This is the second part of what I am calling the "Unprofessionals" series. It's a collection of steamy, smut-based stories that focus around lovers in unorthodox positions. Please, if any of this applies to you, don't let it offend you. I mean no harm :) On a lighter note, I hope you enjoy. WARNING: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. Listen to: (in order)
Only (EL-P remix) - Nine Inch Nails
Anxiety (feat. Papa Roach) - Black Eyed Peas
Lollipop - Framing Hanley
Here We Go Again - Static Cycle
All In Forms - Bonobo
~ Yes, Professor ~
That had to be it. My favorite.
It was the way his lips moved whenever he said it; out and in gently, like a body swaying as it danced, and then that tantalizing peek of his tongue...the one small piece of satisfaction I received after watching so closely for hours.
He was using that word a lot today, too, because we were studying gothic architecture, and the mysteries hidden in the gargoyles. He claimed there was more to a gargoyle than its ugly face, and because he'd said it, I was driven to believe it.
As were most of the other girls in the lecture hall...
"...is the main reason many of them are depicted with their tongues..."
He said tongues!
Sure, there wasn't much to look at when he said it, but the idea that he was thinking about tongues at all made me cram my thighs together and squirm a bit uncomfortably. Even if they were gargoyle tongues...
"...which is leading me to wonder if there is anybody awake out there?"
His voice rose suddenly, surprising me out of my daze, and I gave myself a little jerk. Several other students also adjusted themselves, sitting up straighter and blinking.
Professor Thatcher shot us all an amused look, leaning back against the blackboard and crossing his arms.
Shit, don't stand like that! my conscience screamed. It put far too much emphasis on his muscular arms, causing them to bulge against the fabric of his dress shirt.
As if to torture me further, he lifted one dark, masculine eyebrow and bit his damn lip.
"Strangely enough, I'm led to believe that the majority of you slept through the lecture..."
A chorus of, "No, Professor!"s rang out from several female students, who'd flung themselves into their notes with panic, scribbling nonsense and going scarlet in the cheeks.
The gentlemen in the class just shook their heads.
It was an interesting lesson-it really was...but today there was just something hypnotizing about his voice, lulling all of the double X-chromosomes in the room into a stupor.
And boys, well, they just have short attention spans, don't they?
I had to fix this somehow.
And I was suddenly granted with the perfect opportunity to receive Professor Thatcher's explicit attention.
Willing my hand not to quiver, I stretched it up into the air.
"Yes, Ms. Banks?" he drawled, as if more amused be the idea of a question at this point than anything else.
Oh, but my name...
My name on his lips was better than a million ethereal's combined!
I cleared my throat, simultaneously swallowing down a dark blush.
I know this. I know this. I know this, I chanted to myself. It was now or perhaps never again.
Opportunities like to pass you by.
"I'm just curious, Professor. You haven't mentioned anything about the gargoyles' alignment with the constellations. And I know that many, if not all of them, have been strategically placed to stare into the eyes of Canis Minor, or between Taurus's horns...et cetera..."
Something truly was trying to kill me, I decided, when Thatcher's flawless, pale lips curved to the side in a half smirk.
"Excellent," he said.
Ooh...another pretty word.
"I was hoping someone would bring that up..." and then he launched into another beautiful session about constellations, and I was treated to the sight of his lips saying things like Orion and Draco and hunter.
Thank god I'd chosen to take Semiotics.
I can still remember-vividly, in fact-the first day of the semester, when we'd all walked in, bright, shiny and new, ready to take on the course.
And he was there...
Professor Christian James Thatcher, who couldn't have been a day over twenty-eight.
He was standing at the desk in the front, bent over a blueprint of Notre Dame's cathedral, arms spread wide and braced at the desk's corners. I remember the way they strained in the material, much like they did today, and how I'd figured that a college professor with that body had to have an ugly face.
It was just the way things worked in life.
Give and take.
But then he looked up, grinned and said, "Come on in, people-day one and you're already late."
And I knew I was fucked.
He had a face like the statue of David, which we ended up studying later on, and I was able to draw the conclusion that a hunk of marble could nowhere near compare...and his jaw line scraped out like a razor blade, tempting me to run my fingers over it-trace it with my tongue.
It was like a fight to the death-being able to sit in the front row that day-but I got my spot and held it, thank you very much. I wanted to see him up close. Wanted to stare into his eyes as he taught...wanted to watch him speak, which, as you can see, became one of my favorite pastimes.
His eyes were the color of jade-a gentle, mysterious hue that, in all honesty, made me more than wet for him each day in class. They were hidden beneath dark brows, which curiously offset his nut brown hair, styled to look careless in the most perfect of ways.
And I had decided that very day that if I ever took a lover, I would want him to be exactly like my Semiotics professor.
Maybe Christian Thatcher had a long lost brother.
But no...not even that would be enough for me.
And if nine months without change weren't proof, nothing would be.
I had it bad-for my college professor.
Admittedly, it took me about three weeks to get over how wrong it felt to think of him that way...but once I let the tide take me, I was long gone.
And I figured I could just sit back and enjoy him. Like a precious masterpiece in a museum that all were forbidden to touch, but could look their fill without consequence.
It was torture.
But it was beautiful torture.
Which led me to the inevitable conclusion that I, Mercedes Banks, was a masochist.
How the hell could I not be? I was content to be burned over and over by the scalding gaze of the handsomest man on the planet, shredded by his soft, mysterious voice, cast into shadow by his shocking, 6'4 wide-receiver's mass.
Why couldn't he've been another student? Anyone else? Why?
Because that would've been too easy...my conscience mused.
He was forbidden fruit.
