Teach Me(16)

Does anything rattle him?

Well fine. If he wants to pretend there’s nothing here, two can play at that. I take a step closer to him, and inwardly thrill when I hear his sharp intake of breath. “Fabulous. I learned all about the distinguished ghosts who reside in our fine library. King . . . Edward, was it?”

“Probably Henry. He’s the only one they can be sure the Americans remember.”

Am I imagining it, or is that a smile flirting with the corners of his lips? “I remember plenty of royalty!” I protest. “There was Elizabeth the First, and Mary Queen of Scots, and that other Mary, the bloody one . . . and current Elizabeth . . . ”

Yes. Definitely a smile. It widens now. “I’m surprised. You only remember our female monarchs? Most girls have eyes only for the princes.”

“I’m not interested in chasing royal guys. It’s more interesting to imagine the kind of strength that women born into power wielded.”

“I imagine you have some experience there,” he says, his voice so low I can’t be sure I heard him right.

I stare up at him, and even in the dark, with only the distant street lamps to illuminate us, I can swear I feel his eyes staring straight back into mine, burning holes through me. It’s something about his eyebrows, I decide. The way they line up too perfectly, just above his sharp cheeks. It makes his whole face so . . . severe. In an intimidating way. But sexy intimidating. I laugh weakly, too late for it to seem natural. “What about you, no royal role models?”

“Oh, definitely Henry VIII.”

I raise one eyebrow, actually backing away a step. “Seriously? He was a total womanizing creep.”

He bursts into laughter. The same laughter I heard in the confessional, a sharp, short burst that sounds like he doesn’t use it nearly often enough. “I was joking.” His eyes catch the streetlight and glitter at me like twin dark stars. “Though you have to admit, the man certainly knew how to take what he wanted.”

Maybe it’s the night air. Maybe it’s the scent on his breath, like mint and smoke mingled. Maybe it’s just that I am out of my ever-loving mind. But I take a step closer to him, reach for his arm and wrap my slender hand around his thick bicep. Wow. Professor does not slack on the gym visits, from the feel of it. “I imagine you have some experience there,” I reply, and I feel him tense under my touch with an undeniable sense of satisfaction.

Turnabout is fair play, I tell myself. He started it.

I do feel bad, though, when he steps away from me, and my hand falls back to my side. Did I go too far? I was only kidding. I didn’t mean . . .

Damn it, Harper, not again.

“Have a good night, Ms. Reed,” he says, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the mist across campus so fast that within moments I’m wondering if the ghost tour wasn’t right after all. Maybe this library really is haunted.

By the ghost of my desires.



#



Safely ensconced in the library, my heart rate calms enough for me to reopen the Heaney files and confirm that I definitely still have no ideas.

Also, I feel a little guilty for how I just acted. I promised him I would stay away. Behave normally. If I want this research aid position, I’m going to have to work one-on-one with him. Now I just made him feel totally uncomfortable, before I even had a chance to be considered? Great work!

But he did start it. Didn’t he? Or was I imagining the flirtiness in his gaze, the firm grip of his hand on my shoulder, the way his eyes bored into mine when he said the man certainly knew how to take what he wanted.

I shiver. Focus. I log onto my laptop and refresh my inbox.

1 new message from J. Kingston.

My heart leaps into my throat, threatens to choke off my air supply. A Request, says the subject line. Cryptic, much?

Is this about our meeting just now? Is he going to ask me to stay away from him? To drop the class? Maybe I should. Maybe it would be easier on both of us.

Or is it the opposite kind of request?

Visions of the so-not-appropriate variety dance through my head. I envision everything this email could say. Harper, meet me in my office in ten minutes. Wear a shorter skirt this time.

Harper, I can’t stop thinking about how good you taste.

Harper, I made you come harder than you ever have before, and in public, no less. Care to get on your knees and return the favor?

Unfortunately, the moment I click open the message, I realize it’s not that kind of email. For one thing, he’s CCed our entire poetry class.

I trust you are all hard at work on your Heaney essays, he starts, with no preamble. Straight to the point. I’d like it, if it wasn’t so presumptuous. He only gave us the assignment this morning, and it’s ten o’clock at night now. We’re not allowed to have other classwork? Or sleep?