Emily: Hello Kitten (The ‘Hello’ series)

3. Chapter 3

three

Adrian

I never should have gone to the bar. I should’ve stayed home. And yet, I went, and I met her.

Her confidence, sass, and those eyes drew me in, and I couldn’t let go.

I’m not the type of man who picks up a woman for a one-night stand, and I probably should’ve stayed with that rule because it seems she’s my student.

Shit.

She hid from me, ran away, and I can’t blame her. But I need to talk to her. She’s imprinted herself on me, on my mind and body.

I know it’s wrong. I realize that. The age difference alone is enough, but her being my student could cost me my job.

So that’s what I have to do to keep my life the same. Avoid her…

I fling the door open to my class, the one I know she’s in. My eyes dart around, skillfully avoiding her, and I set up my laptop.

Still, I feel her. As if her fingers are still trailing over my tattooed arms. I can practically hear her daring me to be rougher with her.

I shouldn’t care about her, not since I don’t even know her. Or perhaps I know her more than anyone else as we shared that intense night together. Either way, I have to stop thinking about her.

Through class, I try to avoid her gaze, but when our eyes meet and her cheeks go red, all I can think about is how I licked the traces of her blush that stretched over her neck and chest. No, I have to control my thoughts.

She’s obviously younger, obviously impulsive. She was drunk that night, and that was obvious. So, I’ll get through this class without making either of us uncomfortable or giving us away. I’ll speak to her after class in my office so we can clear the air.

We had sex, yes, but it will be a one-night thing. We will continue our lives without a problem. I won’t think about her naked when I grade. I won’t think about her laugh when I’m assigning projects. I won’t get jealous when I set up group work. She’s just a student, I’m just a professor.

Getting through class with Emily obviously trying to control her fantasies should be an Olympic sport. As far as I know, no students have picked up on the near palpable tension in the room. It’s a small win, but I’ll stack every small win until it creates a wall between Emily and me.

I swear I’ll do that, but after another class, I retire to office hours, leaving my door open as I work on answering emails, on buffing my lesson plans, and double-checking the sticky notes I’ve left in the novels we’re going to cover.

All of it feels natural. It feels right. This is what I should be focused on. Not individual students, not sex, just literature and my love of stories. They’re intricate, connected, a perfect showcase of the flaws and excellence in humanity. Literature makes sense. Dissecting the classics and the newer novels on my syllabus makes sense.

“Ah, sorry. I just need to use the copier and it keeps jamming,” Emily says.

My eyes slowly, carefully move from my computer through my doorway to where she’s standing.

This is a sober version of her, a version that isn’t aware I’m watching. She’s confident, has no problem asking for help, makes jokes to cut through awkwardness, and she has such a natural grace about her. She’s in her element, especially when another student starts asking her about what ‘rhetoric’ means.

Even though I’m right here, very qualified to answer any question that could be asked, Emily does better than any plan I have in place.

“Rhetoric are parts of literature. Like symbolism, themes, connotation. There’s a whole list that I can email you. Essentially, it’s the meat of paper writing, and if you know the aspects of rhetoric, it gives you a road map to understanding the deeper parts of literature. Does that make sense?” Emily asks.

The student doesn’t look sure.

Emily nods. “Sorry, I know it can be confusing and I don’t explain it perfectly. That’s on me, not you.”

And then she continues. She just keeps talking about rhetoric like most professors do, but any time she can tell the student is confused, she adjusts the conversation, simplifying it without being condescending. I don’t know why that’s nearly as entrancing as watching her dance at the bar without a care in the world.

Shaking my head, I try to avoid every thought worming deeper and deeper into my head. All of them sound terrible. Even listening to my thoughts would be allowing some kind of devil to tempt me into doing something I know is wrong.

Not that it helps me when I can’t sleep hours later.

I’ve been lying in bed, desperate for sleep. Normally, I busy myself with reading until I’m so exhausted I can’t help but pass out, but I still smell Emily on my pillows. I smell her perfume and the scent of her body clinging to my sheets. It’s making me dizzy, haunting me with everything I’m not allowed to want.

Hissing, I strip my sheets and change them, but I can’t make myself give up the smell of her perfume on my pillow. I crave her. My mouth waters for her.

And not in a way I can understand. It was one night. It was hot, amazing, nearly drove me insane because she kept up with me so well, but I don’t just want her in my bed. I want to hear her talk about literature. I want to see that confident, classy side of her. I want her to be able to look at me without ducking away and hiding as if she’s in trouble.

“She’s not mine!” I hiss, throwing my pillow across the room.

I have to work out until my mind is numb to be able to sleep, but in the morning, I grope the bed next to me, just like I did Monday morning.

She ran from me, slipping through my fingers before I woke up. That’s probably a mercy. If I’d spent the morning with her, if she’d let me take care of her, if we’d talked and helped each other through our hangover, then seeing her in class might have killed me rather than surprised me.

If I could force myself to forget, I would, but I can’t.

Tuesday morning, I go about my schedule, but no matter how I try to stay focused on work, I keep wondering about Emily. How many English classes does she take? Am I going to have to constantly check the hallways for her?

If I give her a failing grade because she earns it, is she going to threaten to out us? There are so many things that could go wrong, and I’m prepared for none of them. Then again, I wasn’t prepared for Emily when she walked up to me. I wasn’t prepared for her when we got to my house. I wasn’t prepared for her when I saw her sitting in my class.

I’m out of my comfortable orbit, completely tossed off kilter, and now I’m floundering.

I think I’m past forgetting my reckless, too-young, too-smart siren. But I have to try. There’s no alternative. I’m not going to fall for my student. I refuse to go down that road, even if it’s a road paved with just about everything I could possibly want and leads right to the only woman who’s snared my attention in years. And I’ve never been good at denying myself what I want most. Is it even worth trying when Emily has already overshadowed every other woman I’ve been with in the last ten years, and it only took her one night?