My Professor(77)

I have no idea where she got that idea, but I shut it down swiftly. “She would be happy with whomever I choose, so long as I don’t keep her future grandchildren from her. She’s latched onto you because she saw a photo of us together at that fundraiser a few weeks ago. She thought you were stunning and says we’d make a cute couple.”

Emelia blushes and looks down. “Oh.”

“And for the record, we would. What is it that you need?”

I want her to say she doesn’t need anything, want her to have come in here for the sole purpose of being in my company. I want her to admit she’s as infatuated with me as I am with her. Then we’d get somewhere.

Instead, she holds up her hand. My house key dangles from her fingers.

“I thought you’d want this back.”

It feels like a blow, though it shouldn’t. I turn back to my desk and grab for a contract I was reviewing before my mother called.

“Do you want to give it back to me?” I ask, wetting the tip of my pointer finger so I can rifle through pages quickly, hunting for a specific section legal wanted me to review.

“It’s your key,” she says, holding it out for me to take.

I don’t look at her as I reply somewhat brusquely. “That’s not what I asked. If you’d like to keep it, keep it. I’m sure you’ll need it again soon enough.”

“I won’t.”

I shrug like that doesn’t affect me and point to the corner of my desk. “Then leave it there.”

I’m not giving her what she wants. Her quiet little huff tells me so.

In my periphery, I see her swing the key up into her palm and squeeze it tight before she rounds my desk again, heading for the door. I guess she’s decided to keep it.

“Good night, Emelia,” I say, barely able to keep the triumph out of my tone.

I can’t say for certain when I decided to forfeit the fight to stay away from Emelia. For the entirety of our relationship, I’ve restrained myself around her, but sometime between her walking back into my life and now, what little resolve I had was snuffed out by white-hot desire. I’ve completely given up the game I’ve been playing. I’m done chastising myself. Don’t go down that path, she’s too young, an employee, too innocent and meek—I just don’t care anymore.

Unfortunately, it seems I’ve come to this newfound resolution before she has, which means the waiting isn’t over.

The pining.

The desire.

It’s all brewing under the surface.

I’m desperate for Emelia to surrender fully, not just when I can tempt her to let me touch her physically; I want more. I don’t want that key stowed away in some drawer in her apartment. I want it affixed to her keychain and used twice a day.





There’s a soft knock on my office door the next day, but I don’t bother looking away from my computer. It’s likely Candace; managers aren’t shy about pounding a fist on my door, and Christopher doesn’t even bother with that before he barges in.

“Come in,” I call out, preparing for the inevitable.

The door creaks.

“You left your coffee in the break room.”

Emelia’s voice is a shot of adrenaline, and my gaze whips to the doorway where she stands holding a white mug by the handle. It matches the white blouse she has tucked into a simple camel-colored skirt. It’s a hair’s breadth too short for the office, but her black tights try to mask that fact.

I pick up the thread of the game quickly.

“Thank you. Can you bring it here?” I ask, making sure my voice carries.

She walks in and toes the door closed gently behind her. It doesn’t seal completely, but we’re afforded privacy all the same. The act looks innocent, just like her.

I watch her walk, greedily taking in the sight of her.

She plunks down the full cup of coffee on the corner of my desk, right beside my empty one from earlier.

“I didn’t forget my coffee.”

She smiles cheekily, running her finger along the edge of my desk. “No, but that’s what you’ll tell people if they ask why I came in here.”

“Why did you come in here?”

Her brown eyes ensnare mine. “Because you won’t come to me.”

Poor, poor Emelia.

I hold my hand out for her to come closer, and she lets me capture her wrist and tug. I don’t pull her down onto my lap. I’m practicing restraint. I turn her hand so it’s facing up, and then I drag the pad of my pointer finger along her palm lines, feeling her slight shiver.

“What did you do last night when you got home?” I ask.

“Made myself dinner, took a shower…”

“And?”

She tries to close her hand and curl her fingers as if all the evidence of what she did last night is right there for me to see.

I doubt I hide the fact that I’m gloating when I respond suggestively, “You could have called me…”

“I could have…yes. The other day, I was so annoyed with myself for looking at your business card so much I threw it in the trash. I buried it way down at the bottom, under some takeout containers, but it doesn’t matter—I have your number memorized.”

The edge of my mouth tips up.

I release her hand and sit back in my chair. She’s still standing before me, and I simply take her in, memorizing the pink hue of her lip stain, the way it complements the color on her cheeks.