I chewed the tip of my pencil thoughtfully as he described how Orion's belt was clearly depicted upon a gargoyle's chest in St. Paul's cathedral.
I wished I could be Eve.
Wished I could take that infamous bite and never look back.
I likely wouldn't regret it.
He had this way of moving his arms-swaying them, like a dancer would, and then brushing his fingers across the desk like I imagined he would caress a lover.
Like I imagined he would caress me...
There was no sense in putting hope to the thought, but oh how I loved to fantasize...
He would sweep the hair on my shoulder to one side, granting the bare expanse access to his smooth, sensual mouth.
I would moan quietly when his lips first touched me, though it would feel like a great storm within. A schism. An earthquake. And I would reach back to rake my fingers through his soft, brunette strands, aching to bring him closer-to make it last longer.
And he would whisper my name in my ear, just so I could hear what it truly sounded like as he splayed me out upon a bed of silk, comparing me to constellations and beautiful statues as he unloosed every button, every zipper...
And I would keen for him-beg for release, my fingers kneading blindly at his strong chest.
"Please, Christian..." I would whisper.
And he would kiss me as he'd always promised with those darkly beautiful, sage eyes.
With ethereal, perfect rapture, so I would think myself kissing a god.
People were suddenly moving all around me, and I realized Professor Thatcher had dismissed us.
Swiftly, I began to gather my things, fingers shaking from both the fantasy itself, and the terrifying realization that there was a significant dampness between my thighs.
What if it had seeped through my skirt?
Good god! What would I do with myself?
Would I just stay here all afternoon, faking a menstrual cramp? No, that would be nearly as mortifying as the truth!
I forced myself to stand, legs feeling more like butter than bone, and discreetly swept my hand over the back of my navy-blue pencil skirt.
Swallowing my nervousness, I heaved my satchel onto my shoulder and eased into the line descending the lecture hall's colosseum-esque design.
Professor Thatcher seemed consumed by whatever paper he was grading-far too consumed to notice my final, longing glance as I stepped out the door and into the crowded hallways of Columbia University.
It was an ambitious school, they said, and therefore they hired ambitious teachers.
At least, that was their main explanation for hiring Christian Thatcher. I'd overheard such through an open-door faculty meeting one night, after staying for an art show in the South Wing.
I suppose it made sense, considering Christian was barely out of college himself, to have an excuse whenever the subject was broached, but I myself figured they didn't need one.
Christian was a marvelous teacher.
No explanation had ever been necessary.
The sun bathed my face in warmth as I stepped outside, platforms clacking on the marble as I headed toward the dorm rooms just off campus to the left.
It was a balmy New York day, surprising for early February, but I took it all in stride, content that we were to be expecting rain within the hour.
My classes were finished for the week, and I could simply enjoy myself. No papers due. No study sessions to attend.
Just me, the city and whatever my heart desired.
Christian Thatcher...a small voice in my head announced, and I grimaced, picking up the pace as I strode across the grass.
No, I'd rather like a glass of iced tea, I informed it, rolling my shoulders back to withhold my pride.
That was when the gust of wind hit, slightly shocking in its power, and a stray sheet of paper swept up against my shin.
I bent to retrieve it, having every intention of crumpling it up and tossing it, had I not seen the title on the page.
In messy, boyish handwriting, it read:
The Art of Architectural Expression
My brow furrowed.
This paper was due today, in none other than my Semiotics class...and I thought I recognized the name in the top right corner.
Harry Ortega sat a few rows behind me most days...
And now I had his paper.
Which was due.
To Professor Thatcher.
I scowled at it, thinking this must've been some sort of joke. Some bizarre coincidence or something.
But then I remembered.
Professor Thatcher had had a long lecture with us about signs.
"Signs are everywhere," he'd said. "Beautiful and mysterious. But it's rare for one of the human mind to actually notice one when they see it." Then he'd turned to face us all, pressing his forefinger into the desk as he always did when he was making a point. "Which is why I say that if you see a sign, you better damn well follow it. Always, always, always..."
I swallowed roughly.
It could've been a coincidence.
It really could've.
But the smile that tugged at my lips made me want to think otherwise.
And I figured I had nothing to lose.
"I should turn it in for him," I said aloud, as if it helped me to get on with destiny's plan for me.
I didn't have a class.
Mr. Thatcher didn't have a class, either...
Making a full one-eighty turn, I headed back to the Arts Department, stepping lightly up the stairs as the sun dipped behind the clouds.
Just as promised, I thought, clutching the paper to my chest as I headed inside once more.
The hallway's crowd had thinned significantly, as there were few classes still occurring at this time in the afternoon, and all the students had headed out to party on a Friday night.
I made the few short turns to the Semiotics classroom, but then stopped with my hand on the doorknob.
"What am I doing?" I whispered to myself.
Being a good student...
With a final deep breath, I shook away my sudden fear, turning the knob and preparing to face Mr. Thatcher for the first time on my own.
It would be daunting. I knew that much.
But it would be so many other things.
It would be enlightening.
It would be special.
It would be irresista-
He was gone.
The sinking disappointment fell down my throat like a deadweight.
The lecture hall was as empty as a ghost town, silent and hollow-feeling, with a few stray pencils left on the long booth tables.
Professor Thatcher had probably gone for coffee-or gone home. I didn't know.
I shouldn't have even cared.
A heavy sigh whooshed out of me as I approached his desk with a certain rejection in my step.
All for nothing...my mind kept saying. But maybe it was for the best.
Wanting Professor Thatcher was grossly inappropriate, and as far as I knew, I needed all the help I could get to work myself free of the addiction I had to him. I needed to be sober.
But could one really be sober when they'd never even tasted the alcohol?
The thought made me shudder, and I hurried over to his desk, setting Harry's paper on top of all the others as if it had been there all along.
