Double Dirty Mountain Men(35)

The night in my apartment is like a dam breaking loose. For the first two weeks of classes, the only way I do anything besides have sex with Professor Sharpe is through sheer force of will. I have to practically lock myself into the library to get anything done at all, and I still get an A minus on an English quiz.

I’m addicted. I can’t get enough, and the funny thing is, neither can he. Sometimes I’ll stop by his office at lunch just to suck his beautiful, perfect cock, only to get a text a few hours later that I should meet him in the faculty lounge bathroom in Barrons Hall.

He finds me in the library, bends me over the bathroom sink, and fucks my ass until my eyes roll back into my head. In the study rooms in the student union  , the first place we fucked, he spreads my legs on the table, eats me out, then pounds me with my knees over his shoulders, hitting that deep, perfect spot inside me again and again.

Classrooms. Deserted back hallways. Library basements. His office. Bathrooms.

Professor Sharpe has claimed my body; he has access to every hole, and he uses it. Constantly.

And I want him to. God, do I want him to.

One day, feeling particularly like I can barely walk for lust, I get a little crazy. I lube up my asshole and go by his office right before office hours are ending, wearing a skirt.

Once I close the door behind me I climb on top of him and slide his huge cock into my ass with no warning, and he makes the most primal, guttural sound I’ve ever heard. He whispers filthy, dirty things into my ear as I ride him in reverse cowgirl, and he pulls me back against him and rubs my clit as I come again and again, almost uncontrollably.

I leave after a long, deep kiss, his semen still leaking from me. Tomorrow is Saturday, and Saturday means the one night a week I sleep at his house, falling asleep and waking up in his arms. I look forward to it all week, and I wish I didn’t.

I wish this was still about sex for me, because that’s easy. If it was just sex, I wouldn’t wish that we could go on dates, or be seen together outside the classroom. I wouldn’t hate so much that this was secret.

From his office, I go to the departmental mailroom. Another professor’s left a last-minute reading printout in a box there, and even though she said it was optional, I want to do it.

Standing there, checking her mail, is Professor Calvino. She teaches Greek, and she’s somehow both motherly and no-nonsense, her spiral-curl gray hair sticking out in every direction, so different from her daily uniform of sharp slacks and blazers.

When I stand, she’s looking at me.

“Melody,” she says.

“Hi, Professor Calvino,” I say, my reading in my hands, my heart starting to thump.

Please don’t let me smell like dirty sex. Please, please, please.

“I’ve noticed you’re spending a lot of time with Professor Sharpe lately,” she says, adjusting her half-moon glasses on her face.

My heart pretty much stops.

“I don’t like to plant ideas, but if anything untoward happens, please let the department know,” she goes on.

My blood is rushing through my ears, and I think I’m starting to sweat from sheer nerves.

“Untoward how?” I squeak out.

She glances at the door quickly, as if she’s making sure that we’re alone.

“If he makes a pass at you or anything,” she says, keeping her voice low.

She knows, I think. Oh my God, she knows.

“Have you heard something?” I manage to ask.

Professor Calvino sighs. She looks at the door again, then takes one step closer to me.

“There was an incident once,” she says, her voice confidential. “I don’t like to go into detail, but Professor Sharpe had a relationship of a sexual nature with an undergraduate.”

I stare at her, mouth open. All I can think is, I thought I was special.

“Frankly, I didn’t think we should hire someone with that kind of track record, but I was outvoted,” she goes on quietly. “In my experience, when someone abuses their power once, they tend to do it again, so we’ve been trying to keep an eye on his female students and make sure they’re okay.”

My face is ten shades of red, I can tell, and I’m just staring at Professor Calvino, open-mouthed.

“Has something happened?” she asks mildly.

I shake my head no, even as I’m thinking, wildly, yes, something has happened, a lot of somethings have happened.

“I’m just surprised, that’s all,” I say, willing my voice not to shake. “He’s been very professional with me.”

She nods once, curtly.

