Chapter 10 #2
Yep, it’s definitely a trap. He waits for a long while, knowing full well that he shouldn’t engage. He even leaps up from the chair too quickly, strains a back muscle, and hobbles into a stretch, because thirty-six hits him hard some days. Speaking of attractive…
He’s been trying to deny these feelings because it’s not unique, being attracted to Ramona.
Of course she’s gorgeous, but she’s also brash and slyly funny in a way that makes him hyper-alert.
Like he never knows what she’s going to say or do next.
Then there are those freckles on her shoulder he’s been trying very hard not to think about.
Admitting he has a crush feels beneath him, somehow. The professor and the pop star. Ramona Wilder, slumming it with a mere mortal. He almost snorts at the absurdity of it, because whatever this is he feels, there’s no universe in which it’s mutual.
That and the Macallan must be why he decides, fuck it. They’re not living in the real world right now anyway. For all he knows, she’s sitting there drinking too.
Nick: Yes.
Very.
He isn’t sure why he adds the very in a second message, and already regrets it, as though he’s given up something she can use as ammunition. When he goes to delete it, he realizes she’s already seen it. Well. Changing his name and fleeing the country is always an option.
Ramona: so tell me. what would you do if you had an attractive girl there with you right now?
Nick: Depends on whether she’s attracted to me, too.
Ramona: let’s say she is.
Jesus. That makes him swallow hard, even though the conversation is hypothetical. Purely fiction. This could go wrong in so many ways, so he decides to keep it chaste.
Nick: Then I imagine I’d play her some records. Ask her about her life.
Cook her dinner.
He hopes this makes her laugh, at least a little.
Ramona: 1 out of 5 stars
you really are out of practice
She seems to love being in control of this, so he punts the question back to her. Let her be the one to sweat it out.
Nick: What would *you* want me to do?
Three dots appear and disappear, each yanking up his heart rate. She could screenshot this and show it to the dean. It’s probably already enough for him to get a severe warning, if not worse.
Ramona: well, first I’d say thank you for dinner
then I’d want your full attention on me. maybe you’d give me another compliment, if you’re feeling generous
Nick: Ha, ha.
Is “relentless” a compliment?
Ramona: I’ll take it
then you’d move closer, and I would too. maybe you’d find some excuse to touch me, your hand in my hair or at my waist. you’d be breathing a little faster. pupils dilated. this perfect look of anticipation right before you kiss me.
after that…I think I’d want you to lose control a bit. I’d want to see what desperation looks like on you.
hypothetical you, that is
Nick: Of course.
Even though his brain knows this, his body needs the clarification.
His jeans zipper has grown tight, his whole face warm.
He hadn’t expected her to be so…detailed.
He thought they were talking about dating, but Ramona’s taken this somewhere more physical.
Somewhere that makes his vision blur as he struggles to cling to reason.
Ramona: maybe I’d want you to push me up against that desk in your office. have you ever done that, professor?
No, he types, certain he’ll never be able to look at his desk the same way again. He must already be drunk—that has to be the reason he’s not shutting this down. That would be a first.
Ramona: and then…and then you’d probably want to unbutton my shirt
Nick: I would.
Ramona: you’d put your mouth on me, and I’d throw my head back and tell you how good it feels
but you’d already know that, because I’d be moaning your name
And there goes the last shred of his willpower.
With his heart in his throat and his logic halfway to Maine, he unzips his jeans. Wraps a hand around his length, hard and hot and aching for relief. He’s dizzy, imagining his face between her breasts, her body pressed right up against him. The intoxicating scent of her perfume.
At some point the conversation changed from a faceless “her” to Ramona, specifically, and god, that’s dangerous. She’s twenty-six. Ten years younger than he is, a whole fucking decade, not to mention the fact that he is her professor.
As she keeps reminding him in her texts. He didn’t even know he found that sexy, someone calling him professor like that, but fuck, he does.
She’s twenty-six, and she’s famous, and she’s probably putting him on—but he hasn’t felt this good in so long, after he spent the last couple years desperate to make someone happy who’d already decided to move on. This wanted, even if none of it is real.
Ramona: maybe I’d want to tease you, though. I have a feeling you’d be fun to tease
(hypothetically)
(for practice)
The parentheticals barely register. That goddamn whisky, driving him to make bad choices. It’s a good thing he’s almost out of it.
You could, he types. Or you could let me drag my hands up your thighs and push up your skirt.
Ramona: I’m wearing a skirt?
Nick: Yes. To show off those gorgeous legs.
And to make it easier for me to touch you where you’re aching for it.
Ramona: because you’d want to feel how wet I am.
Nick: And are you?
He doesn’t know if she’s mocking him when she replies,
yes.
very.
And he doesn’t care. He grips his dick harder, moves his hand faster.
Her texts go quiet, and now he’s certain she’s doing the same thing, and that makes him feel less filthy as he strokes himself, wondering if she’s using her hand or a toy, if her pretty face is twisted in pleasure.
If any of this has made her blush or if she keeps that stoic, mildly amused expression even as she’s spreading her legs.
If she does this all the time, or if he’s her first.
Their messages are barely PG-13, and yet they’ve turned him feral. She’s always so in control that picturing her surrendered like this nearly makes him short-circuit. Maybe they’re similar in that way—determined to hold on to power at all costs.
He’s so close, a frantic spark of tension building at the base of his spine.
Christ, she’d be so beautiful, with her incredible hair sprawled across the pillow and his face between her legs.
He bites out a groan as he imagines her hips arcing off that pristine white bed.
A deep flush to her cheeks. The way she might tremble as she tries to hold on a little longer, not yet, almost there.
A few more strokes—and then he’s unraveling, coming in his hand with a gritted curse and a rush of hot breath.
Slowly, reality drips back in. The Velvet Underground on his record player. The pile of assignments in front of him.
He is in so much fucking trouble.
And then his phone blinks one more time.
Ramona: good night, professor ;)