Naturally, a normal person's next action would be to just leave.
To go out and enjoy their Friday night.
But I am not a normal person.
And when I saw the corner of a paper, hidden beneath the countless maps and graded works and essays, I knew I had to take a quick peek.
It was shading-from a sketch. Probably just a doodle he'd made during a boring period of class.
But I tugged on the corner anyway.
A gasp left me before I even knew it was there, and I gaped down at the beautiful piece of artwork.
Professor Thatcher had drawn the lecture hall, exactly as it stood before me, in beautiful black and white shades. Not a single detail was off...
But there was one small addition that made the sketch a masterpiece.
The empty room had a single student.
A gargoyle, crafted to perfection, seated in the second row with his devil's tail sprawled across the bench. He wore a calculating grin, one arm slung over the back of the booth, and of course, his tongue hung carelessly from between his sharp fangs.
I reached out deftly, wanting to touch it-wanting to feel where he'd put the pressure with each stroke of the pencil. I wanted to know how he'd done-
"Hello, Ms. Banks."
A short, high-pitched screech splashed out of my mouth as I jumped backward, slamming rather indelicately into the blackboard and smearing some of the chalk. "Professor!"
"Forgive me. I didn't mean to scare you..." he murmured, brow raised in both amusement and concern.
My breath was gone.
I literally couldn't draw air into my lungs.
That is, until I realized how ridiculous I must've looked.
Then the air came back to me in a rush and I quickly stepped away from the board, ignoring the soreness in my back and readjusting my satchel. "I'm so sorry, Professor. I was just bringing you one of Harry-Mr. Ortega's papers. He forgot to turn it in. I-honestly, I never meant to-"
He rose a gentle hand, smiling kindly at me. "Please. It's fine. Alright? I don't mind."
"I'm sorry-" I continued. "I just-I put it down and I saw the drawing and I-"
"Please, Ms. Banks. It's not a problem."
Slowly, he approached, black slacks swaying at his ankles as he came to sit on the corner of the desk.
I tried fruitlessly to calm myself, wondering when in hell I'd become such a nervous wreck, and then gestured weakly to the sketch. "It's wonderful. Did you-did you do it?"
I already knew the answer, but I wanted to give myself something to say other than sorry.
His smile curved to one side, the way I always loved to see it, and he nodded, "Yes, I did." He shrugged, "I don't assign enough work, I guess. Not enough to grade. Therefore, too much time on my hands."
"Oh, but I love it!" I gushed, suddenly glad that we were talking about the art, rather than my awkward presence. "Is this how you see your students? As gargoyles?" And a wry smile warped my face.
He gave a quiet chuckle-a warm, sultry sound that made me want to melt-and rubbed his thumb across the barely-there five o'clock shadow. "No, ma'am. That is a self-portrait."
I stared at him for a moment, then burst into an inexcusable round of laughter.
I don't know.
Maybe I was too worked up already, or there was just something in the way he said it. So definitely. So confidently.
"You don't say," I managed once the horrendous giggling subsided.
He was smiling with his teeth at my outburst-beautiful, pearly whites with slightly vicious, sharp canines.
How...sexy, I thought.
"Honest to god. I have a sort of...infatuation with gargoyles. Such an obsession, I'm afraid, is turning me into one."
Tilting my head to the side, I slipped into emergency mode and used my old, high school flirting techniques.
At least it would calm me down.
"I don't see it," I said, biting my lip in mock-thought.
Either he was completely oblivious to the action, or he did a damn good job of hiding it-I couldn't tell which. But it frustrated me.
A short silence enveloped us; one in which we seemed to evaluate each other's eyes intently. I didn't mind.
One could sink into those sea green depths and never wish to return.
"You were the one today, weren't you?" he mused, squinting.
My eyes widened, startled, "Sorry?"
"You mentioned the constellations. Am I wrong?"
"Oh..." I was surprised he even remembered, and I tried to mask the sudden blush, "no. No, that was me."
He nodded, lifting a hand to scratch softly over his left ear, "Right. I thought so. Where'd you learn about that, anyway?"
"Oh, my grandfather liked symbols," I said. "He used to have me find things in our kitchen that meant something other than the obvious, and then he had me explain it."
That gorgeous smile returned and he slapped both hands on his knees, "I like the man already. Did he teach?"
"No, no. He was an electrician, if you can believe it. A major waste of talent, in my opinion, but it pays well, so..." I shrugged.
He nodded, "I can understand. But thank you, though. I was losing them there for a moment."
I shook my head with a quick laugh, "No one sleeps in your class, Professor. It's far too interesting."
Bowing his head in gratitude, he said modestly, "Well, I'm glad you think so. I can't help but feel a certain...distraction from them, though."
It came right out. Unwarranted, unsafe and unfair.
"But that's only because you're so very handsome, Professor."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I couldn't take it back. Maybe if I'd said it with a joking face, he would've taken it lightly-laughed. But my face had been serious.
I'd been serious.
I bit back on my lower lip, stepping quickly away from him and ducking my head. My mouth filled with sourness-bitterness, and I felt like I might die.
Felt like a blood vessel in my head would rupture from the intense blush forming on my cheeks.
I heard him swallow.
Actually heard him, strange as it sounds. And then he said, "I'm...I'm flattered, Ms. Banks, but-"
"No, no, Professor," I spluttered, "please. I apologize."
"That was completely out of line. It won't happen again. I don't know, sometimes I say the stupidest-"
I sucked in a sharp breath.
I didn't even think he knew my first name, let alone that he would use it.
But the shock of the sound of it-of his voice saying it-rendered me speechless.
