Trapped With My Teacher

He doesn’t reply. But when I finally roll my eyes and curl up on the bed, facing the wall, under the blanket, I hear him sigh. A few moments later, I feel the heavy weight of the couch blanket being draped over me. Then the bed shifts as Tony climbs in beside me. His back digs into mine, curled in the opposite direction. Not the most comfortable way to sleep, but I ignore it. I close my eyes and try to drift off.

All I can hear is his voice. I think about fucking you too, Corina. I think about fucking you right in that front desk you sit in. My heartbeat speeds up just thinking about that. Tony Lakewood, Professor Hardass, my biggest pain in the ass this whole year. He’s been daydreaming about fucking me.

Same way I’ve been fantasizing about him. Ever since the first day I laid eyes on him in class, his perfect body and his sculpted chest and steady, piercing gaze.

I squeeze my eyes tighter.

We did just fuck. He fucked me so hard that if I clench my pussy, I can still feel his cock inside me, the shadow of him there. The sweet, deep ache he left inside me.

The burning throb of my clit, which wants more. I want him to do that again.

In frustration, I pull the pillow up over my eyes and try to slow my breathing. It’s going to be a long night.

I wake up to the feeling of warm arms wrapped around my waist, and a strong, muscular body curled around mine, holding me close. For a few breaths, I listen to the soft breathing behind me, feel the rise and fall of a chest against my back, and savor the warm, cozy sensation of being tucked under blankets with this warm body, when outside, on my cheek and face, I can tell how cold the ambient air has become.

So warm, so snug… I could almost drift right back to sleep.

Almost.

Until I remember where I am. Until I realize who is wrapped around me in bed.

I startle and roll over. Sure enough, I didn’t dream any of that. Professor Tony Lakewood is curled up beside me in bed, one arm around my waist like a lover’s embrace, eyelids fluttering slightly as he dreams about something. About fucking me again? asks the unhelpful part of my brain.

This is dangerous. My professor isn’t someone I can start hooking up with. And I certainly can’t wake up cuddling him, as if this…

I shake myself internally. As if this is anything more than a freak circumstance. I lever myself up on one elbow and untangle myself from his arm.

He sighs in his sleep, rolls over. I use that momentum to climb across him out of the bed. When I glance back, guilty at how much I made the whole small bed shift, he cracks one eyelid to look at me. For a brief second, our eyes meet. Then he rolls back over under the blankets, and I force myself to walk out of the bedroom. No more talking about that.

The living room is freezing already. I stoke the fire back up—it died down over night. That finished, I dig into my suitcase and pull out a change of clothes. Luckily I packed for the slopes, so I have plenty of warm, long-sleeved clothing. I step into the kitchen to change, since Tony and I both slept in our jeans.

It’s freezing inside the kitchen. So cold I hop from foot to foot, reaching over to turn on the stove just to warm things up a tiny bit. I hop into a pair of long sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt, then fresh socks and a jacket over top. My breath mists in the air as I set about making some breakfast.

Outside, the snow has stopped, but my eyes widen when I peer across the yard—across several yards of blinding white snow, that is—at the shed. Because it’s almost completely buried.

In fact, when I lean forward to check below the window, my mouth drops. The snow reaches all the way up to the kitchen windowsill. If I open the little door beside the kitchen now, I’ll be staring down a chest-high pile of snow.

Great.

I drop the pan onto the stove rather more forcefully than necessary. All the clattering must wake up Tony. I hear shuffling in the other room and feel the cabin creak with his weight as he putters around. A few minutes later, he steps into the kitchen, yawning and stretching, his hair sticking straight up from sleep.

Some wild impulse in me wants to reach out and flatten that hair for him. I tamp it down, and serve him a helping of the same chicken we ate last night for breakfast, along with a side bowl of, you guessed it, mushy porridge.