“Good,” she says. “I’m glad to hear it. Take care, Melody.”

She walks from the room, leaving me standing there, open-mouthed.



I start crying the second I leave the Classics Department, but it’s horrifically cold, windy day so I wrap my scarf around my face and pretend it’s the wind making my eyes water. I skip my last class of the day and go home, dramatically throwing myself on my bed.

The bed where we fucked the night I got back.

The bed where we slept. Together.

I feel like an idiot, like I’m stupid child that Professor Sharpe used for sex and planned to throw away. I can’t stop thinking about Professor Calvino saying they tend to do it again.

I’m not the first. I’m probably not the second. How many have there been? Is there a new one every semester? Does he just pick a girl from his class and fuck her until he gets bored?

When is he going to get bored of me?

I cry on my bed for a long time, the horrible thoughts swirling around in my brain. I don’t even know why I’m so upset, because isn’t this what I thought I wanted?

For us to be nothing more than a sexual fling?

But it’s not. I’ve been lying to myself about what this is, because even though there is sex — a lot of sex, really good sex — it’s more than that.

To me, at least.

It’s a long time before I finally get off my bed, but I know what I have to do.

I have to confront him.





Chapter 24





Professor Sharpe




I light the “Pine Spice” candle on my mantle and then step back, taking in the scene. The fire’s going below, finally; the living room is clean; the lasagna is in the oven, staying warm. I even decanted the wine so it can breathe.

All I need is for Melody to get here, and then the night will really be perfect.

Right on time, at six sharp, there’s a knock on my door and I grin as I go to answer it.

The second I see Melody’s face, I stop grinning. Her face is botchy and her eyes are red and puffy.

She’s been crying.

“What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head quickly and walks into my house, past me. I close the door against the cold, baffled.

“Tell me,” I say, my voice sterner than I mean it to be, because I can’t stand to see Melody hurt.

I’ll kill whoever hurt her, I think, my fists balled. If someone laid a finger on her, I swear I’ll kill them.

She takes a deep, shaky breath, her eyes never leaving my face.

“Professor Calvino told me about you,” she says, her voice wavering.

I don’t know what she’s talking about, and I stare at her, blankly.

“That you fuck undergrads all the time?” she says, tears coming into her eyes.

My heart squeezes in my chest.

“It’s not true,” I say, taking a step toward her, reaching for her shoulders. Melody takes a step backward. “I don’t fuck students, Melody, that’s...”

“Really,” she says, her voice pure acid. “Because I’m a student and we’re fucking.”

“That’s different!” I say. “What did she tell you?”

Melody takes a deep breath, and I can tell she’s trying not to sob.

“That you had a sexual relationship with a student once, and probably have had more that no one knows about,” she says, glaring daggers. “And she was right about that part, so it stands to reason she was right about the whole thing. How many? One per semester? One per class per semester? How many other kittens are there?”

“None,” I say, holding my hands out toward her. “Melody, you’re the only one, I swear.”

I take a deep breath, ready to come clean.

“I made a stupid mistake when I was in grad school,” I say. “I was a teaching assistant and I had a one night stand with a girl in my class. She thought she could get a better grade out of it, she couldn’t, long story short, now everyone thinks I’m a pervert who has sex with my students.”

Melody arches one eyebrow.

“It’s just you, ever since,” I say. “Melody, I swear. The rest of them seem like — like children, except you, and you’re beautiful and pure and smart and sexy as hell, and I wish I didn’t want you like I do because it would sure make my life less complicated.”

Her bottom lip is quivering, like she’s about to cry again, and she looks away.

“I love you,” I say.

She looks at me again, this time incredulous. I’m incredulous, because I don’t know where that came from. I didn’t mean to say it, I just did.

And it’s true.

“I need to think,” she says, and walks past me for the door again.

“Melody, I promise,” I say. “Cross my heart, hope to die. Anything.”

She shakes her head again and opens the door, then stops on the threshold and turns back to look at me.