"Please don't get ahead of yourself," he murmured. "It's quite alright. To say that it's happened before would sound rather conceded, but I'm afraid-Ms. Banks, look at me."
Quivering, I glanced up, face as red as a cherry, and let his striking eyes lock on mine.
"It's happened before," he confirmed, smiling gently.
I nodded, chewing obsessively on my lip. "I just-I don't know what came over me-"
"Ms. Banks, please. I'll hold nothing against you. It's only that my position here is tedious. And I can't afford to..." he trailed off.
"I understand," I said quickly. "Just forget I said it."
He stood, shoving his hands into his pockets and moving toward the far side of the blackboard. But I was sure, as he moved, I heard him whisper, "Unlikely."
Before I could process it, a loud clap of thunder erupted outside, and then seconds later, rain poured from the heavy clouds, soaking New York in mere seconds.
"Just as promised..." I breathed, hugging my arms against myself in discomfort.
He glanced around at me, eyebrow raised, "Counting on it, were you?"
I nodded mutely.
"Ms. Banks..." he sighed, moving toward me again. The awareness I felt to his presence made my skin prickle with electricity, but I forced myself to ignore it. "Please don't feel awkward."
I exhaled slowly.
"Look," he gave my shoulder a light tap, and my heart lurched at his touch.
I shocked him...
And he shocked me...
Pulling his hand away quickly, he rubbed the abused fingers with a surprised look, then cleared his throat, "Let me call you a cab."
Another slow exhale.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He nodded, a slight smile on his lips. "Sure." But I saw him sneak another glance at his hand when he turned away.
I didn't think that was actually true.
It was supposed to be an urban legend-that an electric shock passed between people who were "meant-to-be."
But it wasn't true.
We weren't "meant-to-be."
It was a one-sided attraction. Nothing more.
"I'll just be a minute," he said, disappearing into his office at the far left corner of the room.
I didn't hesitate to drop my face into my hands, wanting to groan-to cry...anything.
I heard the low murmur of his voice on the phone, and slowly moved toward the first row of stacked benches in the hall.
Heaving myself up onto the wood, I swung my legs rather childishly and waited for the awkwardness to return with him.
He came back in.
"On its way."
I glanced up, "Thank you."
Nodding again, he gestured to the umbrella leaning against the wastebasket by the door, "I'll walk you out when it gets here."
I smiled lamely, "I really appreciate it, but you don't have to do that."
He scoffed, "Chivalry would truly be dead if I didn't."
A small, halfhearted giggle came from me, but then nothing else.
In truth, I wanted to get as far away from him as possible, so I could sort through the whirlwind of thoughts flying around inside my head.
Fuck, I needed a drink.
A big one.
"It should be a nice weekend," he said, having a seat at his desk. "Rain is good for this city."
"You think so?" I asked, my voice extremely quiet.
He shrugged, "Too much of one thing makes you bored. And boredom makes you do stupid things. A little change-up is always healthy."
I smiled, "That's a pretty way to think of things."
He mirrored the smile, as if encouraging it, "Oh, I pride myself on pretty ways to think of things." Taking up his pencil, he began to add gentle lines to the already-perfect sketch.
"It makes you a good teacher."
Stop complimenting him! You sound desperate!
But Professor Thatcher just tipped his head in acknowledgment.
"What...what do you think you would've done if you'd decided not to be a teacher?"
I was just trying to make conversation at this point. Trying to ease the tension in the room with pointless, harmless words.
"Well..." he sat back, still tracing, "teaching was always first with me...but art is charming, and it's half of my work as it is. I'm not sure. Maybe I would've started a gallery."
I rose an eyebrow. "That would've been lovely, I'm sure."
"On the other hand," he continued, "I was good with languages in college. I knew a lot about foreign things and Latin and name meanings..."
"Like yours?" I asked.
"My name? Ha! Boring. Of the Christian faith," and he rolled his eyes rather playfully. But then he sat forward again, his pencil temporarily pausing, "But your name..." and he grinned.
"Mm..." he hummed, and I struggled to chain up my arousal, "well, Mercedes. That's Spanish, isn't it?" He squinted, "Mercedes coming from Mercies...the Spanish title of the Virgin Mary, and Mercies coming from merces, which is Latin for wages, or reward..."
Oh, it was so sexy to watch his mind work.
God, I'd never found intelligence as attractive as I found it now.
Now I was salivating for it.
"All things considered, your name means something like the prize..." and he rose a brow at me. "A reward for a starving man, perhaps?"
A silent gasp shook out of me, and the blood rushed to my cheeks for what felt like the thousandth time.
Christian watched my reaction, and then seemed to suddenly realize what he'd said. "Jesus, I'm sorry. That was inappropriate."
"No, no..." I rushed, waving my hands out in front of me, "no, that was beautiful." And I grinned through my slight embarrassment, "As you said, I'm flattered."
His panic shifted slowly over to a grin of his own. "Deja vu, eh?"
I nodded, swallowing, "Yeah." I was trying to quell the hunger for him that had bubbled up in my veins. God, I wanted him to starve after me...
I wanted it more than I wanted to breathe.
A horn honked outside the lecture hall's window, startling us both, and I hopped off the bench to see if it was the taxi.
Sure enough, out the window, through the rain, I could see its bright yellow body, gleaming like a small, dangerous beacon.
And I didn't want it here.
I suddenly wanted to stay.
"That your cab?" Christian asked from behind me, still sketching at his desk.
I didn't respond, staring at the taxi like a zombie of some sort.
I want to stay.
I want to stay.
I want to stay.
It was that thought that drove out the most heinous words I'd ever spoken.
I spoke to the taxi's blurry form, "Are you attracted to me?"
The lead on his pencil. He'd pressed too hard.
But I refused to stop and look back at him now.
