Teach Me(47)

“Fucking hell, Daniel, do you understand what you’re asking?” That’s like writing a whole thesis in two weeks, when all you’ve got so far is half an outline and the research ready.

“Make it happen, Kingston. Or it’s both our arses on the line.”





Harper




Professor Kingston, you do not look very well rested. I text him from the middle of the classroom, a full ten minutes before we’re about to start. I got here early just so I could express my appreciation—for last night, for breakfast this morning, for the signature with his phone number written in the margins . . . All of it.

I watch his phone vibrate on his desk, and lean forward so my cleavage peeks through the low-cut T-shirt I donned for the occasion.

He hasn’t noticed the phone yet; he’s still busy reading some letter that has him scowling. There’s only three other students in the classroom so far, and a quick peek reveals they’re all deeply embedded in their smartphones at the moment.

What do you think about this skirt? I need a second opinion, I text. Then I cross my legs, letting my skirt ride up just a little higher. I’m wearing the same stockings I wore the day he fucked me in his office. The same garters, too. I let one peek out from beneath the hem of the skirt, and when he finally picks up his phone, only to glance up with his eyebrows raised, I smile straight at him, my grin widening as his eyes roam from my cleavage to my hips and back up.

His eyes, too, dart to the other students around me. Then his hands fly across the screen.

I shut my ringer off, just in case anyone notices my phone buzzing just after he types. The message arrives within seconds.

Why, Ms. Reed, I don’t believe that outfit is up to the standards of our dress code here at Merton.

I trail my fingers along my thigh, under the desk where they’re hidden from view. His eyes are glued to me legs as I hitch the skirt an inch higher. Is that better? I pause to text.

The door to the classroom opens and a few more students flood inside, making my cheeks flush red. But I don’t smooth out my skirt. I keep my eyes locked on Jack, and he can’t tear his from me, even while he types out his response.

Terrible. See me after class for your reprimand.

What if I can’t wait that long? What if I want you to take me right here?

He swallows hard when he reads that one. I watch his lips compress, and I have to fight back a smirk. I wonder if he’s having difficulty concentrating. I lift one eyebrow when he glances at me again, and there’s a fire smoldering in his gaze.

Students who need to be disciplined do not get to decide the where or the how. They surrender to whatever punishment deemed fit.

Two minutes until class starts now. The room has nearly filled up. He’s trying not to look at me now, but his eyes keep stealing glances in my direction every time they sweep the room. I wonder if anyone else notices.

I don’t care if they do.

Why, do you have a specific punishment in mind for me? I reply.

Oh, I can think of a hundred things I want to do to you, Harper Reed.

The bell sounds to indicate start of class, and I curse inwardly, my fingers frozen over a reply. Goddamn it. Now I’m all hot and bothered with no sign of release for the next . . . How long is this class?

Ugh, an hour.

Jack stands and starts straight in on his lecture. At first, I’m offended. How dare he be able to think straight right now?

Then I notice the way he’s standing directly behind his desk, not walking around the room the way he usually does, and I feel somewhat ameliorated. He keeps his eyes fixed somewhere three rows behind me, probably freaking out whatever poor student is sitting up in that seat.

For my part, I can’t help imagining some of those hundreds of things he wants to do to me. It definitely doesn’t do anything to help my complete lack of concentration.

I smooth my skirt back down, cross my legs, and try to force myself to focus. Halfway through the lecture, Jack asks us to open the text we’re studying now, a compendium of the best of English poetry.

“Ms. Reed,” he says, nearly startling me straight out of my seat in shock. “Would you please read the poem on page 141 aloud for the class?”

Even before I’m done flipping to that page, I hear snickers building in the back of the classroom. I snap the book to the right section finally, finding the poem he wants under a handful written by John Donne. My whole face flushes bright red. I swallow hard, wet my lips, and start in on the title.

“To His Mistress Going to Bed,” I read, my voice faltering only slightly on the word mistress.

You can do this, Harper.

I clear my throat and imagine myself in Jack’s room, the way we were last night, our naked bodies wound tight around one another. I imagine I’m reading this to him, in the private, safe space of his townhouse, no one to hear me except the man I’m starting to fall for.