The Professor’s Holiday Surprise (Cam Show Crush #1)

8. Paisley

Chapter 8

Paisley

I’m in the stairwell when Noah catches up to me. He wrenches open the door I just went through, calling out my name. I stop halfway down the flight of stairs and turn, because it’s impossible not to look at him given the chance.

He’s wearing a light blue buttoned down shirt today, tucked into his jeans, and when I first walked into his office, I thought he looked extra neat. Like he’d ironed the shirt.

Now, though, it looks rumbled, which is even hotter.

I love the tightly controlled, careful Dr. Lowry I’ve wanted from a distance. This wild, out-of-control Noah, though…I wish I could love this man freely. He’s beautiful.

He sighs as he sits down on the top step, his muscular legs folding as he finds footholds for them. We’re almost eye to eye, although he’s still slightly above me because I’m a few steps below him. “What do you mean, you recognize my belt buckle?”

“Nothing.”

“Damn it, Paisley, I don’t believe you.” His chest rises and falls. “If you saw something you shouldn’t have?—”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Jesus, I’m not— I’m not trying to convince to keep quiet.” He scrubs his hands over his face, then leans his forearms on his knees and adjusts his glasses, giving me his sternest teacher look. “Is this why you skipped class last week?”

I audibly gulp. “Maybe.”

“Paisley.” He sounds…disappointed.

I hang my head, hating that I’ve fallen in his estimation. “I’m sorry. But once I heard your voice, that was?—”

“My…” He laughs hoarsely. “ You’re Good Garden Girl?”

When I don’t answer, he stands and slowly comes down a few steps. I turn to give him room, backing up against the cold concrete wall. My backpack falls to my feet.

“Of course you are,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

I can’t.

“You really are a good girl, Paisley. The best. I’m sorry that you had to see a different side of me, and hear what you heard, but?—”

I reach out and grab the front of his shirt. It’s softer than I thought it would be, and his body is so warm and hard I can feel it through the cotton. Oh my God.

His torso heaves against my touch, like I’ve touched him with a live wire. Or maybe that’s just projection because my whole arm is tingling.

“I’m not sorry,” I manage to whisper. I can’t tell him that I lived for Sunday nights just as much as I lived for his class three times a week. That I love every part of him, and I can’t quite believe the wild, horrible coincidence that will now take both sides away from me all at once.

I tighten my grip, trying to remember how this feels, and also work around the lump in my throat at the same time. “I’ll never tell anyone, Dr. Lowry. I promise.”

“I’m not worried about that, Paisley. God. Fucking. Damn. It. I—” His hand covers mine. Strong. Firm. Slowly, he untangles my fist and removes my hand from his body.

A shudder wracks through me.

He goes still for a moment, then gently puts my hand at my side. His hands ghost up my arms. Not quite touching me, but the heat is enough to make me sway.

He says my name under his breath, and it sounds…aching.

I don’t know how to process that, and disbelief drives me to finally lift my face.

His expression is stark.

But his eyes…

Oh, his eyes are on fire.

I lick my lips. “Am I not allowed to touch you?”

He groans. “You’ve got it backwards. I’m not allowed to touch you. ”

“But you want to, right? That’s why you said my name when you came?”

“Don’t ask me that.” He braces his arm above me on the cement wall and leans in, being very careful to not actually touch me. The warmth of his body surrounds me all the same. When he speaks again, his voice is lower than a whisper. I feel it more than hear it, an urgent vibration. “Tell me what your OnlySantas handle means.”

My head is spinning. “You said, um… You called me a… The first time we met.”

“Good girl?”

I whimper and nod my head desperately. “All the variations on that were taken, so I inserted garden in the middle.”

“I can’t believe it was you the whole time. I felt so fucking guilty for saying your name when there was this lovely stranger watching me, and she’d asked to hear my voice, but another woman’s name slipped out.” He drags in a breath that turns into a disbelieving laugh. “I didn’t need to say the rest of it, did I? You’d already heard the most damning part.”

“Noah…” His name slips out. I can’t think of him as Dr. Lowry anymore. Not now that I know how his body feels against mine when he’s holding back.

“I can’t, Paisley.”

I know he can’t. But I can. I lift my hands, holding his gaze as I slide my fingertips up his hard chest and over the straining cords of his neck. This is a risk, since he detangled me from the front of his shirt a hot second ago. But he doesn’t stop me from wrapping my arms around his neck and lifting my mouth to within a breath of his lips. “But I can,” I whisper. My voice shakes, and my knees feel like they might give out, but that doesn’t stop me from closing the gap between us and kissing my professor.

He groans into my mouth, low and perfect.

I have had enough terrible, no-good first kisses to know that this one is very-good and, most importantly, right .

And kissing the right person, apparently, makes me a natural.

I sip at his mouth, shallow little pulls of his lips with mine, and then I lick the seam of his mouth because now I am brazen and needy. And I like the sounds he makes when I use my mouth like this.

With a grunt, he lets go of the wall and hauls me against him, one hand sliding low across my back, the other spreading dominantly between my shoulder blades, a hard press I can feel even through my puffy insulated vest and thick sweatshirt.

I’m wearing too many clothes for this kiss.

He searches my face, that burning gaze scorching my skin. “Fucking hell, Paisley. Do you know how much I’ve wanted this?”

“No,” I answer honestly.

He laughs. And then he says, as if it’s finally sinking in, “You’re Good Garden Girl.”

I smile. “Surprise.”

“It sure fucking is.” Then he kisses me again, harder than I kissed him. Where I sipped, he drinks . Where I licked, he swallows . He kisses like he’s found an oasis in the desert, like he’s afraid I’m a mirage, like?—

Like I’m his student, and when we stop kissing, that’ll be the end of that, because he can’t do this.

He must feel the realization ripple through me, because he immediately slows his kisses and drags his hands up to hold my head gently.

“Okay, okay,” he says, dragging in a breath. He kisses my forehead. “Let’s go back to my office.”

Senses dulled by the loss of his embrace, I jerkily nod. He picks up my bag and slings it over his own shoulder before he turns us and ghosts his hand in the small of my back, propelling me up the stairs.