Yes! Professor Hendrix

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Lena Morrow

It was a dumb mistake!! The kind you replay in your head again and again, even though it’s already too late.

I had just finished writing one of the filthiest scenes I’d done in months—sweaty, breathy, absolutely unfit for public consumption.

Zaysh, my mean-ass main character, was finally getting what he’d been longing for.

Ayoka had been working my damn nerves—even I was mad writing that female lead.

She was heartbroken as hell, but shit, I wanted her to lay down and open those legs to that fine-ass, tattooed prince who’d been chasing her for so damn long.

“I need to feel your touch. I crave you, Zaysh. I want you so bad.”

“And my dick, Hera? You want that inside you too?”

Her eyes drop to my dick, widening at the sight of my hard-on. She's fucking terrified.

“I've never seen one so big,” she admits, worried. “I don't know if I can take it.”

With my eyes locked on hers, I move in closer, settling back between her thighs. My hand rests on her hip as my lips press against the curve of her neck.

“Touch it, Ayoka.”

She shivers at these words and I repeat them.

“Grab the monster that scares you and show it who's boss,” I growl into her ear. “It’s yours now. Tell me you'll tame it – make it submit to your every fucking desire.”

“Uche…” She moans, digging her nails into my back.

“Touch your dick, Hera...”

Reading through my first draft of the scene all over again, right in the middle of my writing high, an email popped up. I opened it while chewing my bottom lip, still mentally deep in the scene.

Subject:Field Trip Form – Due Tomorrow

From: Mr. Nolan Hendrix

Dear Parents and Guardians,

I hope this message finds you well. We are organizing a field trip to the Natural History Museum next Friday as part of our science unit on ecosystems and biodiversity.

Please note that permission slips were handed out to students earlier today. Kindly check with your child and return the signed form by tomorrow, Wednesday, at the latest.

If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to reply to this email.

Best regards,

Mr. Nolan Hendrix

4th Grade Teacher

St. Gabrielle Academy

“Marisa!” I shouted down the hall to my 9-year-old daughter. “Did you give me that permission slip for the field trip?”

“It’s on the fridge!”

Marisa was in fourth grade at St. Gabrielle Academy—one of the best Catholic schools in Chicago.

It was about a ten-minute drive from our place, which worked out perfectly for me.

It was just enough time to drop her off, grab a coffee, and come back home to ease into my writing day.

My routine had found its rhythm. Mornings were for writing, afternoons for errands, cleaning, cooking—whatever needed to be done—before it was time to pick her up.

Once she was back, we tackled homework, then carved out a little mother-daughter time. A snack, a laugh, maybe a cuddle on the couch. The single mom life hadn’t always been easy, but I never complained. I handled mine. I was proud of the home I had built for us.

As for Marisa’s father... that had always been the part that knotted my chest. He decided to show up again after five years of denying her.

At first, I wanted to shut him out completely, block him from her life like he’d done when he left; but I let him in.

For Marisa. Problem was, he came and went like fog—drifting in when it suited him, vanishing just as quick. No calls. No consistency.

It used to break her. I’d seen the way her little shoulders slumped when she waited and he never came. But lately she had stopped asking. Stopped expecting. As if even she had figured out he wasn’t worth holding her breath.

I walked over, grabbed the field trip form, filled it out, and came back to my desk, re-reading my scene.

“You're so fucking wet, Hera... Is that all for me?" I rasp, pushing my finger inside her.

She gasps, lets go of my dick, and digs her teeth into my shoulder, clinging to me. I rub her pussy, nice and slow.

"Don't stop, Zaysh...I want you so bad," she moans as I slide two fingers deep into her pussy.

“I’m gonna fuck you so slow your legs forget how to walk. ”

“Hmm, maybe not now for the last sentence,” I said, still thinking through the best lines in my scene.

Before deciding whether to cut it, I copied the entire section and opened my editing software. Without thinking, I pasted the text and hit send.

And then… silence. My eyes widened as I stared at the screen.

“ No. No. No. NO! ” My voice cracked.

Panicked, I tried to click undo but Gmail’s tiny grey “ Message sent ” was final. The kind of final that ruins lives.

My erotic scene was now in the inbox of Mr. Nolan. My daughter’s fourth-grade teacher.

I dropped my forehead to the keyboard. “I’m going to jail.”

I sent a second email as fast as I could.

Mr. Nolan,

I am so sorry. That message was meant for another document and sent in error. Please accept my sincere apologies.

