Chapter 7
QUICK, LOCK THE CLASSROOM DOOR!
SIMONE
It’s American Lit, again. I’m watching the second hand on the clock, willing it to crack the glass and cut a hole in time.
The lecture hall hums with quiet energy and someone’s unzipped backpack is leaking Skittles onto the floor, each one hitting tile like a gunshot in the silence.
I’m wearing my lucky white tee—it’s flattering and hugs my tits, makes them look like the kind of problem that should come with a trigger warning—and a navy skirt that barely covers the topography of my thighs.
The sneakers are canvas and baby pink, like something a preteen would wear to cheerleading camp, but that’s the joke.
I’m very aware of what I look like, but if Professor Thomas is, he’s doing a better job hiding it than I am.
If he thinks I’m going to come crawling, he’s right, but I’m going to make it look like a victory lap.
He’s up at the podium, talking about Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown,” which I already skimmed twice. I can recite the plot backwards: small town, fucked up woods, evil everywhere, and nothing is what it seems. Subtle, professor. Real subtle.
I prop my chin on my palm and stare at him.
His hair looks longer today, a little mussed, the kind of look that costs a hundred bucks at the right barber.
He wears these blue dress shirts that look like they should be illegal in Minnesota, sleeves rolled to the elbow, heavy forearms on display.
When he gestures at the board, his veins twitch and everyone in the front row sighs in unison, like they just witnessed the birth of Venus.
He’s ignoring me. Not even a sideways glance. But I know he feels me. The whole room is arranged around this charged, pulsing awareness—me, in the back, and him, pretending not to notice.
I tap my fingers on the desk, feeling the edge of every nail. One of the meathead hockey guys is two rows up, whispering to his buddy about the professor’s “hot daughter.” Joke’s on him: the only girl Thomas is fucking is right here.
Finally, the clock hits 2:45, and Thomas flips the book shut with a snap.
“Read up to page 278 for Monday,” he says, not looking in my direction. “We’ll have a pop quiz at some point.”
There’s a groan, then the soft stampede of students fleeing.
Backpacks snap shut, chairs scrape, and a thin cloud of chalk dust catches the sun, making everything look filtered and unreal.
The hockey guy lingers just long enough to turn and give me a wink, then even he’s out the door.
Good. Now it’s just me, the professor, and the echo of a world that’s still spinning outside these four concrete walls.
I stay put, counting off thirty, then forty seconds, waiting for Liam to acknowledge me. He doesn’t. I have to make the first move.
I stand and stroll down the aisle, not hurrying, letting the slap of my sneakers echo like a countdown. He’s tidying his papers, stacking them in this OCD way that’s almost touching, except I want him to stop being a grown-up and just ruin me again.
“Professor Thomas?” I ask, voice sweet as a doe in a Disney movie.
He doesn’t look up. “Yes, Simone?”
“I had a question about the assignment,” I say, and I’m right up at his desk now, the buffer zone gone. The room is quieter than any library.
He finally meets my eyes. I can see the storm brewing there: the hunger, the anger, and something else, something softer. He swallows it fast.
“What’s your question?” he says. His tone is all business, but the hand on his stack of papers trembles.
I lean over, elbows on the desk, letting my big bust do the talking. “Is it okay if I turn in the response late? I had a family thing.” It’s a lie, but I say it in the same voice I used to talk my way out of speeding tickets in high school.
He blinks once, then again, the calculation in his face brutal. “You’ve already missed two,” he says, but softer. “That’s not good, Simone.”
I shrug, shifting my hips so the skirt hikes up another inch. “I’m just trying to do my best.”
He’s losing this game and he knows it, but he’s not going to fold yet.
“Simone, you are dangerously close to failing.” He says it low, just for me, like it’s our own secret language. “I could lose my job for helping you the way I have.”
“That’s not what you said last week,” I breathe. It hangs there, needling him.
He looks away, jaw tensing. He gathers his books and starts to walk past me, but I step in front, blocking his exit.
“I just want to know what I did wrong,” I say, voice small, with a bit of pleading in the tone. Oh god, I hate myself yet I can’t help it. “One minute, you’re all about helping me, and now I’m just another name on a list?”
He shakes his head, biting back words. I see the stubble along his jaw, the bruise of a sleepless night under his eyes. “We can’t,” he says. “It was a mistake.”
I step closer, until my chest brushes his. “I liked it.”
He closes his eyes, just for a second. Then: “This is not a joke, Simone. You could ruin my life.”
