Trapped With My Teacher

“Not well,” he admits with a groan.

“Got any bars at all?”

“Nope. You?”

“I’ve had no service since I left Buena Vista this afternoon.”

He heaves a sigh. “Guess we’re in this for the long haul. You seen a radio anywhere?”

“Not in here. We can turn on our cars to check for updates, though I think we should only do that sparingly. If the roads clear up at some point, we’ll want to have enough gas to make it out of here.”

When I turn around, I find him watching me again, this time with a more assessing gaze. “You get stuck in snowy cabins often, Corina?”

“More often than you, apparently. Happens when you’re born and raised in the mountains like this.”

He laughs. “Guess that’s me called out.” He leans back on the couch. There’s space beside him. Just enough that I could squeeze in, though our bodies would be pressed together. I debate taking that seat. It’s the only one in the house… “I’m from California originally,” he says.

“That explains a lot.”

He laughs again. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh before. If he did that more often, he might not be so irritating in class. I find myself watching his throat as he swallows, then his mouth when his lips quirk into another grin. “Yes, just another West Coast invader into your poor flooded city. My apologies.”

“Why Tony, that almost sounds genuine.”

“I’m always genuine,” he says. “Just usually I’m genuinely disappointed in people.”

“All people, or just your woefully performing students?” I raise a brow.

He searches my gaze, his smile suddenly dropping. “All people. Or, most of them, at least.”

“You sound awfully picky, Professor.”

“I have high standards. Is that a crime?”

“Only when you take out your standard complex on innocent bystanders.” I cross my arms and lean back against the wall of the cabin. “Or students.”

His gaze rakes over me again. “Oh, I doubt you’re innocent, Corina.”

My cheeks flush again, and I’m far enough away from the fire that I can’t exactly pretend it’s from the heat of the flames. To cover up my fluster, I push off the wall and storm into the kitchen. “As if you know me,” I call over my shoulder.

That, at least, he has no answer to.

I make myself the strangest dinner combination in history. Porridge with some of the grains I found, mixed with a little bit of the bottled water—I’ll stick to that until we have to resort to melting snow. For a side dish, I fry some of the chicken I found in the freezer.

About halfway through cooking, the power flickers and dies. I ignore it. Like I said, thank God for gas stovetops.

A few minutes after it dies, though, I hear the floorboards creak as Professor Lakewood—no, Tony, definitely after the way he’s teasing me now—steps into the kitchen.

“Want some dinner?” I ask.

He steps up behind me, so close I can feel his body heat radiating in the narrow cabin. It’s starting to get cold here in the kitchen. Pretty soon we’ll have to close off the door, hole up in the living room with the fireplace and hope that provides us enough heat for the night. It’s positioned right between the living area and the tiny bedroom, so it should warm both of those well enough, but I doubt it will reach as far as the kitchen.

The cold is what I’d like to blame for the way I shiver and catch my breath. Really, it’s him. Thinking about his body so close to mine, those taut muscles I glimpsed earlier as we chopped wood together. His know-it-all smirk. So infuriating, and yet…

I swallow hard and tighten my thighs. And yet, I can imagine how that smirk would look as he pulled me into a kiss. How his tongue would invade my mouth, and those strong arms of his would circle my waist, pull my soft body against his hard one. I wonder what kind of cock he’s hiding in those jeans…

Stop it, Corina. I can’t do this. He’s my professor.

“What are you making?” he asks. His breath ghosts against the back of my neck, making the hairs rise.

“Whatever we have.” I eye the stove. “Chicken and porridge.”

He laughs softly, breath feeling hotter now. “Regular Martha Steward here.”

I snort and step aside, mostly so I can move my body away from his, breathe again without thinking about stepping backwards, bending over to push my hips against his and see what he’d do. Instead, I pass him the spatula. “Let’s see what you can do, then.”

He sizes me up—and takes his time about it, too. His gaze drops to my chest, lingers for a moment, before he spins around and starts digging through cabinets. I let out a faint sigh of relief when his gaze leaves my body. Whenever he looks at me, it makes me want to jump his bones right then and there. At least when he’s paying attention to something else, I can focus somewhat.