– Lena Morrow

I hovered over my inbox like it held the power to end me. Minutes later, he replied. Just one word.

OK.

– Nolan Hendrix

What the hell did that mean? “Okay, you’re forgiven? Okay, you’re a disgusting human? Okay, I’m reporting you to the school board?”

I didn’t sleep that night. I kept replaying everything, twisting under the sheets like a worm on a hook.

The next morning, I woke up with dark circles and no dignity.

I dropped Marisa off at the gym for morning prayer — St Gabrielle tradition, where all the kids gather class — which meant her teacher was alone in the classroom. That was exactly what I needed. Or didn’t . Depending on how badly I wanted to embarrass myself again.

When I saw him, I froze.

I’d only caught a glimpse of him from across the parking lot on the first day of school.

Marisa’s father had insisted on doing drop-off and pick-up that day—the one rare time he chose to show up , just so he could bring it up for the next three months.

I barely got a look at Mr. Nolan from the entrance. Didn’t register all... this .

Hell, he was fine as fuck. The kind of fine that creeps up on you, slow and dangerous, like realizing you’ve been staring too long and can’t remember when it started.

He stood just inside the classroom door, sorting papers.

White shirt stretched across broad-ass shoulders, tucked into dark slacks that clung to his waist. Sleeves rolled up just enough to tease the tattoos slipping out.

Black ink curling around his forearms, veins popping every time he moved.

My eyes went there first. Stayed there too long.

His skin was rich and warm brown like caramel kissed by sunlight.

Sharp jaw, low beard trimmed just right, and lips so full it was disrespectful.

The kind of lips that made you wonder how they’d feel on your neck.

Then on your pussy. Then everywhere else.

He was sex wrapped in discipline. Danger in a white shirt and polished shoes.

He looked like the kind of man who’d fuck you against a chalkboard and still help your kid with their homework after.

Our eyes met.

And I— I paused.

Shit.

He walked toward me with slow, measured steps. “Miss Morrow…”

I swallowed hard. I didn’t know he would recognize me so easily. “Mr. Nolan. I just wanted to apologize again … in person. That email?—”

“So you write porn?” he cut me off. His voice calm, but a look in his eyes I couldn’t read.

I felt my eyes snap open in surprise, the question catching me completely off guard.

“Excuse me? I… No… I write erotic novels,” I corrected, my heart racing.

He stepped in closer. Just enough to invade that thin line of personal space adults usually respect. His cologne hit me first. Something warm and smoky, like cedar and spice, subtle but impossible to ignore. It didn’t just smell good—it settled in my throat, lingered behind my ribs.

I swallowed hard.

The room was technically empty, but the hallway buzzed with early morning footsteps—teachers, parents, maybe even a stray student wandering in by mistake.

Anyone could’ve walked through that door.

We weren’t doing anything wrong. Not exactly.

But standing that close, with the air between us thick and charged, it definitely didn’t feel appropriate.

My heart knocked once. Then again.

His hands stayed tucked casually in his pockets, but his eyes locked onto mine like he had all day to study me. There was something slow about his stare. Intentional . The kind of look that makes you forget how to blink.

I could feel the heat rising up my neck.

Then he leaned in. Just a breath away. I felt the edge of his mouth near my ear, and my pulse tripped.

“I was gonna let it slide,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, velvet-smooth and almost too quiet. “But now that I have you in front of me…I’ma make you feel every fucking word you wrote.”

His breath grazed my skin, warm and unhurried.

My lips parted. I blinked.

“What—what did you just?—”

He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes. “I can’t wait, Miss Morrow. ‘ I’m gonna fuck you so slow your legs forget how to walk,’” he said, repeating my damn line.

Then he just turned around and walked back to his desk. Sat down like he hadn’t just set my whole damn body on fire. Grabbed his documents and started reading, calm as hell. Like that filthy-ass whisper in my ear never even happened.

And I stood there. Frozen. Wet. Speechless.

My legs felt shaky. My chest was tight. And I couldn’t stop replaying what just happened.

I barely had time to recover before I heard sneakers and voices echoing down the hallway. The kids were coming back from morning prayer.

Shit.

I turned and slipped out quickly, head down, moving fast like I had somewhere important to be. All I knew was I couldn’t let Marisa see me like this. Because there was no way I could explain why I looked like I’d just had an orgasm standing in front of her fourth-grade teacher.