Chapter Eight
Lacey
One restless night, an ice-cold shower, and my blood still simmers through my veins like lava.
Kissing Olly was perfection… but so, so wrong.
Every time I closed my eyes last night, my mouth tingled as though his lips were right there, and the roots of my hair throbbed, remembering his tight grip.
He didn’t taste like cherry cola like I expected; instead, he tasted like good times and bad decisions. His kiss consumed me, even in my dreams. Imagining the soft stroke of his tongue on my nipple and shallow grunts beside me almost felt real.
I wanted that fantasy—Olly’s hand on his cock, teeth scraping my nipple.
But it was a dream, and I’m back to reality this morning, with a deadline to meet and a professor to seduce.
I walk to our usual spot by the brick wall outside the art building, expecting to see Olly.
But he’s not here.
An uncomfortable feeling churns in my gut. Is he skipping class because of the kiss?
I’d escaped his apartment early, before he woke, needing a fresh change of clothes and time to compose myself before we spoke. I hadn’t considered if he would need to process what happened too.
Last night, Olly tried to be a good friend, and I devoured his mouth like some rabid, sex-starved loser.
And then I dreamed about all the dirty things I wanted to do to him.
Ugh.
Did I moan his name in my sleep?
I don’t even remember touching myself, but my fevered dreams and lust-stained fingers were evidence enough.
He’s probably at home trying to figure out how to give the I-love-you-as-a-friend speech.
Dread tightens my stomach, but before it can settle into panic, the crowd parts, and he’s striding toward me like he owns the campus, all eyes on him.
His on mine.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Silence fills the space between us.
Here it comes, the it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech.
Olly’s mouth lifts up on one side. “Fun night?”
I silently breath out a sigh of relief, his playful tone resetting all my worries. Maybe I didn’t give away my dream.
Meeting his smirk with one of my own, I shrug my shoulders. “Eh, nothing special.”
He clucks his tongue and shakes his head, but his grin is infectious.
“Why are you late?” I ask.
“I slept in.” He lowers his eyelids and then stares at me from beneath his lashes. “My bed was warmer than usual and too cozy to leave.”
He winks, then rolls his gaze down my cream blouse before it lands on the blue cotton settling above my knees. “You wore the skirt.”
My fingers flutter across the light fabric, plucking invisible pieces of lint. “Does it look okay?”
“Don’t do that.”
His gruff tone has my eyes lifting to meet his. “Do what?”
“Doubt yourself,” he says. “You could wear an oversized sweater and snow pants and still look fuckable.”
I flush at the bluntness of his compliment as he throws his arm over my shoulder and leads me into class. His closeness ignites the memories from last night, and my heart splutters, anticipating something that won’t happen again.
Because Olly is just a friend.
Time to seduce the professor.
The seminar room is smaller than the lecture hall, with desks and chairs lined up in rows. The setting is intimate, with more chance of the professor noticing me.
I spot two empty seats in the middle row, but Olly walks toward the front.
Weird. He usually likes to sit in less conspicuous spots. I follow and take the empty seat to his left, set up my laptop, and wait for Professor Gibson to turn up.
Olly’s fingers brush the delicate skin beneath my neck, catching me by surprise. “What are you doing?”
I hold my breath as he pops two buttons open on my blouse, exposing the lace edge of my bra. “Being your wingman.”
His mouth is close to my neck, sending a warm rush of breath across my skin and my thoughts spinning back to last night, his couch, his lips.
Wingman. Just a wingman…
Professor Gibson’s footsteps draw my attention to the front of the room. It’s the redirection I need. Seducing Professor Gibson is the goal—kissing Olly was the research.
Professor Gibson’s styled hair and dress pants make him look younger today, or it could be the lines of ink peeking out of the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.
A tattoo?
The romance author in me rubs her hands together in excitement. Does the professor have a bad-boy side?
Can I bring it out?
My leg bounces with anticipation—or nerves. I’m so close to transitioning into this new phase of my writing and life. It’s exciting and empowering, so why is my skin clammy and my stomach churning?
“You don’t have to do this.” Olly’s knee bumps mine. “I’ve swallowed enough cum to fuel your books for the next decade.”
It would be so easy to go back to that routine, waiting for Olly to call and losing myself to the fantasies his experiences conjure. But I need to stop spending my life authoring Olly’s exploits and wishing I was in one of them.
It’s time for my own experiences. “I’m doing this.”
I open a blank document on my screen and flesh out a scene outline while it unfurls in my thoughts.