Clenching my fists, I forced myself to say it.
"Because I am attracted to you."
I heard him release a shuddering breath, but then nothing else. Not for a long while.
A loud silence eclipsed us, interrupted only by the occasional honking of the cab.
And then, finally, he said, "Merc-Ms. Banks, I...I couldn't possibly answer th-"
"Are you?" I pressed, crossing my arms over my chest and still refusing to look at him.
Another long silence.
Then, "Let me walk you to your cab."
"The cab just left, Professor."
What are you doing?!
"Ms. Banks, I don't know what you're-"
At last, I whirled around, some actual power seeping into my voice, "I want to know!"
He looked shocked, and sure enough, atop his beautiful drawing, the remnants of the lead was strewn all over. His eyes were wide, but guarded, betraying nothing of his true emotions to me.
"It's been bothering me for months," I pushed on. "Having to watch you run this damn class has proven to be the most infuriating, yet most enchanting thing I've ever had to do. I have to know, Professor. It is not enough to merely look at you."
It was out in the open.
Everything I'd thought since I'd seen him the first time.
Now he knew.
He knew everything.
Fuck, how would I ever complete this course!? There were eight weeks left!
But I saw a small flicker. The briefest of shifts in his expression, though I couldn't tell what it was.
"Ms. Banks, I...I can't..." he whispered.
My power. My resolve. My pride.
Closing my eyes, I breathed slowly.
"I'll call you another cab," he said softly.
And then I was striding toward the door, as fast as I could, refusing to look at him.
I would drop out of the class.
I would leave the Arts Department.
I would never see him again.
But just as I reached the door, my satchel slipped off my shoulder, setting me off balance and crashing to the ground.
Everything spilled out.
Of course it did.
With a sound of both frustration and panic, I dropped to my knees, far too aware of Professor Thatcher's sudden assistance at my side.
We quickly stuffed the pencils, binders, notebooks and random items back into the bag without words, but his hands slowed suddenly, as if distracted.
And I glanced over at him.
His eyes were downcast, hooded with a strange, dark look, and I followed his gaze slowly, almost knowing before I saw what he was looking at.
My skirt had ridden up, revealing a great deal of my thigh, as well as the lacy edge of one of my garters...and he didn't look away.
Not even when he knew I'd noticed.
I couldn't take it!
All this temptation! All these mixed signals!
Scrambling to my feet, I yanked down the hem of my skirt and heaved my bag onto my shoulder, throwing, "Goodbye, Professor," over my shoulder as I swung the door wide.
But I never went through it.
Thatcher's hand hit the door's wood with such a loud, shuddering smack that I actually gasped, frozen in place as he slammed it shut, driving the hinges to creak.
His body, which had never been threatening before, had suddenly become a dark, powerful object behind me...and I couldn't move.
Not a muscle.
"No," he growled, and it was a voice I'd never heard before. A voice that was deep and husky and coarse.
A shiver rocked up my spine.
"No..." he repeated.
And then his hands were on me, the electric shocks more than strong as he gripped me roughly by the waist and spun me around so fast I was dizzy. He shoved my back into the door and lifted one hand from my hip to grab my chin and force my head up.
"Look at me," he demanded, and my eyes fell on his. I gasped again, witnessing the first real darkness I'd ever seen in him. His eyes burned with one thing.
A thing I'd sworn I'd only see in fantasies.
A thing people call desire.
"You want to get me fired? Fine. I don't give a fuck." He did something I'd never expect. He yanked my hips against his and ground into me, shocking every nerve in my body when I felt his stone-hard erection against my stomach. "But don't you dare walk away from me," he snarled, yanking on my chin when I tried to glance down at his hips, "after teasing me like that."
I had no words-couldn't speak.
This was the last thing I'd ever thought would happen, and for several seconds, I wondered whether we'd slipped into an alternate reality.
Who was this man in front of me?
I'd never met him before...and he was certainly not my Semiotics professor.
They merely shared the same face.
Or the same body.
"Now that I think about it..." he murmured darkly, his voice a rumbled against my skin, our chests flush, "I'd love to get fired for this."
Trembling, my voice finally returned, "F-For...for what?"
He grinned-and it was wholly different from any other grin I'd seen him give. "For fucking you against this door."
My breath caught.
"On my desk. Against my board..."
It was brutal, trying to ignore the arousal pooling between my legs. But I was also scared...
And I had to remind myself of that.
"How does that sound, Ms. Banks?" he drawled, my name becoming a purr.
I choked on any answer I might've provided, instead blurting out, "Who are you?"
His grin darkened further, "I'm your college professor...who else?"
"Who are you?" My voice rose, but before I could work up any real steam, he'd slammed me harder against the door and moved his face toward my ear, our cheeks brushing against each other.
"Shh..." he whispered. "Calm down, Mercedes. Let me teach you something new..."
"T-Teach me? I-"
My eyes snapped wide...
And it all fell into place.
"I'm what, Mercedes? Articulate, sweetheart."
"You're...sexually deviant," I breathed.
He pressed his face into my neck and hummed, allowing me to feel his lips spread into another smile, feel his lashes brush as he closed his eyes. "Not in the common sense, but yes...I'm sexually deviant."
My heart rate jumpstarted.
"Don't be afraid of me, Mercedes..." he whispered, and then his lips were on my ear, buzzing against the sensitive flesh as he spoke. "I want to be inside you...nothing more."
Despite myself, a wanton moan ripped its way out of me...
And he knew I was his.
Whether or not part of me didn't want to be.
His soft, warm tongue darted out, circling the shell of my ear and making me squirm, one of my hands jerking to my crotch as if to quell the burning need.
"Please..." he breathed. "Let me."
