Tangled with the Professor (Bringing Home Trouble)

Chapter 1

Mark

Fresh Meat.

The start of every new semester is the best time of year, it’s like opening a gift to see what kind of students I’ll be introducing to the world of biochemistry. A week before classes start, I’m tidying up my office, checking the schedule, and setting up the lab. It’s a lot of busy work but I love what I do and have got my routine down.

Why do a job if you’re not going to do it right, or infuse it with your passion? All of my preparations are going great until I get called away to hear an unwanted announcement.

“Absolutely not,” I say to the dean, who’s been a thorn in my side since I earned tenure a few years back.

“I’m sorry, Mark, but this is a new policy. You’d know that if you came to the meetings.”

His sly dig doesn’t faze me and I can tell he’s not sorry at all. He loves wielding his power over the staff.

“Having to train a TA will take more time than it’s worth. Time I could be actually doing my job.”

“I get that you’re… exacting in your process,” he says.

He means control freak, as if I’d be offended to hear something like that. My class is popular because the students actually learn something by the end of it, and feel accomplished for making it through such a rigorous course.

“So, we’re agreed that I don’t need a TA,” I say, turning to leave his office.

It’s pretty cushy, lined with books and a huge window overlooking the agriculture center. But he’s lost his grip on what it’s like to actually teach, if he ever had it in the first place.

“Stop,” he says, a bit of backbone showing for the first time. I give him a look that sends my first year students to the medical center but surprisingly, and disappointingly, he doesn’t back down. He outlines the new policy, the reason we have to offer more students these jobs.

By the time his well-rehearsed lecture is over, there’s not much I can do except agree to the interviews. Turns out I don’t even have any control over who they send me, because I could have easily picked one of my best students and told them to leave me be for the semester.

But no, the ones in this new program have to actually report back to the tyrant committee that dreamed this shit up.

A week later, I’m sitting at my desk, glaring at the first of my prospects. The second year grad student seems capable, says all the right things, but is robotic. When I ask him a question any undergrad could answer in regards to biochemistry, he stutters, strings a bunch of words together that might fool someone at a cocktail party, but I immediately put a big X near his name as I dismiss him.

The second is better, and I force myself to be more open minded. I’m not getting out of having a teaching assistant, and no matter what my reputation may be, I’m not out to make either of us miserable for the school year. She seems like she’d be able to grade papers in no time, and never have a file go missing, but when I ask her why she wants to have a career in science, she gets flustered. She finally admits she wants to get a job in the pharmaceutical field, but more on the sales side of things.

I put the X over her name and barely refrain from swearing as I dismiss her. What the actual fuck are they sending me? I only have one more interviewee.

Isabelle Knight is a first year grad student like the second candidate, but she has a solid chemistry and biology background, and has been putting in time at the lab since she started here four years ago.

Great. What kind of know-it-all nerd is waiting to torment me with an overeager, bumbling attitude? As much as I don’t want to ask for more candidates because I want this hellish process over, I’ve pretty much already dismissed her before she even walks through the door.

Then she walks in.

My hand moves to put the X over her name as she enters shyly, with a slightly nervous smile. Isabelle is my worst nightmare. An attractive female student. And I mean, really attractive. While young women are constantly in and out of my office and usually do incredibly well in my classes, I’ve trained myself to become immune to them. I very rarely even register what they look like, not about to get caught up in any kind of scandal or ruin everything I’ve worked for over the years.

I’ve seen too many of my colleagues, men and women alike, fall to the charms of a bright young student, and it only hurts both parties in the end. I’ve been steadfast in my professionalism and never faltered.

Isabelle is someone who could make me falter.

Her auburn hair is tied loosely, hanging about halfway down her slim back. A few strands of the golden, coppery curls have come loose from the staid black hair tie and frame her soft, almost angelic features. Blue eyes are bright and sharp, despite the nerves she’s trying to hide under straightened shoulders and delicate hands that clasp her resumé.

She’s the only one who brought me a physical copy and I like that extra touch. Even though it’s unnecessary, it shows she put some effort in. When I wave for her to have a seat for the requisite three to five minutes of the interview, her cheeks get a bit pinker than their already rosy glow, highlighting a sprinkle of freckles across her much too cute nose.

