Chapter Seven #2
“You made your choice already, didn’t you?” I tap my pencil against my chin as I stare up at my grizzly bear professor. The one with the massive shoulders and the defined nose I accidentally scrubbed my pussy against the other night.
My clit twitches just thinking about it.
He growls low under his breath, crosses his arms over his chest, and paces back down the lecture hall steps toward the podium.
“Last class we discussed the nuances of love and biology. We were determining whether love was a feeling that grew from emotion or rather if it was a biological phenomenon that was perpetrated through hormones. I asked you all to write a paper discussing what real love means. Would anyone like to share what they found?” His tone is flat, and his eyes dart back and forth between the class and Greg, who’s sliding notes to me as he talks.
They’re nothing serious, but it’s a cute gesture. I can’t remember the last time I passed notes back and forth in class. Everyone texts everything.
‘Do you like sweet tea?’
I scratch back a response as Professor Wilder speaks, wondering what it’s doing to him, knowing I’m not fully engaged in his lecture like I usually am.
‘No, but I love lemonade. Do you?’
The notes are cute and innocent, but our professor doesn’t know that, and given the way his jaw is locked, I’m guessing he’s beyond irritated.
“Greg, you’re very vocal today. Why don’t you tell me what you determined, given your research? How does one determine real love?”
“Oh,” Greg sits taller, glancing toward me before he speaks, “I guess I just examined, like… the whole idea of true love and, I mean, it’s what drives our lives, so it must be real.”
Professor Wilder kneads his forehead with his fingertips as though he’s frustrated. “That’s not the question, Greg. The question is, ‘what makes love real?’ If we’re going to debate its existence, we need to know what makes it real.”
He narrows his gaze as though he’s not quite following the train of thought. “Love is about impulse and sex. It’s about procreation. It grows from there. It’s all biology.”
Well, that’s not romantic in the slightest.
“Greg,” Professor Wilder clears his throat and stares up at the twenty-four-year-old university wrestler that brought us a championship last year, “you’re right.
The urge to have sex is almost always hormonal.
” He glances toward me. “One could even say the urges turn you into something you no longer recognize.” His gaze draws back toward Greg.
“Physical drive is one of the oldest impulses we have. What you do with that impulse is what creates chemistry.” He pauses and looks toward me with wide eyes, as though I’m supposed to respond.
My heart hammers and a bead of sweat forms as though I’ve missed something. Did he ask me a question? Have I been daydreaming again?
I glance away from his stare, then back again.
“What do you think, Ms. Carmichael?”
“About what?” I swallow hard as butterflies assault my stomach.
“About chemistry.” He emphasizes the word, and suddenly I’m back in his bedroom with his massive frame bent over me as he dishes out my punishments for showing up like a little tease.
Oh Lord!
My clit throbs and my panties dampen as I stare toward him like a deer in headlights, wondering if I should obey his command.
All of me wants to play along because it’s fun and hot, and I want to be the professor’s little pet, but he canceled us.
He decided it was too much. That we’d be better off ignoring our impulses, forgetting the chemistry.
I have no idea how long I’ve been quiet, but it’s long enough that half the class has turned their heads to stare at me.
“Ms. Carmichael, are you still with us?” Professor Wilder grins. “I’m asking you a question about chemistry.”
“I think chemistry is a void topic unless both people are fully invested.” My comment makes no sense, and it’s one hundred percent meant for him. If he wants to punish me, he’s going to have to come up here, bend me over, and spank my ass in front of the whole class.
“Really?” He tilts his head to the side, and a suppressed smile flickers across his face as the class turns back toward him, finally taking the heat off of me.
“Is it not the point of chemistry to be undeniable? Even if someone is trying to fight it, the attraction remains. That’s the point.
It’s meant to keep drawing people together until they succumb to the chemistry.
” He waits again with a locked stare that sends signal after primal signal straight to my core, and suddenly without thought, I’m scrubbing my thumb over my nipple like a horny, little simp.
He grins wide, tucking himself and his growing cock behind the podium.
I’m soaked. I’m soaked knowing what I do to him, what he does to me, what we’re doing in front of the entire class. Our secret language, my little punishment, the pull toward him despite our efforts to stop it.
“That feeling, that jolt of power,” the professor continues, “lowers defenses, creates trust, and encourages closeness. Chemistry,” he pauses again and waits as though I’m his filthy little puppet, “some believe that it’s instinctive pull creates a bond that develops into love.
” My pussy pulses and I scrub my thumb over my nipple again, resituating in my chair as he stares up at me from the front of the class.
He’s smiling again, and I feel like the dirtiest little girl that ever existed.
I love it.
Greg passes another note to me.
‘Shit, this guy is droning today.’
‘He’s not that bad.’ I scratch back a note to Greg and stare at Professor Wilder, who watches my note slide with a clenched fist.
