Chapter 6 #2
I people watch, say hello to a few students who know me, and then, Cade clears his throat. “Hello everyone,” he greets, slanting his eyes my way. “We have a visitor in class today. Ignore him,” he starts, but a front-row funny guy interrupts.
“If you want us to ignore him, why’d you point it out?” he argues, a rise in his voice, like this question has outsmarted Cade and pushed him into a corner.
“So that you don’t all turn around and start whispering mid-lecture when someone does notice him. I’m telling you now. Professor Ryan is here, he’s reviewing me, and that’s that,” Cade says decidedly. “Last week we defined literary theory, and can anyone tell me the way we defined it?”
My eyes fall on a small freckle on Cade’s throat. When he talks, it shifts just a little, and I’m overwhelmed with the urge to press my lips against it, to let my tongue carve beautiful little designs into his flesh, paying homage to that tiny little freckle.
I keep my eyes on him, fuck the survey. I’m familiar with this course, and the content. I didn’t play God and assign myself to Cade so I can hear him talk about the ways in which literary theory forces us to turn passive consumption into active and critical engagement.
The door pops open, letting in an even brighter stream of light from the windows in the hall.
A girl with a black backpack covered in mini Koosh ball pins ducks inside, quietly apologizing to Cade before slipping into one of the last free seats, near me.
I keep my eyes on him, and he never lets his gaze come to me. Not even for a moment.
And that has me hard as hell.
Cade ignores things when he’s angry and can’t calm himself enough to choose the right words.
Like the time Dr. Pratt altered the core curriculum mid-way through the semester, and dropped that bomb on us in person.
I could see Cade’s perfectly organized brain shorting out, but he stayed tight-lipped, and nodded along.
Only this isn’t that. That vein that pops in his temple isn’t popping.
He’s not angry at all. In fact, he’s currently bantering with a student in the third row, one foot braced on the stage, the other on the floor.
He rests his elbow on his knee and his fist against his cheek, listening intently to the student who claims that some of the best books he’s ever read were books that he read in high school, but reread now, with greater intellect and understanding.
He’s totally kissing Cade’s ass.
But that’s not what has me hard.
It’s the way he’s so purposely avoiding me. I’ve already established that he isn’t angry, so that just leaves one reason.
He feels it.
That buzz between us. That lingering pull, the urge to come back together after we’ve walked our separate ways.
He feels the intensity in my gaze when he catches my eyes on him in our office.
Not only does he feel it, but based on how hard this man is going out of his way to ignore me, I’d say he feels the exact same way.
And that’s what has me shifting in the collapsible little seat.
After borrowing a pen from the student sitting in front of me, I write nine words. They’re either the most perfect nine words that will get the ball rolling on whatever is happening, or they’ll terribly offend his sensibilities and put me on the cusp of no longer sharing my office.
I hope it’s the first. But I’m willing to gamble.
I never slept. Not a single moment. But I’ll admit, snuggling into that stupid folding chair (they should discount tuition for students having to sit in those for so many hours every day) and relaxing during the lecture was quite possibly my best idea.
He thought he’d avoid me, and we’d get through these peer reviews and back to our lingered looks and scholastic chats. I know he doesn’t like to be, but Cade is wrong.
Avoiding me is only inflaming my desire to dig myself deeper under his skin, and pretending that his well-studied, perfectly articulated and immaculately executed lecture was too boring to keep me awake has done the job.
As I suspected it would.
His footsteps are heavy behind mine, and Cade is an inch shorter than me but still tall, and his build is leaner than mine but muscular and trim.
All of that is not to say that I’ve been checking him out for five years because that’s obvious, but I note his size because those footsteps do not match up with Cade. But I know it’s him.
He’s pissy and huffy, and I’ve only seen him this way a few other times.
When he lost the bid to teach literary theory two years ago, he kind of threw a fit not unlike this one.
I stop in my tracks and catch an eyeful of him, cheeks cherried with anger, fists clenched, jaw tight.
He doesn’t bother to look at me, and it only etches my smirk deeper.
He reaches our office door before I do, and I can’t help but snort when he pulls it closed behind himself—glaring at me as he does.
I open the door, pretending that I haven’t noticed his mood, and close it, tugging the shade down to cover the peek window. He’s at his desk, digging papers from his bag when I roll my knuckles against my palm, cracking them.
He flinches.
“Great lecture,” I tell him, rolling my other hand in my palm, cracking those too.
He hates when I pop my knuckles, and I really only do it when I want to get his attention.
It’s a bad habit I’d always wanted to quit, but once I realized it bugged him, I did quit.
I still pull the habit out of my bag of tricks when he hasn’t glanced my way in too long, or when he’s paid so much attention to his students and not me.
This morning, the knuckles go unnoticed.
He slants his eyes toward me, tipping back in his chair, arms stacked over his chest like an angry principal about to lay down the law.
“Oh, was it? You think so?” The absolute irritation rattling the consonants of every word has my cock hard behind my pants.
I fight the smirk twitching behind my lips and nod.
“Oh yeah. Really good. Good, good stuff.” It actually was a great lecture.
Excellent, even. Cade’s style is more Ovaltine-drinking old man with a sweater vest and a monocle (maybe I should get him a monocle?) than mine, but he’s absolutely a gifted instructor.
Almost like he was born to read, analyze, then teach everyone else how to do the same.
I don’t even like literary theory, but I learned a few things today.
He said a lot of stuff, and I catalogued it all, all while thinking about what Cade looks like completely naked.
It’s not the first time I’ve tried to envision that.
The first time, it was non sexual, and I had just witnessed him buff a spot on his leather shoes for thirty minutes, only to toss them because they were “clearly unsalvagable.” At that point, I started to wonder if he has those weird, old timey calf straps that hold your tall socks up, and if he wears a smoking jacket at home, and a sleeping gown and hat at night.
There’s been lots of other times. How could there not?
“Did Meadow tell you that?”
I shake my head, my lips nearly bursting from the laughter pressing against my mouth. “No.”
“Who told you that it was such a great lecture?” he asks, partially mimicking my words, irritation shining in his eyes. His blue, clear like the water in Thailand, eyes.
“No one. I was there. Remember?” I smile, a huge, toothy, flirtatious smile. The smile I use when I’m trying to pick people up when I’m out.
The chair smacks the back of his head when he sits up, slamming his palms to the desk, the photo of him and his sister falling over. “You were asleep!” That little vein on his temple bulges, and what I’d give to lick my thumb and stroke the pad of it down that purple ridge, calm him, soothe him.
I take the peer review papers out of my pocket, which nearly gives him a heart attack. “That’s how you treat the review paperwork?” He shakes his head. “Why did you come if you weren’t going to take it seriously?”
I give him my most confused look. “I took it seriously.”
Cade rights the framed photo. “You slept.”
I toss him the papers, the black ink peeking through the back in one place, the exact place Cade eyes. “See?” I poke, watching his eyes drift over the bled-through ink.
Cade just blinks at me, clutching the folded papers in one hand, the other adjusting his glasses. I get to my feet and tuck my things into my bag, pull the door open and peer back at him, a little floored to discover he’s been watching me.
“Have a good day, I’m heading out.” Packs more of a punch if I leave now, even though I’ll be holed up in Tara’s office.
Then I leave, not wanting to be in the same room with him when he finally opens that note. If he’s mad now, he’s gonna be really mad soon.
I love working him up.
Tomorrow should be fun.