“Is Ethan singling you out? Is he bothering you in some way?” My mom interrogates.
“No,” I say with a nervous laugh that I hope sounds nonchalant. “I was just curious about him.”
“Ah,” my mom says.
Okay, she didn’t buy what I just said.
She doesn’t say anything for the rest of the lunch, and neither do I.
“Bye, sweetie, study hard!” My mom says with a final hug when she drops me off.
Crap. My mom can’t possibly think that I’m sleeping with him or that he’s being weird toward me, or something? I don’t know. But … I want to sleep with him. I’m going to propose that very thing tonight.
Ethan
This is what is going to lead me right to hell. I’m going to take advantage of this sweet young thing that I want more than I’ve ever fucking wanted. Despite the fact that I always, always get my cock wet the first chance I get, young girls like my students were always off limits. I fuck women my age. Women who understand my problems; women who share my kinks; women who can attempt to match my desires.
But none of them match my desires. None of them twist me up inside the way that Emmaline does.
None of them have ever looked at me the way Emmaline does. Breathed near me and made me feel like if I didn’t touch her, grip her shoulder, or touch her hair, that I’d fucking explode. I’m a sick bastard. I know touching her on the shoulder is a way to make her feel more comfortable, and I do it to manipulate her.
I told myself that I’d let her lead the way, be the aggressor. I thought that was my chicken shit, easy way out. Because Emmaline, she’s such a good girl. She’s bound to be the responsible one, even if I can’t be right now, right?
There’s hot twenty something ass trying to throw itself at me all the time. I could have any of it, and I always turn it down without a second thought.
But I know damn fucking well that’s not what’s happening with Emmaline. I invited her to my place tonight. I seriously doubt she’ll make it all the way to my home and then tell me, hey, I just realized I shouldn’t fuck my professor. Just that thought makes me want to squeeze the student paper I’m grading right now, but I resist the urge to brutalize this substandard paper I’m making bleed. I’m not cruel, not harsh, but I don’t go easy on anyone. That’s not my job.
As in my grading, when I fuck, I’m not looking to punish, but I'm looking to instruct. I’d like to show Emmaline’s body the answers to the question that her eyes always ask.
How can I please you? That’s what they look at me and say.
And that keeps me rock fucking hard every moment that I’m thinking of her.
A small part of me is desperate to bring me to heel. Make me see that I shouldn’t have ate her pussy and fingered her in my office until she was mewling and moaning out my name.
But I’m working hard to quash that part of me, because fuck that.
My cock and I don’t want to think about my moral quandaries. The truth is my hands are obsessed with Emmaline, too. I long to feel her skin against mine, to flatten my palms out over the planes of her ass and give her a damn good squeeze. I want to hear her yelp for me.
I like eliciting any sound I can from Emmaline. I have so many more in mind.
Fuck, I’m supposed to be grading and that whole thing I said about not being harsh? I underlined my last remark about eight times. That’s going to look pretty fucking dick-ish, but hopefully I don’t break any hearts. This particular student is afraid of me, but they’re holding themselves back from their real writing potential. Like so many lackluster writers I’ve had before, I know that with enough pushing I can get them to the place they need to be. I make or break the writing abilities of college students in this class. In my others, I make or break their ability to understand and connect with the written word from someone else’s pen. I love my work. Nothing distracts me.
And then the pair of eyes that distracted me vanish from my mind with a sharp knock at my office door.
It couldn’t be Emmaline, but for a second, I really hope it is. I consider for a moment how I shouldn’t want it to be her. I shouldn’t want Emmaline at all.
I mean, the stuff with Joelle? This isn’t about me recapturing my youth, though. I cared deeply for Joelle, but I’m past that. I feel an enormous sense of relief. Guess I’m supposed to feel like some kind of predator, but I want Emmaline too goddamn much to judge myself.
“Come in,” I say.
When the door opens, the last person in the world that I expect to see right now storms in.
“Ethan,” Joelle says, her voice tense.
I look at the woman I was downright obsessed with for so many years, and I feel…a friendly feeling. Fond memories. But no arousal. No pain. No angst, regretful, sorrow-filled thoughts.