To Professor, With Love (Forbidden Men 2)

When I went to crawl off her, she grabbed a handful of my shirt and clung on. “Stay.”

&nbs

p; Nodding, I tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll watch over you.”

Her hand relaxed and her body settled. “Thank you,” she murmured one last time before she was completely out of it.

The smartest thing would’ve been for me to leave. But there was nowhere else I wanted to be. And I’d promised to stay. So I settled down beside her, ignored the pissed-off straining erection in my jeans, and I slept next to Aspen Kavanagh for the second time. And it was just as amazing as the first night I’d held her until dawn.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it.” - Mae West

~ASPEN~

“Science is about hypotheses, theories and laws made from facts that have been proven over time. Mathematics is made up of absolutes, where there is only one correct answer to each equation. But with music, art, literature, the possibilities are endless. There is no specific law or equation that makes a piece of literature so-called good. There are literally millions. And here’s the real kicker. It’s all completely subjective. One song may please the ear of one person, while it completely irritates the ear of another. So, does that make it good or bad or merely average? What do you think? What makes truly good literature good? What makes it stand the test of time until here we are, years, decades and centuries later, discussing it in a classroom?”

From the back, a male voice guessed, “It’s got to be boring enough?”

Folding my hands together at my waist, I waited patiently for the laughter to die down. Then I nodded to the student, allowing him his answer. “It may be boring to you, Mr. Tenning. But obviously it wasn’t boring to someone, or it wouldn’t have been published, and republished, and then republished again so many times, so...try again.”

He didn’t have another witty answer ready, so he shrugged and slumped lower in his chair. I shrugged too, which pulled at the stiches in my arm. With a wince, I reached up to cup it briefly, my gaze straying not far from Mr. Tenning to where Noel sat.

It’d been a week since I’d fallen asleep in his arms, drugged just enough to say things I knew I shouldn’t have but sober enough to remember everything I’d said. I knew he had stayed until morning too because I’d gotten a drink at three due to a dry throat and he’d still been there, next to me, keeping me warm, protecting me. But he’d been gone when my alarm clock had woken me at five thirty.

And now, here we both were, eight days later, on either side of the room, a line of propriety separating us from being together.

He sat sprawled in his chair with his long legs kicked out in front of him and crossed at the ankles while he tapped his pen again the notepad on his desk. His eyes were on me, though. And they narrowed as they darted to my hand cupping my injury.

I dropped my fingers and turned my attention to a girl in the front lifting her arm. “Yes?”

“It reaches our emotions,” Sydney Chin answered.

With an approving nod, I gave her a brilliant smile. “Very good, Miss Chin.” Turning back to the others, I began to walk toward the other side of the room. “People turn to the arts to find the height of an emotion. We go to a scary movie to be frightened, or a comedy to laugh. Books are the same, except without all the special effects on a screen. Instead, you have to use your imagination.”

I tapped the side of my head. “And the best part of using our imagination is that each and every person in this room can read the same line on a page, and you will all picture something totally different in your heads. You’ll all feel something different about it, because you’ve all come from different parts of the world, been raised by different standards, influenced by different people, taught from different backgrounds. No two people are the same, so no two opinions can always be the same, which is exactly why I grade on essay papers only. I fully believe there is no wrong answer to your opinion about a story...as long as you have sufficient reason to back that opinion up.” I glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Which reminds me, I’m halfway through reading all the papers you handed in last week, so I should have them back to you by next Tuesday at the latest.”

Spreading my arms wide, I gave the room a large grin. “And with that, I’ll see you guys on Thursday.”

A collective sigh spread over the class. By the way they scrambled to collect their things and leave, a girl might think they were thrilled to escape her room. Humph. I shook my head. Tough crowd. Oh, well. Sidney Chin had seemed interested in what I’d had to say. One fan was better than none. My shoulders slumped, making the ache in my wounded arm throb even more.

I massaged the tender spot as the group of jocks from the back made their way out of the seating area. I couldn’t help but glance toward Noel. Mr. Tenning was talking animatedly to him, but he must’ve sensed my gaze because he looked over. Everything inside me sparked to life. It was as if this one man held the switch to my happy endorphins.

“Mr. Gamble,” I said, nodding to him with a stony stare, “may I have a moment, please?”

He paused and kicked at his friend when Mr. Tenning murmured something in his ear. But he stayed behind, not moving until everyone in his group had made it to the door. Then, and only then, did concern fill his eyes as he approached me.

“Are you okay? You were rubbing your arm. Does it hurt?” When he went to reach for it, I pulled back and glanced behind him to where a few stragglers were still lingering.

Noel ground his teeth together as he took them in, and turned back to me, lowering his voice. “I can’t believe it’s still bothering you after a week. You need to go easier on yourself so you can heal. You’re remembering to take your painkillers, right?”

I frowned. I hadn’t called him after class to get my own lecture. I’d actually had something important to say. “I can’t. They make everything...muzzy. And I need a clear head to teach.”

He stepped closer, coming right up to the edge of my personal space. It was...nice, but this was so not the time or place. “You need not to feel any pain. I don’t like knowing you’re still hurting because of something I did.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” I cringed and drifted my gaze over the students who were now milling toward the doorway, not paying us any attention. More quietly, I hissed. “My arm is fine. The stitches are healing and everything will be okay. This is not why I needed to talk to you.”

Eyebrows lifting with interest, Noel cocked his stance with smug arrogance. “It’s not? Well, then...what’s up, Professor?” Folding his arms over his chest, he waited for me to continue.