, then there's no time for niceties, no slow build-up, no testing to see if I'm ready. It's raw and primal, and when he enters me, it's with a force that steals my breath.
“Yes!”I gasp, gripping the opposite edge of the desk until my knuckles turn white.
“Say it again.”He sets a punishing pace that has everything inside me tightening, coiling like a spring, ready to explode.
“Yes, Harrison, yes,”I repeat louder this time, and it spurs him on. He drives deeper, pumps harder, faster, obliterating any lingering doubts or fears. It doesn't matter that hundreds of students are walking the halls outside that door. Or that outside, the rain starts to pelt the window amid a sea of red taillights as people end their workday and start the trek home. At this moment, we're the only two people in the world, lost in each other, in the reckless abandonment that consumes us both. It's not gentle or sweet—it's passion stripped down to its most elemental form and perfect in its intensity.
“Come for me, Ivy,”He urges, his hand slipping between us to strum my clit, a quick flutter designed to push me over the edge.
I fall apart, breaking into countless fragments as he joins me, his name a mantra on my tongue as we weather the storm together, our bodies glistening. Our hearts pounding. His chest heaving against my back as he fights for air.
For those precious seconds, nothing else matters—not the rules we're breaking, not the consequences we'll probably face. It's just us, here and now, the rest of the world be damned. I'm exactly where I want to be.
But I'm also smart enough to know this can't last.