Which left me with pitiful options. I learned to manage my thirst for Garrett when he went off to play in the NBA and got married, and I quietly created a life in Tempe, Arizona, dating women who never did anything for me but left me pining for the one I really wanted.
But I have had secretive hookups on the down low with men. Like I did this past summer with the pretty bartender from Cactus Pete’s.
So here I am, on the first day of a new school year when I should be excited and exhilarated over the chaotic rush of the fall semester. Where I have the opportunity to influence young minds, educating them on the beauty of art, and introducing them to a plethora of cultures and diversity within the world – yet, I feel something missing because I have no one to share it with.
With a deep sigh, I gather my tablet and paperwork for my first class and head down the corridor toward the lecture hall where I’m about to begin a class for third-year students on Modern and Contemporary Design. It’s a curriculum I developed for those in various art and design programs here at the university.
Stepping into the lecture hall, I take a glance up into the theater, where rows and rows of students begin filing in, carrying laptop bags and phones in their hands as they find their seats.
I read through my roster of students, quickly identifying that I should have fifty-five in the class, and begin to call out for a quick attendance check and introduction.
“Good morning, students. I’m Professor Mathiasson. If you’re here for Modern and Contemporary Design then you’re in the right place. If you have no clue what that means, then you should probably Google it or get the hell out of my classroom.”
There’s a rumble of chuckles through the theater, and I grin at the response, seeing two students quickly file out as inconspicuously as they can.
“This class studies the history of design from 1800 to present day. It will introduce you to the ideas that have driven design in the modern era. It won’t be an easy class that you can skate through. I expect you to show up, pay attention, do the work and walk out of here with more than you came in with.”
I survey the class, giving them a firm look of disapproval just to scare the bejeebies out of those that think this class will be a cakewalk. I may be a nice guy and a good professor, but I don’t allow slacking in my classes.
Pressing my back against the lecture table, I hook an ankle over the other and take a look down at the tablet in my hands. “Okay, let’s do some quick introductions. When I call your name, you’re going to tell me why you’re in my class this semester.”
I do a quick scan of the room and see eager faces, which is a good sign.
“Anabella Smith. State your purpose.”
A young, bright-eyed girl with a blonde pixie-cut stands and introduces herself. “Hi, I’m Anabella and I’m here because I had to fulfill my elective requirement to graduate.”
There’s a low buzz of laughter across the span of the room, and I raise a brow. At least she’s honest, I’ll give her that.
“Thank you, Miss Smith. I appreciate your candor. Let’s hope you’ll learn a little about art history as the semester progresses and you can impress people at parties at the very least.”
We continue to go down the list alphabetically by first names until I reach the K’s. Kahlil. Kallie. Kelly. Kendra. Kyler.
My brain sputters and stalls, as if the breaks were just thrown on as it careens down a steep hill, my body following along with the rushing speed of a boulder. I reach behind me to grab the edge of the lecture desk to steady myself.
No, it can’t be.
Kyler Scott.
When I dare to glance back up at the room in front of me, I see him casually stand from the second to back row, his longish chestnut brown hair flopping to the side of his face, covering a portion of his forehead. A forehead that I know from personal, up-close experience is dotted with a canvas of freckles.
His devastatingly cocky grin is split wide across his angular face, his full lips parted in that sexy way of his as if he has a secret he wants to impart.
And oh, hell, does he ever have a secret.
A secret about me and the one night we shared together this past summer.
It was a night I’ll never forget and the one that made me a glutton for punishment, hoping and trying to get more out of him. Reducing me to a needy beggar.
But he staunchly refused to see me again, stating he was a “one-and-done” kind of guy and wasn’t up for seconds even though I worked hard to change his mind.
Oh, the irony of it all. Kyler Scott never wanted to see me again. Yet, funny how the world works and allows for fate to step in.
Not only is he here in my classroom as my student, but we also found out earlier in August that we shared mutual friends when we both showed up to my godson’s fifth birthday party.
He clears his throat and tries to speak, but it comes out as an awkward croak, giving me an evil thrill that maybe I affect him more than he lets on. His charming, lopsided smile fades as he introduces himself to the class.
“Kyl—” he clears his throat again. “Kyler Scott. I’m a fourth-year fashion and design student with a dual degree in multimedia art design. Better to have both just in case I fuck up in the fashion world.”
The class roars with laughter at his self-deprecating comment but my gaze remains steady. He licks his lips and shrugs his shoulders with a “devil-may-care” nonchalance. My eyes travel down his torso, over the black T-shirt that fits tight across his chest - under which I know is a smooth, taut chest with nipple rings in each copper penny nipple - a jean jacket hiding what I explored for hours in our night together. And his black skinny jeans wrap snuggly around his hips and legs, which I remember being on the thinner side, but were perfectly muscular when wrapped around my hips while I was driving into him.
I swallow thickly, forcing my eyes down to break the connection as he sits down again, and I will my thickening cock in my pants to stay put and stand down.
Well, this is going to be a thoroughly distracting inconvenience this semester.
“Thank you, Mr. Scott. It sounds like you’re a busy man.” I eye him squarely, my jaw ticking just a bit because I know just how busy he is with all his extra-curricular flings. And I can’t help the jealous intonation in my reply. “You must not have much time for a social life.”
I don’t expect an answer, but he provides one anyway when he says, “Oh, you’d be surprised. I get around.”
The little twerp.
2
Kyler
I need to get out of this class as fast as possible because I can already taste blood from the spot where I’ve worried my lip so raw over the past fifty-five minutes as I’ve listened and watched Professor Lucas Mathiasson strut around the front of this lecture hall.
And strut he did. As if to taunt me.
Asshole.
Hot asshole.
My hands have turned white from how tightly I balled them into fists. I think the seat mate next to me thinks I have some nervous tick from the way she kept scowling at me every five minutes over the annoying leg jiggle I couldn’t keep under control.
Over the past six weeks, I did my best to dodge the ever-persistent Luc – that’s the name he gave me the night we first met – and then as luck would have it, I ran into him at a kid’s birthday party of all places earlier this month.