TO PROFESSOR WITH LOVE (Forbidden Men #2)

3. Noel

3

Noel

“Everybody is a genius. But, if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it’ll spend its whole life believing that it is stupid.” - Albert Einstein

Throat bone dry while the acid in my stomach did somersaults, I stared through narrowed eyes across an eerily clean desk at my English teacher and her delectable mouth, which had driven me crazy since the first day of class when she’d taken her place behind the instructor’s podium.

That skeeved me out more than anything. Nothing about Dr. Kavanagh was my type. I preferred blondes with gorgeous long, flowing hair. My Literature professor kept her dark mass scraped back and hidden away in a tight holy-roller bun secured at the base of her neck.

I was a lover of long lean bodies that liked to show off their impressive curves with fashionable, revealing clothes. Kavanagh was tiny, and probably too rounded for my taste. Or at least I figured she had chub rolls she wanted to hide. Why else would she wear clothes three sizes too large for her?

And I liked confident sensuality in a female, someone who knew she had it and moved as if she wanted every guy in a fifty-mile radius to stop whatever he was doing just to gawk at her whenever she sauntered by. Kavanagh didn’t have a single saunter in her repertoire. She had the sensuality of a nun, and she didn’t seem to like guys at all. Not that I believed she was a dyke as Tenning had suggested. I just viewed her as an anti-s****l being. Genderless. At least, I wanted to.

Which was another reason I hated being so aware of her as a woman whenever she was around. While I was imagining how her sweet, plush lips would feel wrapped around my favorite body part, I knew she had nothing but freaking literature on the brain.

“I actually tried, you know,” I said, attempting to focus on her green eyes and not her mouth. “That was probably the best damn paper I ever wrote. And I didn’t cheat like I’m sure half the class did. I read the book, the Cliff Notes, sample essays. I even watched the weird-ass movie. I did all the f*****g work.”

Silently seating herself in the chair opposite the desk from me, Dr. Kavanagh gave me a tight smile. “And yet you completely missed the entire point of the assignment.”

Well, s**t, you think? I jerked my hands into the air. “Maybe because I didn’t understand the goddamn point. I mean, what the hell did you want me to say?”

I knew I should’ve toned down the language, but she had me turned inside-out. And I’d only been in her office for two minutes. How this one tiny little person could get me so instantly and completely riled, I didn’t know. But here I was, mad, turned-on, ashamed, alarmed and frankly disturbed by my attraction, while I was equally pissed at her for knowing exactly how much I didn’t deserve to step foot on this campus because I was too freaking stupid.

And, f**k, had she put on lip gloss or something since I’d seen her this morning in class? Her mouth looked shinier than ever. I caught myself looking at it again and jerked my gaze away. Damn it, bitchy teachers should not have lips like that.

She sighed and interlaced her hands before resting them on top of her desk. “It wasn’t about what I wanted you to say; it was about what you needed to say.”

And there went all my composure. Again.

“What I needed to say?” I surged to my feet and clutched my hair as I began to pace the five feet of room I had in her snug office. “What I needed to say? What the f**k does that even mean?”

Dr. Kavanagh remained cool and collected, damn her, seated in her chair as she calmly watched me unravel into a hot pile of anxiety. “It means you didn’t do what you were asked to do. I wanted you to make a correlation between a character in the story and yourself. You made no such connection. In fact, you didn’t talk about you at all.”

I snorted. “Maybe I didn’t feel a connection with a bunch of rich-ass idiots from the twenties, whining about lost love while they spread around a******y like it was some kind of candy. How am I supposed to correlate anything when there is nothing to correlate?”

She fell back in her chair and sent me a frustrated frown. “Mr. Gamble…” With another sigh, she shook her head and ran her hands wearily over her face, which unfortunately made me focus on her lips.

God damn, that mouth should not be legal. I could picture it pursed so perfectly around my c**k, could almost feel the wet slide of her tongue running up my entire length as she sucked me in deep.

Shit, now I had wood.

Fortunately oblivious to my crude, unwanted thoughts, she stiffened her shoulders, sat forward again and looked me straight in the eye. “Truly talented literature is truly talented for a reason. It always—always—finds a way to reach every person who reads it. It takes a theme about the human condition and makes it its little bitch.”

