Buyer’s Market(3)

I’m lecturing about all these expectations when Emmaline tries to slip in late, unnoticed.

“Lateness is another thing that will not be tolerated, which, if you arrived on time, you’d know …” I pause for her name.

“Emmaline,” she says quickly. “Emmaline Travers.” Her voice cuts through the silence I demand in my classes when we’re not actively discussing something.

My eyes flicker from half the class looking like they want to drop the class now, and the other half giving me the I’d-fuck-this-teacher eyes. I’m used to both, and almost don’t see her. I'm doing my general thing where I let the fear and the admiration wash over me for just a second, but then I have to be professional.

That soft little voice shouldn’t have stirred me. But that name, and then … how can I not notice her? I try not to be visibly shaken by the sight of her. That’s Daniel’s last name, and Joelle’s too, for a lot of years. And I know those eyes. I can’t be professional when I see her. I hold my breath, clench my fists, and feel my cock already getting hard. Wildly fucking inappropriate, and something I can’t let get noticed. I’m going to have to sit behind my desk like some old fucker if I get hard right in the middle of class. Her fear rouses the part of me that I keep under wraps during class, only calculating the right amount of that part of me for when I need to scare the new students.

I’ve been so very good. Never have I been inappropriate with a student, even though I've left many students disappointed because of that. I enjoy my job. That’s why this career is my chosen path, despite other things that have paid more, taken less of my time. I’ve been very good so that I won’t jeopardize that. Nothing has ever tempted me.

But now I know I’m in too deep.

On the outside, I’m professional. I finish the lecture, talk over the syllabus, give out my first paper — to be done in class — and another to be brought to the next class. I like to see where my students are. Pressure and preparation can show you two sides of someone, and I like to gauge both with those writing assignments.

I try to catch another glimpse of Emmaline, but where she’s seated, I can’t see her. I keep my cool, figuring I’ll find her after class.

But I did a number on her. She’s gone before most of the rest of the class is. Damn.

I head back to my office, and I find a grainy picture of her in the student directory. It doesn’t do her justice.

I plug her name into Facebook, something I haven’t visited in a while. Too much annoying political drama…but sure enough, we have a mutual friend.

Joelle Travers is Emmaline’s mother.

Fuck.

I should be thinking about how I need to stay away.

Instead, I’m thinking about when I’ll see her again.





Emmaline





I’m never late for class!

And late on the first day of class?

The class that I’m looking forward to way too much?

I got a little too excited last night, and then I overslept. I desperately needed that coffee with Delia, but I didn’t make it because I just kept falling back asleep. I woke up several times, checked my phone, no big deal. Then I miss my alarm entirely because I still don't have a roommate to make me wake up, and if it wasn’t for Delia attempting to beat down my door, I’d possibly still be asleep.

Dr. Ethan. His name is written on the board, and that’s when I realize, Dr. Ethan Wesley likes to be called by his first name. I’ve had other teachers like that, and it was nice then. With all the stress of college, it isn’t so bad when a teacher wants to be a little informal.

But with him?

“Lateness is another thing that will not be tolerated, which, if you arrived on time, you’d know…” He pauses for my name. God, I see all kinds of people in the room, fawning over him, and here I am, thinking about how sensual his voice is.

Oh, shit. I should actually answer.

“Emmaline,” I say my name quickly. “Emmaline Travers.” I say my first and last name for him in this too quiet classroom. No one is moving a muscle, either transfixed or paralyzed by him.

I sit down behind someone, trying to keep my eyes off of him.

But that’s not enough.

I’m taking notes through class, getting to know what his course is going to be like. How am I supposed to focus on this class when the sound of his voice stops my pen and puts my heart in overdrive?

I keep trying to take notes, leaving ten of the graph squares on my note paper blank for marking up and calling out things later. I’ve never sat in any lecture and started to lose track of what the teacher was saying. Yet, here I am, hanging onto Dr. Ethan’s every word and forgetting to even write things down.