Inciting incident. Professor has his back facing the class, busy preparing the lecture. He turns around to see the open knees of a student in the front row. Her pussy is bare beneath her skirt.
“Fuck me.” Olly groans over my shoulder, then slides down into his seat.
His reaction rejuvenates my confidence. Maybe I can write something using my own experience that isn’t boring as shit.
“Morning, everyone,” Professor Gibson greets the class, his attention roaming over the room but never settling on one person.
I try not to feel disappointed that he didn’t single me out with one glance and start a flirty, nonverbal conversation like a character in one of my books. After all, this is reality, not the fantasy I’m trying to conjure.
“After completing this week’s assigned reading, can anyone tell me their thoughts on why romance is so popular today?” Professor Gibson taps his fingers against the desk. “Anyone?”
Silence greets him. Most students fidget in their seats, looking away, too embarrassed to admit they devoured every assigned reading and creamed their underwear simultaneously.
“Freedom,” I blurt out.
Professor Gibson’s attention shifts to me, along with everyone else’s.
My already clammy hands feels like they’ve been dipped in icy water. L.A. Wright describes throbbing cocks in private, but in public, shy Lacey hasn’t had sex in years and hates being the center of attention. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?
“Go on,” Professor Gibson says, his curious gray eyes on me now.
Mission accomplished, I suppose.
I swallow my nerves and force myself to step into the role of protagonist. “Fiction is safe. It gives the reader the freedom to escape into fantasy and satisfy cravings without jeopardizing their safety.”
Professor Gibson’s hip rests on his desk, legs outstretched as he listens intently. It only takes a moment for his eyes to notice my open buttons.
Quickly, he darts his gaze up to a professor-appropriate level.
I sit a little straighter. “A reader is no longer working a job they hate, lost in the mundane. The reader is seductive, tempting, taking what they want—a fantasy lover and the orgasm their fingers coax out as they read.”
There’s a sudden intake of collective breath, as though the room itself gasped.
Olly muffles a groan.
Professor Gibson stares at me, his knuckles white as his hand grips the edge of the desk. “That’s very… insightful.” He clears his throat. “Anyone else?”
I slink lower in my seat, but it’s impossible to hide.
Why did Olly pick the front row?
Why did I open my big mouth?
Why did I think I’d be capable of seducing anyone?
“Damn, Lacey.” Olly whimpers. “Are you trying to make every guy walk out of here hunched over?”
I turn my head toward Olly as slowly as possible to not draw any more attention to my embarrassment. “Huh?”
He nods toward the front of the room where Professor Gibson now sits behind his desk. “He’s not sitting because it’s comfortable.”
“You think he’s hard?” I whisper. I don’t remember the last time a guy had such a visceral reaction to me.
Olly looks down at my open buttons. “I can guarantee it.”
My gaze slips to the desk covering Olly’s lap, and I picture denim tightening, a thick ridge of flesh hardening beneath. Is Olly hard?
A heaviness fills my breasts.
Nope. Do not go there, Lacey.
I focus on the professor. What did Olly say about flirting last night?
Eye contact.
Once the professor looks at me again, I’ll make eye contact and smile, showing him I’m interested. Embarrassment gives way to purpose.
Ten minutes pass, then another ten, but the professor looks everywhere except in my direction.
Mortification prickles my skin. I’ve embarrassed him with my open buttons and by basically announcing to the entire room that I masturbated to the assigned readings.
I fight the stinging in my eyes and reach for my buttons, trying to tuck them back into place.
“What are you doing?” Olly whispers.
“Stopping before I embarrass myself even more.”
If I go to the administration building today, maybe I can change courses without penalty. The professor will forget about the girl who flashed her bra and talked about self-pleasure in an academic setting.
Olly curls two fingers around my wrist and tugs my hand away. “You’re not stopping.”
I shake my head. “This was a mistake.”
I seduce on paper, not in real life.
“You can do this,” Olly murmurs. “You have no idea how sexy you are.”
The girly side of me wants to believe him, but the realist knows I have no clue what I’m doing, and he’s just saying what any friend would say to make me feel better.
His brows pull together in frustration. “You can have whatever you want. You just have to go for it.”
There’s a bite to his tone, and those words again… What I want…
He drops his palm onto my skirt and, without breaking eye contact, inches his fingers down to the hem, slips beneath, and drags the fabric up my thighs.
My pulse spikes, and I slam my legs together, trapping his hand. “What are you doing?”