My eyebrows shot up into my hairline. What the hell? Shaking my head, I blinked. “Did you just say—”

“Yes!” she snapped. “I did. Because it’s true. Take one word about feelings or emotions and you’ll be able to find a theme for it in The Great Gatsby. I promise you.” When I did nothing but gape at her, she arched a curious brow. “You do have emotions, don’t you?”

“I’m having some right now.” And they were totally freaking me out, but f**k, I really liked watching her perfect, too-pure mouth forming dirty words. It was like some awful, humiliating sickness. I wanted her to do it again.

Say b***h again. Please. Just one more time.

But she didn’t.

“Good.” Her stare was direct. Knowing. “Let me guess. You’re feeling frustration. Anger. Hate.”

“Uh...” I lifted an eyebrow. Close, but not quite.

“That’s perfectly fine. You can use those. Make them bond with someone in this book and tell me all about it.”

As her words sank in, I frowned. Something hot and seeking inside me melted. Defeat. “How?” I asked quietly, feeling like a complete i***t because I still didn’t understand, would probably never understand.

She blinked. “What do you mean how? If you’re really frustrated, mad, and full of hatred for me right now, write about it, explain why, then explain where someone in the story shares these same sentiments and why they experienced them. Make the two one and the same. Bash me all you want on paper, just show me that correlation I want to see, and I will give you a better score.”

I snorted and shook my head. No way. No effing way. “I just don’t get why I have to write about my f*****g feelings?”

She let out a frustrated growl, which only turned me on more. “So I know you understand the story and what happened.”

“Well, I didn’t understand the story. Goddamn it. I told you. I have nothing in common with—”

“Yes, you do!” she roared back, smacking both her palms on top of her desk before pushing to her feet to glare at me. “Everyone on the planet has at least one thing in common with at least one character in that story. Now go prove it!”

Seething, I just glared at her.

She closed her eyes and rubbed at the center of her head. “Okay,” she mumbled as if giving up the fight.

When she licked her lips, I almost lost it. Christ, this was getting embarrassing. Her mouth was going to be my downfall. If she asked me, I would probably take her on her nice, clean desk right then and there. I could so clearly see myself tossing her down, gathering up her frumpy skirt, wedging myself between her thighs and just hammering it home.

I also wanted to wrap my hands around her throat and strangle her for making me feel like such an i***t.

It probably wasn’t healthy to have two such drastic emotions roaring through me at the same moment, but there they were. Absolutely roaring.

The good professor sank back into her chair. “How about this? I’ll make your paper as easy as I can on you.”

Yeah, just cater to the i***t. I glanced away, my jaw knitting with mutiny. “I don’t need—” Damn it. Yes, I did. It’s why I was here, because I needed help.

“I’ll give you a theme to use. So...let’s pick a theme. Any theme.” Her eyes opened, the lines in her skin around them deeper than before. “Greed? Power?” She lifted her hands as she shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you feel whenever you play football?”

My face heated with outrage. “Oh, thanks a lot. I like how you mentioned my football right after saying greed and power.” Leaning ominously over the desk to glare, I poked my index finger into my own chest. “You think my entire reason for being on this campus is just some greedy, selfish power trip? Well, you don’t know s**t, lady. You don’t know me at all.”

She pulled back in her chair, her green eyes huge as they blinked rapidly. Finally, she glanced away and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Yeah, yeah, the move made my d**k pulse with gluttonous need, but I was too pissed to care. At the moment, I hated what she was doing to my ego more.

In a much calmer voice, she murmured, “I’m sorry if I offended you,” which totally shocked the s**t out of me and made me back up a step to sink into my chair and gawk back. “But I honestly have no idea what football is to you. So, why don’t you tell me? One word. What is football...to you?”

My breathing came hard as I glanced down at my fisted hand in my lap. “Desperation,” I said without meaning to.

Shit. Why had I said that? It was the honest-to-God truth. But why would I confess it? To her?

When I dared to glance up, I was surprised to find she looked equally startled. Her mouth had fallen open. “I…” She blinked, her eyes wide with shock. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

Turning my gaze away, I ripped my hand through my hair and cursed silently. “Yeah, well, I didn’t mean to.”

Amusement lined her voice. “And yet I have a feeling it’s the most honest thing you’ve said since you stepped inside my office.”

My glower swerved back to her, but she merely lifted that damn challenging eyebrow of hers, daring me to contradict her.

