His hair is shorter, clean cut. He’s dressed in navy slacks and a white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. Nothing like the outfits he wore in Paris; in fact, I wouldn’t recognize him if not for that goddamn signature smile and those bright blue eyes like beacons.
He doesn’t climb up the stairs and pick a seat. No, he fucking strides to the center of the classroom, stopping behind the teachers desk, placing his leather bag on top of it, like he’s done this a million times before.
I slide further down my seat as he peers up, his eyes skimming the entire room before he grants everyone that stupid smile and announces, “Good Morning class, I’m Dane Campbell, your Professor of Business Development and Analytics this semester.”
30
DANE
“Iwould introduce myself further, but by the silence in the room I have a feeling most of you already know more about me than I would share with you here anyway.” A few collective, awkward laughs spread throughout the room.
It doesn’t take much to pinpoint the few women in the front that are desperately trying to get my attention; by the landscape of cleavage paired with the short dresses and high heels they are wearing, I would bet my entire fortune they aren’t here to learn about business analytics at all.
“With that being said, I’ll call out a few of your names. If I do, please stand up and tell me what your major is and where your favorite place to travel is.” That gets a few more awkward laughs, because it’s a random question, but I find that makes it easier to open up conversation if you know something simple about someone.
Glancing down at my class list, I run my finger over the column of names. “Jodi Adamos,” I call out.
My luck, one of the girls in the front row stands up. She makes a feeble attempt to pull her dress down, covering a little more of her legs, but exposing more cleavage. The dress is skintight, leaving nothing to the imagination. She turns like she pulled a neck muscle with the restriction of her outfit and waves to the class.
“Hi, I’m Jodi.” She smiles at me biting her lip. “My major is PR Management and Marketing and my favorite place to travel is anywhere I can wear a bikini.” A few guys in the class hoot as she giggles, and you can practically hear the eye roll from some of the other girls in the class.
Scanning the student list again, my eyes catch on the name Ethan. The name comes out as a whisper before I clear my throat and announce, “Ethan Russo.”
I shift a few things on my desk then peer up to see the students looking around but no one stands.
Grabbing the corner of the paper, I lift to review the second page to see the total number of students before grabbing my pen to make a note. Chair legs squeal against the tiled floor, the sound traveling through the room before a deep voice says only one word. “Here.”
I don’t need more than that to recognize the tenor of that voice. I heard so many variations of it in words, moans, and whimpers. It plays on repeat in my head.
My gaze lifts to seehim. He’s standing there, chin high, stoic, un-fucking-readable.
I feel the need to reach out and touch him. Instead, I pinch the top of my hand, digging my fingernails into the skin and yup, felt that.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I glance down at my desk then back up, placing my hands on my hips feigning indifference.
“This is an MBA college course Mr. Russo, it’s not high school roll call. Name, Major, and your favorite place to travel,” I reply with a glacial tone. His jaw visibly clenches along with his fists but I don’t care.
I need to discard his presence as easily as he discarded mine.
Even from a distance I can see the column of his throat bob as he swallows thickly. The recollection of that same movement when he took my cock down his throat for the first time hits me.
“Ethan Russo, Accounting major with a minor in Communications.” A long pause before he says, “Paris,” then slowly takes a seat back down.
Paris?
Did he just fucking say Paris? By the look on his face he shocked even himself.
Paris used to be my favorite city in the world. Now, I completely hate the idea of going there again. I don’t say that but I want to.
Instead I ask, “Why Paris, Mr. Russo?” with my most inquisitive curious voice, my eyes never leaving his.
Yes, please tell me why Paris is your favorite place to travel.
Movement at the front door catches in my periphery and I turn to see the side view of a curtain of dark chocolate hair, a button nose peeking from the side, and radiant blue eyes that I don’t need to see straight on to recognize.
She enters the room without looking in this direction and plops down in the seat directly next to Ethan, sliding a folder on his desk with a smile before it fades as she tilts her head to inspect his impassive, unamused expression.
