Page 8 of Lessons in Touch

“The things I would let him do to me! God, you have no idea, girls!”

I can hear some of the other girls whispering and giggling about this man. I have no idea who he is, but I assume he is the professor teaching this class.

Seconds later, I settle into my seat. But I freeze in the process of taking my books out when I notice that he is staring at me. And so is everyone else now. He pauses and stares deliberately at me, as if memorizing every detail of my uniform, my carefully pressed blouse, my short, pleated charcoal skirt.

My skin feels warm under his scrutiny. I can feel a flush rising, as my body betrays my composure. He steps closer to the lectern with fluid movements. The professor looks authoritative, but there’s something like a private invitation behind his smile.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. And welcome to Wolfswood Institute! My name is Gabriel Thorn. Professor Gabriel Thorn.”

He speaks these sentences in a gorgeous, low tone of voice, staring at me as he does so. He is addressing me, seemingly unaware that everyone is watching me because of his attention.

The room fades—classmates, desks, all blur as our eyes lock again. His stare lingers on me, and it stirs a heat low in my belly. I shift, and my skirt brushes my skin. I am very much aware of the boundary between us. He is a professor. I am a student.

“Good morning, Professor Thorn,” a girl addresses him, undoubtedly trying to get his attention. I look over and notice that she’s gorgeous. Of course, she is.

She has long, straight, glossy platinum blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and pale skin. Her uniform is the same as ours, except that the Chanel logo is imprinted on practically every seam and button. She’s wearing a pink bow that she has placed on top of her head, giving her the appearance of a pixie.

Why can’t I look like that? Old-money, American, blonde, tall… Instead, it’s just me.

“Professor Thorn, my name is Cassandra Vane, as I’m sure you already know. I graduated magna cum laude from Harvard and I’m interested in you… Umm… In your class,” she flirts with him openly. “My application essay was…”

“Miss Vane, why are you telling me all this? I didn’t ask,” Professor Thorn replies coldly.

Her nostrils flare, and she tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder, clearly hurt.

“I meant that…”

“Enough. Please do not speak unless I call on you. This is not a barn dance, Miss Vape. We do not speak when the mood strikes us like gossiping grandmothers.”

“It’s Vane and…” but she swallows the rest of the words under his scrutiny.

He begins the lecture, though his attention drifts back to me again and again.

The Cassandra girl turns around and looks at me with hatred. I try to ignore her.

Gabriel—Professor Thorn—tells us about dining protocols and boardroom decorum. His voice is smooth, and it draws me in. I catch myself staring, captivated by his presence. He glances my way, and a faint smile appears on his lips as if he senses my fascination.

The hour passes too quickly. I took chaotic notes that look so silly now. When the class is over, a student brings me a note:

Report to Professor Thorn’s office immediately.

Oh, no. What did I do wrong? My heart is racing, and my nerves are tingling with anticipation.

I grab my things and walk through Wolfswood’s labyrinthine halls until I reach his office. I’m still holding the note in my hand when I knock on his door.

“Come in, Miss Devereaux,” Professor Thorn calls.

I step inside, and there he is, sitting behind a polished desk. He rises. His height is imposing yet reassuring. Or eyes lock, and the air turns electric with the immediate attraction. My knees weaken—he’s even more handsome up close. His features are chiseled, and his smile is disarming.

“Rose, please sit,” he says, gesturing to a chair.

I do as he asks me, smooth my skirt, and feel my nerves buzzing. He’s closely watching me.

“Your academic record is impressive,” he tells me. “Your essays for Wolfswood showed remarkable insight. As a result, I have decided to handle your private training to ensure you master the Devereaux legacy.”

“Oh, thank you, Professor. But… what does that imply?”

My first words to him have been—Thank you, Professor. I make a mental note.