None until Emmaline. Emmaline is the kind of pure soul that I should never want. In fact, I know the instant I see those chocolate curls and big hazel eyes, this is the younger, hotter version of a woman that I grew up with and never loved. My best friend through elementary to high school, Emmaline’s mother Joelle was never interested in me.
Kids nowadays and their dumb 'friendzone' bullshit have no fucking clue.
Sure, I was fucking obsessed with Joelle and thought I loved her. She was clever, beautiful, and always there. As a friend. It took me years to realize that we simply weren’t a good pairing.
We didn’t share any of the same values, Joelle didn’t share or understand my passions. And she was swept up in our mutual friend Daniel. Daniel was not like me. He was the good boy, and I was the bad. Joelle was a good girl, and she belonged with him. I’m not even sore about it. It's been a little while, but I even still hang out with Joelle and Daniel.
Am I still that bad boy? Well, my act hasn’t entirely straightened up now, but I’ve always been good about not fucking students, or even wanting to fuck them.
And we’re talking some hard work and dedication on my part because there have been literally a classroom’s worth of blondes and a few kinky redheads that left thongs (the redheads all left me filthy notes with them) but I’ve never even considered fucking them. I fuck women my age, or maybe a tad younger, but not the girls who are basically half my age. I don’t fuck students. I don’t want to fuck students.
And I’ve come to understand that even though Joelle loves me, she loves me as a friend. So when I see Emmaline, I can’t just be hung up on her mother. There’s something more.
So how come the second I see her daughter, I can’t fucking stand the idea of not touching those brown curls? It was just a sexual attraction at first and I told myself I could overcome that, in that instant. But my old, obsessive ways do spring into motion. I know that I can’t get this girl out of my head. Not right now.
This is how she breaks my concentration—I’m out here scaring the class like I normally do, sorting wheat and chaff and letting people know that this is not the class they’re going to fuck around in. You don’t have to love my subject the way I do, but you do have to work the course hard enough to earn your grade. I don’t believe in the curve, or in rewarding mediocrity.
I’m lecturing about all these expectations when Emmaline tries to slip in late, unnoticed.
“Lateness is another thing that will not be tolerated, which, if you arrived on time, you’d know …” I pause for her name.
“Emmaline,” she says quickly. “Emmaline Travers.” Her voice cuts through the silence I demand in my classes when we’re not actively discussing something.
My eyes flicker from half the class looking like they want to drop the class now, and the other half giving me the I’d-fuck-this-teacher eyes. I’m used to both, and almost don’t see her. I'm doing my general thing where I let the fear and the admiration wash over me for just a second, but then I have to be professional.
That soft little voice shouldn’t have stirred me. But that name, and then … how can I not notice her? I try not to be visibly shaken by the sight of her. That’s Daniel’s last name, and Joelle’s too, for a lot of years. And I know those eyes. I can’t be professional when I see her. I hold my breath, clench my fists, and feel my cock already getting hard. Wildly fucking inappropriate, and something I can’t let get noticed. I’m going to have to sit behind my desk like some old fucker if I get hard right in the middle of class. Her fear rouses the part of me that I keep under wraps during class, only calculating the right amount of that part of me for when I need to scare the new students.
I’ve been so very good. Never have I been inappropriate with a student, even though I've left many students disappointed because of that. I enjoy my job. That’s why this career is my chosen path, despite other things that have paid more, taken less of my time. I’ve been very good so that I won’t jeopardize that. Nothing has ever tempted me.
But now I know I’m in too deep.
On the outside, I’m professional. I finish the lecture, talk over the syllabus, give out my first paper — to be done in class — and another to be brought to the next class. I like to see where my students are. Pressure and preparation can show you two sides of someone, and I like to gauge both with those writing assignments.
I try to catch another glimpse of Emmaline, but where she’s seated, I can’t see her. I keep my cool, figuring I’ll find her after class.
But I did a number on her. She’s gone before most of the rest of the class is. Damn.
I head back to my office, and I find a grainy picture of her in the student directory. It doesn’t do her justice.
I plug her name into Facebook, something I haven’t visited in a while. Too much annoying political drama…but sure enough, we have a mutual friend.
Joelle Travers is Emmaline’s mother.
Fuck.
I should be thinking about how I need to stay away.
Instead, I’m thinking about when I’ll see her again.
Emmaline
I’m never late for class!
And late on the first day of class?
The class that I’m looking forward to way too much?
I got a little too excited last night, and then I overslept. I desperately needed that coffee with Delia, but I didn’t make it because I just kept falling back asleep. I woke up several times, checked my phone, no big deal. Then I miss my alarm entirely because I still don't have a roommate to make me wake up, and if it wasn’t for Delia attempting to beat down my door, I’d possibly still be asleep.