His hand ghosted from my face down to my ribs and then just kept going...
But I latched onto his wrist before he could do serious damage.
"N-No..." I stuttered, eyes wide and crazed, my hand shaking around his. "We shouldn't."
With a gentle sigh, he pulled away to look at me, and for a moment, there was a flash of the Christian I knew. The one I'd been watching all semester.
"I know..." he breathed, staring at me in such I way that I found it virtually impossible to glance elsewhere. His eyes glimmered with a hunger that made me yearn.
A reward for a starving man, perhaps?
His voice replayed in my head, and I couldn't help but marvel at how drastically the situation had changed in a matter of minutes.
How had it come to this?
Reaching out, he deftly curled a strawberry blonde lock of my hair between his fingers, considering me.
"You can only blame yourself," he said softly.
I must've given him an incredulous look, because his expression shifted to one of amusement.
"How is this my fault?" I whispered.
He pressed his face up against mine, forcing me to catch my breath as our noses brushed and his forehead rested on my brow. "Because, Mercedes..."
My eyes fluttered shut as the sensual sounds of his lustfully agonized voice drifted to my ears.
"Because of the way you watch me every day...with your eyes on my mouth and your pencil in your own. You make me wish you were putting those lips to better use."
He'd noticed me staring at him?
Fuck, how could he not?
I'd been practically gawking!
"Because of this..." he murmured, lips a mere breath away from my own as his hand swept beneath the hem of my skirt with practiced ease and brushed over my garter.
"And these..." his other hand ghosted over my chest, fingers gently kneading at my cleavage before one slipped between my breasts.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
"Open your eyes," he quietly bid, and I obliged instantly, bathed in his jade gaze. "Those, too," he said.
"We shouldn't do this!" I repeated desperately.
He shook his head, "No, we shouldn't..."
I waited in earnest for his next words.
"But you started this, Ms. Banks. And shouldn't is a long way from can't."
Not a second later, he'd dropped to his knees, hands curling around the backs of my thighs as he dragged my pelvis closer to his face.
"W-What-what are you doing?"
He glanced up at me through his dark lashes, providing only, "What you want me to."
And his hands were under my skirt before I could voice one word of protest, hiking it up over my thighs to reveal my black lace underwear.
I gave a small squeak, trying to yank the damn thing back down, but he grabbed both hands and pinned them back against the door.
Stunned and shaking at the power in his demand, I made no further protest.
"I've wanted to do this for a long time..." he said, and then he was leaning forward, moving past the point of no return as a final, startled gasp shook out of me and he buried his nose against the apex of my thighs.
Oh my god.
Christian Thatcher was nuzzling my sex.
I tried to struggle, but the only thing I got out of that was more friction, and then an agonized moan of ecstasy.
He'd inhaled, hadn't he? A deep, thick inhale, shamelessly scenting the most private area I possessed.
"Oh..." he groaned, voice muffled, and as if on cue, another wave of pleasure rocked through my body, dampening me quicker than the rain outside.
"Do you pleasure yourself, Ms. Banks?" he murmured.
Gooseflesh fanned out across my skin.
"Tell the truth."
I hesitated, breath coming in short, little pants as I watched him slowly open his mouth to nibble on the fabric of my underwear.
A small cry wrenched out of me, and I flung my head back against the door, "Yes!"
"Yes, you pleasure yourself, or yes, Christian, fuck me?" he asked, tone as calm as if he were discussing something in another lecture.
"Both!" I whimpered, hands itching to reach out and touch him, though I wasn't sure if he'd allow it.
"Touch yourself," he instructed. "Show me. I want to watch."
My heart pounded a mile a minute, and I bit my lip, shaking my head in embarrassment.
"It wouldn't make any difference!" I blurted. "Every time I do it, I...I-well, I..."
He placed a warm, coaxing hand on the top of my thigh, smoothing his thumb across the skin to soothe me.
Christ, how could he be so gentle and yet so aggressive all at once?
"I think of...of you..."
I glanced down at him despite my mortification, and found a surprising bewilderment in his eyes.
I nodded slowly. "Every time since I met you."
There was a pregnant pause-one in which neither of us so much as blinked-and then he whispered a rather colorful expletive.
The rest was history.
Fuck, I might've even blacked out at one point.
Christian's mouth fell on my barely-covered sex with a vengeance, suckling my aching clitoris right through the fabric and eliciting a shriek out of me. His hands crawled up my sides to press my hips back against the door, and between the wet, private, magnificent kisses, he whispered things like, "Shh...be quiet, Sweetheart," and "Stay still," and "You're so beautiful, Sweetheart. Shh..."
The last made me swell with pride, my feminine ego nearly bursting at the seams. But perhaps nothing kindled my fire so much as his next words.
"Fuck-you taste like honey." He said this as he stripped me of my underwear, tossing away the scrap of lace without a second thought. "Like honey and raspberries and champagne..."
To hell with art, the man should've been a poet!
He delved back in, but now without a single barrier between us, and I jerked violently when I first felt the tickle of his stubble against my core.
When his tongue...
My head slammed back into the door again, hips bucking though he tried to keep me in place.
I'd never felt anything like this.
Never felt such glorious, unhindered rapture...
He didn't let me finish, though. Wouldn't.
Just as I felt the crashing wash approach, white lights flashing behind my eyes, he pulled away, making me groan.
"Try to be patient, Sweetheart. I don't know if I'm quite done with you yet..."
And when I looked down again, I was struck by the view of him there-on his knees, gazing up at me, my arousal dripping down his chin...
Oh my god...
Rising higher, but not standing, his nimble fingers took to my blouse, slowly-torturously-untucking it from my skirt and playing with the buttons. He seemed to unloose one every other minute, making me whine and whimper despite his firm, whispered reprimands.