God damn it.

She crosses her legs, and smooth, pale skin draws my attention downward for a split second before she tugs her dark blue skirt down over her knees. That hint of creamy thigh has me wondering if I need to get up and turn the thermostat down and I just barely refrain from asking her if she’s too warm.

I have eyes and I can see how hot she is. That’s another X.

Before she notices me gaping at her legs, I whip my gaze up, trying not to register her ripe little tits beneath the prim and proper white blouse.

“I’m so excited for this opportunity,” she says. “Even if one of the other candidates is more qualified, I’m really glad to finally meet you.”

She leans across to shake my hand as if I’m a rock star and not a science professor. Her slight touch sends an unexpected and unwanted shockwave through me as she continues.

“I just can’t seem to get in one of your classes, no matter how early I sign up. But I’ve audited two of them online when I was still an undergrad and they were so insightful and helpful.”

I lean closer, letting her explain how much I expanded her horizons and put the third X over her name. Hell no. I can’t be close to this intoxicating woman for an entire school year. But I still have to do the interview or face the dean’s annoying wrath for not giving her a fair shot. There has to be something wrong with her and then I can get a new crop of candidates.

The only problem is, she knows her stuff. And seems truly passionate about my subject. Our subject.

“Why have you given up so much possible lab time to tutor freshman?” I ask, searching desperately for a reason to dismiss her. “And is that something you’re willing to give up? This is going to be a pretty busy semester, and I don’t tolerate tardiness or skipping out on your duties because you think you have more important things going on.”

She puts her chin up and sets her lush lips. “I feel like I can handle both. I had a rough time my first year and was afraid to ask for help, worried that I wouldn’t be taken seriously if I admitted I was struggling. I’ve found I have a knack for noticing kids like that and can help them see there’s nothing wrong with getting some extra tutoring. I don’t want to give it up, I believe I can meet your standards doing both.”

“And when you can’t?” I ask.

She raises an auburn brow, absolutely noticing I didn’t say “if.” “If you feel I’m not exceeding your expectations, I’d rearrange my schedule to better serve you.”

But she wouldn’t give up her tutoring. It’s not common for a grad student who needs a job to be willing to show some backbone. What the hell is happening here? Is the front of my pants getting tighter as she continues to stare me down from across my desk? And why am I leaning even closer, as if I want to reach over and start plucking open those buttons on her blouse? I don’t need to be thinking about those lush curves her businesslike clothes can’t hide. And I don’t need to be so enamored by her… brain?

Because she’s perfect for the TA position. Her passion is evident, and her interest in going into research is helpful for the class’s lab section. It’s clear I’d barely have to train her, though the idea of keeping her close is tempting. Too tempting.

I drag my eyes off her much too pretty face to see the triple X I’ve scrawled over her name. She’s so damn attractive that she’s a living, breathing warning sign to my hard fought tenure and reputation.

But this program exists to benefit these students. I don’t really have much of a choice, because if I don’t accept her, someone else will. The idea of her working side by side with another professor, especially one with wandering eyes or hands makes me want to hide her away and keep her all to myself.

It’s completely unhinged and not a reaction I’m used to. No woman has ever elicited this crazed, almost primal response in me. It’s a pure, chemical reaction going on inside me and it’s making me feel alive in a way I haven’t in years. Maybe ever.

Oh, fuck . Is the tightness in my pants an actual full on fucking hard on now?

Her lips curl into a smile as I reach my hand across the desk and offer her the job. As soon as our hands touch, I have to resist the urge to pull her all the way into my lap.

“Thank you so much, Professor Tennyson,” she says. “I promise not to let you down.”

“We’ll see,” I reply, dropping her hand before I drag her closer and kiss that lush mouth of hers.

As I watch her swaying hips while she leaves my office, I vow not to be too much of a hardass that I scare her off, or too little of one where I put either of us in a compromising position. It’s shocking, considering that less than an hour ago I didn’t want a TA at all, and now I want to keep her around so much that I don’t want to risk anything that might make me lose her.