Chapter 2
two
. . .
Flower
I've always believed that learning was the purest pleasure in life.
Books have been my sanctuary since I learned to read—worlds where I could be understood, where being quiet and curious wasn't a liability.
But Professor Davis's Advanced Literary Analysis seminar is testing that belief.
Not because the material is difficult—I can handle Joyce and Faulkner and Morrison—but because I can't concentrate when he looks at me with those dark, penetrating eyes.
When he called on me that first day, challenging my interpretation of "The Dead," my voice shook but my mind was clear.
Now, three weeks into the semester, my mind clouds every time he says my name.
"Miss Darling."
He always says it like that—formal, with a slight emphasis on "Miss" that makes it sound almost like a caress. No one has ever said my name that way before.
"Your essay on Woolf's stream of consciousness technique?"
I fumble through my folder, painfully aware of twenty pairs of eyes on me. My hand trembles slightly as I pass the paper forward.
Professor Davis scans the first page, his expression unreadable. At thirty-seven, he's the youngest tenured professor in the department, but there's nothing youthful about the way he commands the room. Every movement deliberate. Every word precisely chosen.
"An interesting thesis," he says finally. "You argue that Woolf's technique isn't merely aesthetic but fundamentally political—a feminist rejection of male narrative authority."
I swallow hard. "Yes, sir."
His eyes find mine, dark and intense. "Surprisingly insightful."
Two words. Just two words of praise, and heat blooms in my chest, spreading upward to my cheeks. I shouldn't care this much what he thinks. But I do. God help me, I do.
After class, I linger, arranging my books slowly while other students filter out. This has become my ritual—finding excuses to stay behind, to engage him one-on-one where I don't have to share his attention.
"Professor Davis?"
He looks up from his desk, eyebrow arched. "Miss Darling. Something unclear about the assignment?"
I clutch my copy of Mrs. Dalloway. "I was wondering if we might discuss my interpretation of the party scene? I think there are parallels to Joyce's gathering in 'The Dead' that complicate your reading."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Still challenging me, I see."
"I'm not challenging you," I say quickly. "I'm just—"
"You absolutely are challenging me." He stands, towering over me. Six-foot-three at least, lean and powerful. "And that's precisely what this class is for. Sit."
I perch on the edge of the student desk nearest his, my heart hammering as he leans against his own desk, arms crossed over his broad chest. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing corded forearms dusted with dark hair.
"Well?" he prompts. "Convince me."
For fifteen minutes, we spar over Woolf's intentions. Each time I make a point, he counters with something sharper, more incisive. But he doesn't dismiss me. He engages, pushing me to refine my thinking, to dig deeper.
"You're making me work for this," I say, laughing a little.
"That's my job." His voice drops lower. "You're one of the few students worth the effort."
Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us. I look away first, gathering my books. "I should go. I have psychology in twenty minutes."
He nods, professional mask back in place. "Next week's paper. Don't disappoint me."
I don't. I spend the weekend in the library, crafting an analysis of Hemingway's iceberg theory that I know will challenge him. When I turn it in, his fingers brush mine, sending a jolt through my system.
Three days later, he hands it back with a large A- circled at the top. "See me after class, Miss Darling."
The fifty minutes of lecture crawl by. Professor Davis is particularly intense today, tearing apart a senior's misreading of Fitzgerald with surgical precision. I should feel sorry for the guy, but all I can think is: Don't let that be me. Don't let him find me wanting.
When the room empties, Professor Davis closes the door. Not all the way—just enough to give us privacy while maintaining propriety.
"Your essay," he says, perching on the edge of his desk.
"You didn't like it?" My voice sounds small.
"On the contrary. It's excellent work." He taps the paper. "But you're holding back. There's something hesitant in your analysis, as if you're afraid to fully commit to your interpretation."
I bite my lip. "I thought I was being thorough by considering counterarguments."
"There's thorough, and then there's timid." He leans forward, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive. "You need to trust your instincts, Miss Darling. Your mind is exceptional. Stop second-guessing it."
Pride swells in my chest. "Thank you, Professor."
"It's not a compliment. It's an observation." His eyes narrow. "And an expectation for future work."
I nod, gathering my courage. "I actually have a question about your feedback on page four. You wrote that my interpretation of the bull-fighting scenes was 'reductive.'"
Something changes in his expression—a darkening, a focus. "You're questioning my assessment?"
My mouth goes dry. "I'm…seeking clarification."
"Are you?" He stands suddenly, moving into my space. Not touching me, but close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Or are you challenging my authority? Again."
The air between us charges with tension. I should step back. I should apologize. I do neither.
"Maybe I am," I whisper.
His jaw tightens. "You think you can question me, little girl?"
Little girl. The words hit me like an electric shock, sending heat straight between my legs. I'm eighteen, a legal adult, a college freshman. No one has called me "little girl" since I was actually little. From anyone else, it would be infantilizing, offensive.
From him, it's…God help me, it's arousing.
"I..." My voice fails me.
"You what?" he presses, still looming over me.
"I think good scholarship requires questioning," I manage to say, though my voice shakes.
A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming his severe features into something devastatingly handsome. "Correct answer."
He steps back, professional distance restored. But something has shifted between us—a boundary tested if not yet crossed.
"Revise the section on bull-fighting," he says. "Make your argument bolder, not safe. I want to see what you're really capable of, Miss Darling."
"Yes, Professor."
I gather my things, legs unsteady. As I reach the door, his voice stops me.
"Flower."
It's the first time he's used my first name. It sounds different in his deep voice—more delicate, more precious.
"Yes?"
"You don't need to stay after class to manufacture conversations." His gaze burns into me. "If you have something to say to me, say it directly."
Heat floods my face. He knows. He knows I've been creating excuses to be alone with him.
"I'll remember that," I whisper, and flee into the hallway.
Outside, I press my back against the cool concrete wall, trying to steady my breathing. I should be scared by what just happened. By the way he called me "little girl," by the way he invaded my space, by the way he saw through my pretenses.
Instead, I'm wet. Shamefully, undeniably wet, my panties damp beneath my skirt.
What is happening to me? I've never been like this before. Never felt this desperate, this needy. Never wanted a man's approval so badly it made my body ache.
I slide into a bathroom stall and press my thighs together, trying to ease the throbbing. It doesn't help. All I can think about is his voice—low and demanding—calling me "little girl" while looking at me like he wants to devour me whole.
I should drop his class. I should run as far as I can from Gordon Davis and whatever this feeling is.
Instead, I'm already planning tomorrow's outfit, already anticipating the next time his eyes will find mine across the classroom.
God help me. I'm in trouble.