I unlock my door and walk her backward into my apartment.
She gives me a dreamy, relaxed smile as I slam the door. “Are we going to fuck now?”
“In every room.” I growl. “But first, we’re calling the professor.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lacey
Professor Gibson stands outside of Olly’s open door with a bottle of pinot noir and a confused look on his face.
Olly leans against his doorframe, arms casually crossed over his chest. His gaze rakes down the professor’s body, and I picture every dirty thing he would have done with the professor if he’d been in the office with us.
This is really happening. I get to keep Olly and this exciting new side of myself I’ve just discovered.
“My apologies, I have the wrong apartment,” Professor Gibson announces.
Nerves might have had me ducking for cover only days ago, but with Professor Gibson’s taste still on my tongue and Olly’s touch still burning my skin, it’s time to be the leading lady in my own story.
“You have the right apartment,” I say and step out from behind Olly.
Professor Gibson’s face pales as he looks from Olly to me. “What is this?”
I smile, trying to ease his concerns. “It’s okay. Please, come in and I’ll explain.”
A blue button-down shirt covers the arch of muscles beneath his sleeves, and sleek black pants hang low on his waist, drawing my eyes to his thighs. Warmth fills my cheeks as I remember his weight on my tongue.
Professor Gibson catches me staring and only hesitates for a moment before stepping through the doorway and into Olly’s apartment.
He places the bottle of wine on the glass coffee table with a clink and slips both hands into his pockets. “That explanation would be welcome.”
Olly’s fingers touch my back, his warmth and acceptance reminding me I can have anything I want; I just have to ask for it.
“I’m a writer,” I begin. “And my next book is about a…Naughty Professor.”
“Excuse me?” Professor Gibson asks, his brows narrowing in confusion.
I walk to Olly’s bookshelf, his print collection of my titles proudly on display, and hand one to him. “I am L.A. Wright.”
He takes the book from me, his narrowed brows rising as his confusion turns to surprise. “You write erotic romance?”
“I do.”
He turns the book over in his hands, inspecting the cover then flicking through the pages. “Curious. You’re not what I expected.”
“Excuse me?” His comment catches me off guard. For all his poetic speeches about respect in class, Professor Gibson is as juvenile as the rest of the world.
“I’m not judging,” he replies, and the earnest look on his face thaws my annoyance. “I never expected an author of this content to be so young and…”
“Enticing,” Olly finishes, standing so close behind me that heat from his body sends pinpricks of desire up my spine. His fingertips brush down my arm in a slow, featherlight touch and down to my upper thigh where the hem of my skirt meets skin.
He scratches his nails back and forth across my thigh, making my legs tremble. I lean into him, using his body to hold me steady as he bunches the fabric in his fist and slowly drags it up.
Professor Gibson’s eyes lock on Olly’s fingers while my eyes soak in all of myNaughty Professor’sreactions. His lips part, and his chest heaves with each ragged breath.
Olly’s hand stills millimeters from exposing my bare flesh. “Do you know why you’re here, Professor?”
I’m not sure what Olly’s plan is, but my body is tuned to his touch, trusting and willing.