Hissing out a breath, I slumped deeper into my seat. “So, what do I do with the theme of desperation then?”

Seemingly eager all the sudden, Dr. Kavanagh sat forward, her eyes lighting with an excited gleam. “Well, now is the easy part. You find a part in the story where someone feels desperate, on edge, as if nothing is under his or her own control. Explain why, then tell me how you understand this emotion and how you can relate to it by listing all the reasons you feel or have felt desperate, on edge, and like nothing is under your control.”

That should be easy. I felt that way most every day. About everything. Hell, I was feeling that way right now, about her. But still...

Closing my eyes, I whispered, “Christ.” The woman might as well ask me to bare my soul to her. Opening my lashes, I shot her a frown. “And you don’t have any qualms over the fact this assignment is utterly intrusive and infringes on a person’s privacy?”

She beamed. “None whatsoever.” Her bright smile threw me off guard. It was…lovely.

Hmm. Strange. Dr. Kavanagh had a lovely smile. It took my breath away and left me reeling.

I didn’t mean for it to happen, but my lips quirked in reluctant admiration. “You’re kind of evil, Professor.”

That seemed to please her. She straightened her back and preened. “Hey, I bet I just nudged you into writing the best damn paper you’ve ever written.”

Damn, I loved the way she said damn.

This time, I chuckled. I liked how she kept shocking me today. She acted so prim and proper in class, as if a curse word had never left her saintly lips.

“Maybe,” I murmured, looking at her in a new light. “We’ll see. How soon do you need it?”

“As soon as possible.”

I rolled my eyes. “No pressure or anything.” With a sigh, I pushed to my feet. “Okay, Dr. Kavanagh. I will have the best damn paper I’ve ever written in your hands as soon as possible.”

“Excellent.” She stood as well. “That’s all I ask.”

Jesus. She was a snarky little thing. I didn’t want to dig that. But I totally dug that.

I hesitated, and an awkward impasse passed between us. If she had been a man, I probably would’ve held out my hand to shake and thanked her for the second chance she’d just given me. Hell, if she’d been an older woman, or maybe just any other woman, I might’ve done the same thing. But with her, right then, it felt…forbidden. Naughty.

Hard-ass, straight-laced teacher or not, there was something about the soft curve of her porcelain pale face with an almost invisible splash of freckles dusting her cheeks and nose to go with her succulent lips that stirred me. I instinctively knew I should never touch her.

She must’ve sensed my unease because she shifted and cleared her throat, not making eye contact. “Well, then. I assume that’s all you need.”

“Yeah.” With a single bob of the head, I murmured, “Thanks.” I turned, but just before I left the small room crammed with shelves of books, I paused and glanced back. “And I’m, you know, sorry...about calling you a b***h earlier.”

This time, both of her trim, dark eyebrows lifted. She pressed a hand against the center of her chest. “What? You’re rescinding what might possibly be the nicest compliment I’ve received from a student all semester?”

I snorted out a laugh but nodded. “Yeah, I am. It was rude and undeserving. And I apologize.”

Her lashes responded by beating in overtime against the tops of her cheeks. When moisture glistened like a fine sheen over her green eyes, I panicked. s**t, I didn’t want to make her cry.

But wow. Who knew I could actually make the hard-ass, expressionless Dr. Kavanagh cry? She must not be nearly as tough as she put herself out there to be. It made me wonder just how soft she could get.

Which was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She held it together, thank God, and nodded. “Apology accepted,” she murmured as she motioned toward the door to let me know I was excused.

Wavering another second, I studied her delicate features, still amazed she was old enough to be a college professor. If she didn’t act so hoity-toity and wore such frumpy clothes, I probably would’ve mistaken her for an underclassman and hit on her by now. I wouldn’t have stopped my pursuit either, not until she gave in and let me have a piece of her, because my type or not, there was something about her that drew me in.

“How old are you?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

Shit. Why had I just asked that? It made no difference what age my teacher was.

Lifting her eyebrows with what was either irritation or amusement—I couldn’t quite tell—she murmured, “None of your business,” in a low voice packed with heated sensuality.

It stirred every hormone inside me, even though I knew she hadn’t meant it to.

I shook myself free of the generating lust and muttered, “Right.” It was time to get out of here. Now.