When my navel was visible to him, he hesitated a moment too long, and I couldn't take it any longer.
My right hand tangled into his chestnut tresses-god, they were so soft-and I pressed his face against me, surprised when he followed my needs without complaint.
The bridge of his nose glided up my midsection, stopping at the crest of my ribs before traveling back down, and on the second run, he used his tongue.
Keening, I squeezed my thighs together, arching my back as my free hand clutched desperately for something to grab onto.
That was when I heard footsteps in the hallway...
Sure enough, they approached the Semiotics door.
A knock vibrated against my back as whoever the damned idiot was called, "Thatch? You in?"
Christian's eyes shot to mine, though he did not cease the workings of his mouth, and for a moment we shared a common thought.
A realization that neither of us wanted this to end, no matter the consequences.
And then he silently buried his face in my cleavage, forcing me to bite back a moan as his hand slid up to cup my breast through my bra.
"Thatch?" the man called again. Then he reached for the doorknob.
My hand shot out, curling around it in a vise grip and stopping the persistent jiggling. The person on the other side sounded confused.
"Chris? Are you in there?"
I glanced nervously down at him, but my professor just shook his head gently, closing his eyes as his tongue peeked out to sweep across my collarbone.
The jiggling continued for another ten seconds or so...
And then he left.
And I sighed deeply.
Christian rose to his full height, sweeping his arms around my back to draw me into an unexpected embrace...
And my arms couldn't help but wind around his neck.
"I'll have some explaining to do," he murmured, leaning forward to nuzzle my throat again.
"Yes..." I breathed.
"I don't care."
Next second, I was lifted up, cradled effortlessly in his arms as he carried me toward...
Christian swept the mountain of papers off it to the ground without hesitating, setting me down gently and kicking the chair out of the way.
"That door's not locked..." I managed, trying to incorporate some of the warning into my voice-the danger.
"I know," was all he said, sweeping my hair to one side and kissing the bared expanse of my shoulder.
"Christian..." I whispered. "What are we doing?"
Oh god-what now?
His hand was suddenly on my chin again, yanking my head up to stare him directly in the eyes, only to find that that viciously sexy, dark look had returned.
"Ms. Banks, I am your professor..." he rumbled. "It is only appropriate that you address me as such."
My eyes widened in confusion, but he was already flipping me over, pressing me down on my stomach so that the cold wood seeped through my skin.
"Do you understand?" he demanded, hands finding the hem of my skirt and ripping-literally ripping-it straight down the middle.
I gasped, struggling once more, though his body mass easily overpowered mine.
"Do you understand!?" he shouted, and I had no time to prepare.
One second I was hearing his zipper drop, the next he was pounding into me from behind with such a massive girth that I screamed on contact.
"YES!" I wailed, chest slamming down on the desktop as he yanked himself out and then viciously surged back in.
"Yes, what?" he growled.
His thrusts instantly slowed, and I gave a small hiccup at the sudden change, eyes wide with wonder and horror and ecstasy.
I'd never been more terrified in my entire life.
Or more aroused...
Fucking hell, Professor Thatcher was inside me. Fucking me. On his desk.
For a split second, I wondered if someone had slipped me some acid...
"I dreamt this..." I whispered. "I fantasized a thousand times...but I never thought-"
"Shh..." Christian leaned over me, breathing hotly down my neck as he stroked my lower back with his knuckles, the heat of his touch bleeding through my shirt.
God, we were both still half-clothed, weren't we? This was really a...well, a tryst...
"Spread your legs," he murmured softly.
I shuffled my quivering feet apart.
"More..." he coaxed.
I spread wide for him, bending over the desk like I'd imagined so many times, whilst still, my mind tried to process it all.
"Yes..." Christian groaned, rewarding me with a kiss to my shoulder blade as he sunk deeper into my depths, mumbling a soft, "Thank you, Sweetheart. So much better..."
His fingers curled around my hipbones, and gently, he guided me backward, easing my pelvis into a perfect fit against his.
A long, gasping moan whistled out of me as his pulsing member caressed my G-spot. Slowly, so slowly...tantalizingly slow...
"Oh, Mercedes, look at you..." he sighed, readjusting my hair once more to speak in a murmur against my earlobe. "Breathtakingly submissive..."
A shudder rocked through me, and I pressed my face into the wood, both mortified and stunningly desperate for more.
"I...I shouldn't," I whimpered. "I shouldn't be."
"I want you to be," he hissed, flicking his tongue over my silver, hoop earring.
And then he pulled out again, kneading his thumbs into my sore, knotted muscles as the friction took my breath away. His reentry was careful-perfectly executed with much precision-and my wheezing inhale echoed throughout the hall.
Rocking back and forth, in and out, over and over again, his cock engorged with more and more blood-so much that I feared he would start to rip me open.
We fit too well together.
It was too satisfying a sensation, even with minimal movement...
It had to be more than coincidence.
Christian started to make these gorgeous little moans, right beside my ear, and I could feel the erratic pulse of his heart thudding against my spine.
He was everywhere around me, surrounding me with his warmth-his daunting presence.
And gradually...always gradually...he began to pick up the pace.
And I began to pant.
"How many?" he huffed, and I could feel the hot sweat on his brow against my temple.
"How many men have you slept with?"
He jerked me. Hard. Jammed his shaft inside of me.
"Ah!" I gave a harsh cry of pleasure-pain, quickly spluttering, "Professor! Professor, that's personal!"
"Personal?" he whispered. It was quiet, but the tone was so deadly, he may as well have shouted. Knotting his fingers into my hair, he gathered it into his fist and yanked my head up off the desk, biting my ear before growling, "I'm ten inches deep in you. Nothing is personal."