“Anyone else have a theory they’d like to share?” the professor continues through a heavy exhale.
Tiffany’s hand shoots up.
Professor Wilder nods toward her, and suddenly I feel a shot of jealousy rise in my stomach like bile. I hate the way she looks at him. The way her hair glistens. The way she sounds when she talks, like she’s trying so hard.
“Well, I did a lot of research externally and internally on love. I found that chemistry can be built on physical attraction, mental attraction, and emotional attraction. It depends on what type of person you are.” Tiffany flips her hair back and twists it around her finger.
“Like, me… I like older men. They make me feel safe and protected.”
I roll my eyes, lean back in my chair, and cross my arms over my chest in disgust at her little display of nonsense.
Professor Wilder nods slowly. “That’s an interesting take, Tiffany. Thank you for sharing. Many philosophers have concluded that at the end of the day, attraction is primarily about energy.” He glances toward me with the same locked-jaw stare he had earlier. The one that made me touch my nipples.
Except this time, he said energy, and if I remember right, when he says energy, I’m supposed to touch myself. I’m supposed to tuck my hand into my little skirt in front of the whole class and rub my clit.
Oh God!
He waits, clearing his throat as he stares at me.
I’m not doing it! It’s crazy! It’s crazy, and there’s no way I could pull it off without everyone noticing!
I’m thinking over the repercussions of my actions as I slide close to the desk, tuck my hand beneath my skirt, past my panties, and onto my swollen clit.
I jump as my finger slides past the slick bump.
I moan out a hiccup of intentional pleasure, then pinch my lips together and stare forward as normally as possible.
He smiles, and his dark green eyes make contact with mine. “You’re doing good. Keep going.”
Umm… that was meant for me. He’s telling me how well I’m doing. He wants me to keep going. My stomach tightens as I circle my clit and try to keep my breath steady as my eyes dart around to make sure no one is noticing me.
They’re not. The only one staring is Professor Wilder as he attempts to regain his own composure.
“We’re, ugh, we’re going to keep going with this thought. The energy between two people creates this chemistry that’s undeniable,” his eyes don’t leave mine, “and I need someone else to provide the class with another theory.”
I press against my clit again and scrub as I brush my nipple with my free hand, trying not to cause a scene or accidentally moan again. Greg would for sure start to question me if I do that a second time, though maybe not. He seems content with the tents he’s sketching.
Another student rattles on about love, but I’m not comprehending any of it. I’m scrubbing my clit beneath the table, staring at Professor Wilder as he nods politely and glances back at me every few seconds.
“Right,” he comments, “that’s good. Don’t stop.”
The boy rattling on thinks the comments are for him, but I know they’re for me. He wants me to keep going. He wants me to come and soak my panties in front of the class.
I think he’s going to get what he wants. My thighs tense as Greg passes me another note.
This one I ignore, hoping he goes back to his doodling.
Professor Wilder glares at me. “Class is almost over. Please finish up.”
The student speaking acknowledges his remark, but again, I know the message is for me.
I scrub another circle around my clit, then all at once, my thighs tense and squeeze, my eyes tighten, and I crumble like a pastry, convulsing in the chair, biting back a moan, soaking my panties.
Greg’s hand lands on my arm. “Are you o—”
“Don’t touch her,” Professor Wilder barks.
Greg pulls his hand away and narrows his gaze toward the front of the class.
I’m panting, dizzy, desperate for my professor’s rough touch.
‘Are you okay?’ Greg scratches the question down on a piece of paper and hands it toward me.
I’m not okay. I’m really not okay.
“No,” I pant in a low whisper. “I’m thinking the dance isn’t a great idea. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” he whispers. “We can go another night or—”
“I, ugh, I think I’m not ready to date.” I don’t know what I’m saying. My head is still spinning, my fingers are sticky-wet, and my pussy is pulsing for the professor’s cock.
“Class is dismissed,” he barks. “Rosie, front of the class.”
“He’s weird,” Greg groans as he gathers his books. “He’s been staring at you the whole class. I think he’s got a thing for you.”
“What?” I shake my head. “No, that’s crazy. He asked me to work as his research assistant. I’m helping him with his book.”
Greg rolls his eyes. “Probably because he’s some sick, old pervert who preys on college girls. Just watch yourself.”
I nod as Greg stands and slides out behind me.
He’s kind of a nice guy, which goes to show how true the lesson today on chemistry really is.
It makes sense for me to date a guy like Greg.
He’s good-looking, smart, athletic, and he’s planning on being a doctor.
Plus, he’s my age. Overall, the guy is a total catch.
Despite all that, here I am, obsessed with a man nearly double my age. A man with lines on his face and gray in his beard. A man with history, a life, and experiences.
The one man in this entire place I shouldn’t be interested in.