“I could ruin a lot more than that,” I whisper.
He laughs, a harsh sound, then turns and checks the door. No one’s coming. The world is a dead channel outside. He exhales.
“Did you even care?” I ask. I didn’t know I’d say it until it’s out.
He looks at me, really looks. The force of it nearly knocks me back. “I care too much,” he says, and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to leave, but then the tension breaks like a power line in a storm.
His hands are on my waist, hauling me against the desk.
My ass hits the edge and my body folds, knees open, and he’s kissing me with a violence that tastes like pen ink and black coffee and years of bad decisions.
I kiss him back, hard, nipping his lip. His tongue is demanding, rough, and I can’t tell if it’s punishment or reward.
He smells like aftershave and expensive laundry soap and the dust of a thousand library books.
He pushes aside a bunch of paper, sending them flying to the floor. He lifts me onto the desk, my sneakers dangling, and I laugh against his mouth, half in shock and half because I want to make him even crazier.
His hands slide up my thighs, hot and shaking. The skirt bunches around my hips, exposing the white cotton thong I wore just for him. He groans, low, and digs his fingers into my skin.
“God, Simone, you have no idea what you do to me.”
He peels my shirt up, impatient, and my tits spill out, nipples already hard from the cold and the thrill. He palms them, rough, sucking one into his mouth with a wet, obscene sound. I arch into him, wanting more, and run my fingers through his hair, tugging until he gasps.
“Oooh yes,” I moan throatily, watching as he tongues the pink tips. “Mmmm!”
“You’re my little slut, aren’t you? You’re Daddy’s fuckslut who comes begging for it after class.”
Oh my god, his words are so wrong, but I don’t care because he’s sinking to his knees, spreading me wider, and I nearly break the desk with how hard I grip the edge.
“That’s it, my little fuckslut,” he says in a dark voice. “You’re getting it now.”
Then, he licks the inside of my thigh, slow, then bites down, hard enough to leave a mark. “Oh shit,” he growls, before burying his face in my pussy.
I let out a whimper that bounces off every cinderblock wall, every empty chair. His tongue is magic, all harsh licks and soft teasing, moving between sucking my clit and slipping inside me. I can barely breathe.
“Oh my god, Professor,” I moan, louder than I mean to, but I don’t care. The risk is part of the turn-on. I can feel the wet, slick mess I’m making, the heat building and building. “Mmm, suck me harder!”
He looks up, mouth shiny, and says, “If you call me Professor again, I’ll spank you in front of the whole class.”
I nearly come just from the threat.
His fingers find my clit, rubbing fast, and he latches on with his mouth, sucking hard.
I can feel myself losing control, my back arching as my fingers scrabble uselessly at the surface of the desk.
Then, the orgasm hits like a car crash. I cry out, not even trying to be quiet, the sound echoing off the blackboards and bare linoleum.
My back arches, head thrown against a pile of student essays.
For a second, the whole world is just him, his mouth, the scent of sex and chalk and old wood.
“Mmmmm!” I scream. “Yes Daddy!”
He continues to suck my clit, then forces his tongue into my pulsing cunt as I gush gallons of cream all over his face. But Liam doesn’t care, swallowing it like it’s the sweetest nectar he’s ever tasted.
“Yes, my little whore,” he rasps. “Come on Daddy’s face. Give me that sweet goodness.”
I scream again, the sound reverberating through the classroom. Oh my god, someone’s going to hear, but neither Liam nor I care. He continues to kneel before me, sucking, licking and kissing my pussy as I arch and moan, my folds quivering with release.
Finally, the tremors subside somewhat but Liam’s not done yet. He’s huge and gorgeous with a devilish look in those blue eyes. He wipes his mouth, and kisses me again, this time slow and greedy, like he can’t get enough.
I cling to his shirt, panting, the aftershocks turning my bones to pudding.
“I missed you,” I say, and it’s so raw I almost want to take it back.
He cups my face, thumb stroking my jaw. “I missed you too, Simone. But I’m not done with you yet, sweet girl.”
He turns, bends to grab something from the battered messenger bag next to the desk.
He comes up holding a carrot—no, not a carrot, but a Carrot, capital C, the kind of root vegetable you could club a baby seal with.
It’s as long as my forearm, thick and bright orange, still with a sprig of green at the top.
He rolls it in his palm like he’s showing off a trophy.
“You ever eat one of these whole?” he says, brandishing it.
I choke out a laugh. “Not lately.”