My nerves jolted, writhing at the erotic words-the sensual sound of his voice, even in anger.
"How many, Mercedes?" he demanded.
His fist collided with the desk, and a breath and a half later, I was on my back. Then, a breath after that, I was lifted up into his arms, seated on the desk's edge, my legs tangled around his waist as he surged forward again.
This angle was so much more intense.
I let him know it with a cry of pleasure, squeezing my eyes shut and clutching at him.
Our faces were centimeters apart, harsh breathing colliding against each other, and his dark green eyes pierced me like any good Swiss Army Knife.
"Tell me now, Mercedes...I don't want to lose my temper."
I exhaled sharply.
If this was him in control of his temper, I yearned to see him lose it. How far could we possibly go?
But he wanted to know.
And some strange part of me wanted to tell him.
"Three," I whispered.
"I want their names." And he pounded into me several times, all in quick succession.
My fingers latched onto his sea green tie-one that matched his eyes-and I yanked. "D-David Sumpter..."
A harder thrust.
"Ooh! Oh, god! Kyle Koss! Christ! Kyle Koss!"
He slammed into me, bruising my pelvis-marking me, and I had to yank myself back from the brink of orgasm.
Then there was another pause. A sharp, jarring thing that made me growl right back at him.
"Very good, Ms. Banks...now I don't ever want to hear those names again." He rolled his hips, circling his cock inside me, and I groaned.
"You only scream for me," he commanded, "or you don't scream at all."
I could feel his pre-come trickling down inside of me, cold as ice compared to everything else.
"Is that clear?"
"Is that clear!?"
The climax hit harder than I imagined a bullet would break skin.
It ripped through me, lighting my blood on fire like it was gasoline. And I screamed and screamed and screamed.
I screamed myself hoarse.
And it was only seconds later, with the blinding bursts of color still shooting across my line of sight, that he came with a roar like a lion, and his seed jettisoned deep inside my channel.
I could still hear the faint remnants of his final cry bouncing off the walls, but there was nothing more.
Slowly...with the slowness of a gentle lover, Christian eased out of me, and my sore entrance surged with a burning, stinging sensation.
He had been too much for me after all. Far too big.
I snuck a glance down at his manhood, aching to see him in all his glory...and I was anything but disappointed.
A dark grin spread across my face.
"David..." I whispered, "meet Goliath."
His sharp gaze struck mine, and for a moment, no expression but pure severity shone on his features.
Then he smirked.
And I was wrecked all over again.
The moment melted away seconds later, but it had still existed, and I cherished it. Christian's expression dampened, and the smile fell, replaced by an awful grimace.
"Forgive me," he breathed, gently stepping out of my hold, and then stumbling into the blackboard to steady himself.
I swallowed hard.
His back was too me. Broad and muscular and beautiful, but his back all the same.
"You regret it," I said softly, watching as he braced his arms on the metal chalk grate and pressed his head against the board's rough surface.
"I never said that," was his sharp retort.
"But you do."
For a moment, we listened to the rain, still pouring to the ground outside...and then he glanced over his shoulder at me,
"I regret my behavior."
He turned around again, leaning back against it and massaging his brow. "I'm frightening when I get like that. I say awful things..."
I wanted to go to him.
To comfort him.
But I knew somehow-instinctively-that he needed space.
"Nothing you said sounded awful to me," I whispered.
He shook his head forcefully. "I am a violent lover-and I detest that. Not to mention, I took advantage of you. My student. I deserve to lose my job."
"No one's firing you." I smiled faintly at him. "Least of all, me." Then I looked down at my lap, cheeks flooding with a vibrant, glow-in-the-dark blush. "That was the best moment of my life."
Christian gathered a deep breath.
"You don't mean that."
"Yes," I said. "I mean that."
Then I slipped off the desk, walking on wobbly, limping legs to retrieve my torn pair of underwear.
"Leave that," he snapped suddenly, and I gaped at him. He shrugged a moment later, looking strangely...innocent in his eyes. "A keepsake."
After a long hesitation, I nodded numbly, placing the ripped garment rather indecently upon his desk.
And then I said the most mundane of things.
"Goodbye, Professor. I'll...see you on Monday."
His eyes fluttered shut.
The door seemed far too close for my taste...
I wanted this to last.
I want to stay.
I want to stay.
I want to stay.
Spinning around on the threshold, I gathered all my strength to say, "Christian?"
He glanced up, and I half expected him to be angry at the use of his name.
But there was nothing, save a gentle fondness in his eyes. And it was strange...because I realized what he'd said before...it was so incredibly true.
The gargoyle was a self-portrait.
Both beauty and darkness, combined into one.
"You've...you've yet to kiss me."
His brows drew together after a long moment of stunned silence, and he approached me quicker than I expected, reaching out. Reaching...
Then pulling away. Drawing back again with a sigh.
A sickening twist of rejection wrenched in my gut.
But, "Tomorrow," he said.
And I glanced up, daring not to believe in that small sliver of hope I saw dangling before me.
"Meet me tomorrow night...on the Brooklyn Bridge. Eight o'clock."
My heart froze.
"I'll kiss you then. Under better circumstances..."
A gentle smile curved my lips.
Because it wasn't coincidence.
It was a sign.
It had been, and would always be, a sign.
I hope you enjoyed :) There will be a possible sequel, if I get enough feedback from you guys and you say you want it. :D If you have your own idea for an "Unprofessional" couple, drop me a PM and I'll consider it. I'd love to hear from you guys. You can also vote for the next installment at the top of my profile page. Cheers :D
Some of the material in these works may prove to be offensive to several parties. These works are fictional, and any similarities that occur are purely coincidental.