He winks, then rolls his gaze down my cream blouse before it lands on the blue cotton settling above my knees. “You wore the skirt.”
My fingers flutter across the light fabric, plucking invisible pieces of lint. “Does it look okay?”
“Don’t do that.”
His gruff tone has my eyes lifting to meet his. “Do what?”
“Doubt yourself,” he says. “You could wear an oversized sweater and snow pants and still look fuckable.”
I flush at the bluntness of his compliment as he throws his arm over my shoulder and leads me into class. His closeness ignites the memories from last night, and my heart splutters, anticipating something that won’t happen again.
Because Olly is just a friend.
Time to seduce the professor.
The seminar room is smaller than the lecture hall, with desks and chairs lined up in rows. The setting is intimate, with more chance of the professor noticing me.
I spot two empty seats in the middle row, but Olly walks toward the front.
Weird. He usually likes to sit in less conspicuous spots. I follow and take the empty seat to his left, set up my laptop, and wait for Professor Gibson to turn up.
Olly’s fingers brush the delicate skin beneath my neck, catching me by surprise. “What are you doing?”
I hold my breath as he pops two buttons open on my blouse, exposing the lace edge of my bra. “Being your wingman.”
His mouth is close to my neck, sending a warm rush of breath across my skin and my thoughts spinning back to last night, his couch, his lips.
Wingman. Just a wingman…
Professor Gibson’s footsteps draw my attention to the front of the room. It’s the redirection I need. Seducing Professor Gibson is the goal—kissing Olly was the research.
Professor Gibson’s styled hair and dress pants make him look younger today, or it could be the lines of ink peeking out of the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.
A tattoo?
The romance author in me rubs her hands together in excitement. Does the professor have a bad-boy side?
Can I bring it out?
My leg bounces with anticipation—or nerves. I’m so close to transitioning into this new phase of my writing and life. It’s exciting and empowering, so why is my skin clammy and my stomach churning?
“You don’t have to do this.” Olly’s knee bumps mine. “I’ve swallowed enough cum to fuel your books for the next decade.”
It would be so easy to go back to that routine, waiting for Olly to call and losing myself to the fantasies his experiences conjure. But I need to stop spending my life authoring Olly’s exploits and wishing I was in one of them.
It’s time for my own experiences. “I’m doing this.”
I open a blank document on my screen and flesh out a scene outline while it unfurls in my thoughts.
Inciting incident. Professor has his back facing the class, busy preparing the lecture. He turns around to see the open knees of a student in the front row. Her pussy is bare beneath her skirt.
“Fuck me.” Olly groans over my shoulder, then slides down into his seat.
His reaction rejuvenates my confidence. Maybe I can write something using my own experience that isn’t boring as shit.
“Morning, everyone,” Professor Gibson greets the class, his attention roaming over the room but never settling on one person.
I try not to feel disappointed that he didn’t single me out with one glance and start a flirty, nonverbal conversation like a character in one of my books. After all, this is reality, not the fantasy I’m trying to conjure.
