I take the proposal paperwork from the stack on my desk that was given to me by Professor Gershwin’s assistant, pick up the ink pen and sign my name at the bottom, acknowledging my approval and acceptance of Kyler’s plan.
I pick it up and hand it to him across the desk. “This is my approval to move forward with your special fields coursework. I’d like you to have a complete outline of your plans, citing some of the research you’ll be using for our next session.”
Glancing over to my laptop, I pull up my calendar and check the date of our next meeting.
“Next Monday, same time, same place. And I’ll send you an email with my contact information should you have questions or need any guidance between now and then.”
Kyler tilts his head down as he reads over the signed form and stands, pausing for a moment before bending down to pick up his bag, slipping it over his arm and shoulder.
“Sounds doable. Thanks, Professor.”
I can’t help the way my eyes land on his backside, to the curve of his ass in those tight skinny jeans, and feel the throbbing ache in my dick. I have never had any problems in the past with inappropriate desires or infatuated thoughts over my students. It was a clear line in my rule book that I didn’t cross.
But Kyler Scott did something to me this summer and I had better find a way to turn that part of my brain and physical response off if I am going to spend the next semester with him as his educator.
6
Kyler
I’ve quickly learned that Tuesdays are shaping up to be a fire breathing beast for my schedule.
Not only do I have three classes, one of them a three-hour frigging lab, but I also have a full shift at the bar tonight and only a short forty-five-minute break in between classes and work. During which I have to run home, shower and change, and look in after my cat, Pussy Cat and check in with Peyton if she’s around.
Exhausted and tense, I leave campus, the heat of the day turning my run-down car into a sauna in the middle of a desert, and make the ten minute drive to my apartment.
I’ve loved living with Peyton these past three months, and aside from the fact that Pussy Cat hasn’t warmed up to her yet, we’ve got along like peanut butter and jelly. In fact, we’ve become so close that we’ve shared a lot of our intimate history together, including my relationship – and the devastating end of it – with Max, my ex-boyfriend.
The intensity of the anguish and pain still come and go in waves since he kicked me out of the condo we’d shared at the end of last semester.
I’d met Maxwell Bentitou when I was eighteen, two-weeks after leaving home for the last time. In fact, I have quite the track record of being kicked out of male owned homes.
First, it was my own father, Carl, who learned that his son was gay when he found me making-out in my car with my neighbor, Charlie, on the eve of my high school graduation. Needless to say, my staunchly religious and conservative father couldn’t, and wouldn’t, permit a sinner like myself to live under his roof.
The very next morning, I packed up my belongings that I’d already planned on taking with me to college and moved out. While I have been in contact with my mom on occasion since then over the past four years, who has never tried to apologize or intervene on her only son’s behalf, I’ve not seen my father since.
The thought has me rubbing the heel of my palm over my heart as if the dull ache was real. I get out of my truck and sprint up the two flights of stairs to our apartment where I unlock the door and the soft purr of Pussy Cat reaffirms why I’ve chosen to give my love to only a cat. At least with her, I don’t feel as hurt when she acts like a diva and won’t return my affections.
I open the door and set my bag down on the kitchen table, noticing immediately my beautiful white and gray Tabby cat perched up on the back of the small sofa in the living room. I walk over and lift her in my arms, which she allows willingly but begrudgingly.
“Hey, baby. How’s my Pussy Cat girl today?” I nuzzle my nose into her neck, as she actually leans in to allow me this one concession.
That lasts all of three seconds until she stiffens, her lithe body arching, and then gracefully jumps out of my arms to land on the small kitchen table, her tail swishing in the air to tell me she’s had enough.
I walk into the kitchen, opening the pantry to extract her evening dinner. A canned fish paté of some sort. The odor is noxious, and I wrench my nose away in the other direction, depositing the lid in the garbage underneath the sink and pulling out a clean bowl to empty her food into.
Placing it on the floor, I watch as she cautiously peruses with interested eyes what I’ve provided her Queenship tonight.
Turning toward the fridge, I rummage around for a can of Diet Coke and something for dinner. Our refrigerator is almost bare, with only the essentials to get us by until one of us goes grocery shopping next, which will likely end up being me since Peyton has a strong aversion to food.
Glancing up at the erasable note board hanging on the door, I see she’s scrawled out a few items she needs on her list.
OJ
Eggs
Cheese
Tampons
Oh hell, no, sister. I think not.
I must have said this out loud because Pussy Cat stops eating and glances with a menacing look in my direction as if to say, “Quiet, human. I’m in the middle of something here.”
Snapping the door shut, I begin making myself a cheese and salami sandwich on the last two slices of bread left on the counter, and review the first two days of the semester in my head as I scarf down my food.
Day one.
Ugh, pass.
Day two. With the computer design lab I’m in, and the challenges I have with computers, I’d prefer to reminisce over day one.
Professor Lucas Mathiasson.
You know those memes about the hottie high school math teacher in the tight jeans and clothing?
Well, Lucas is just that – minus the tight clothes.
I thought I did an exceptional job of keeping myself in check during our session, even though finding out he was my professor was quite shocking. I could barely keep myself from getting a full-blown boner while I watched him in the front of the class, acting all sexy professor like. And that led to several dreams I had last night about the two of us together in his office, Lucas bending me over his desk and fucking me from behind.
Even though he expressly stated from the get-go that we wouldn’t be doing that again. Part of me was disappointed, but the other part appreciated the way he put me at ease, eliminating the awkwardness between us.
While it’s obvious that there is a strong and palpable chemical reaction between us – intensified by the hot as fuck night we had together this summer – Lucas painted the boundary lines and made it clear that neither of us could cross it.
Which should make me feel better that we’ve moved forward and left the past behind. Right?
Wrong.
The only problem with that? I’m not good with rules.
It’s an innate desire in myself that recognizes boundaries are made for crossing.
Like the fence Mrs. Dorsey, my neighbor when I was a kid, put up between my childhood house and her house because my friends and I kept running through her flower garden.
Guess what? It didn’t stop me!
And speed limits? Get real. Luckily, I’ve only received two tickets for driving over the limit since I first got my license at sixteen.