Teach Me (17 page)

“Why
can’t I get enough
of you?” he groans
as he pulls my thighs to either side of him.

“Because
you fit me so fucking well?”
I murmur as I let my body sink, savoring every inch as I impale
myself on his cock. He fills me utterly, so deep my belly twinges,
and it aches but so good, like I’m
finally complete.

“Harper.”

“Jack.”

We
start to move in earnest. He thrusts up into me, harder, faster, and
his teeth grind against my nipple while his fingers pinch the other
one, making me gasp in pleasure and pain, alternately, as we pick up
speed. He drops both hands to squeeze my ass hard as I bite down on
his neck, so hard it leaves marks. My turn to claim him this time.

Of
course, he returns the favor, devouring my neck, my collarbone, the
sharp edge where it meets my shoulder. My nails rake down his back
and he arches deeper into me with a groan. He drops a finger to my
clit, and I’m so hot
I come almost at once, my muscles clenching hard around him, my whole
body shaking. He finishes moments after, groaning that way I love,
like he’s coming
undone, all because of me. His hot seed spills down my leg when I
slide off of him, and we both laugh when he tries to grab a napkin in
time and fails to stop it from reaching the couch.

“We’ll
have to try a safer spot next time,”
I remark, and he smirks.

“There’s
always the shower.”

#

“I’m
never going to walk again,”
I groan in his ear. The jerk only chuckles and runs a hand through my
hair.

“That
was my secret plan all along. Now you’ll
never escape me.” He
grins and kisses the top of my head, my nose, finally my lips, where
he sinks in for a good, long kiss.

“I’d
never want to,” I
murmur when we finally part.

No
one else has ever made me feel like this. After the couch, we made it
to the shower to clean up, which naturally ended with me bent over
holding my ankles as he pounded into me from behind, hot water
steaming our skin. Cleanup didn’t
work either, since an hour later we lay side by side in bed, still
awake, and he slid under the covers to lick me messy all over again.

But
it’s not just
physical. Lying here together, his strong arms cradling me against
him, I feel safe in a way I never have before. I belong here.

That
scares me. If this is just a hookup for him, I can’t
nurse emotions like this. It’ll
end badly for both of us. I tilt my head up to meet his eyes again.
“What are we doing?”
I whisper.

I
expect him to reply the way all the guys I’ve
“dated”
(if you can call it that) have.
Don’t
start that,
or
Just
having fun, babe
.
Granted, those guys were all a lot closer to my age than him. But I
know how guys think. What they want.

Then
he gazes into my eyes and murmurs, “Starting
something wonderful,”
and my whole body shivers with a new kind of pleasure.

It
doesn’t have a name
yet. Boyfriend or partner or whatever. It doesn’t
need a label yet, not right now. But he’s
thinking the same way I am. Long term. That’s
all I need to know.

I
curl up on his chest, close my eyes, and drift off into the deepest
sleep I’ve ever
known.

Harper’s
still sleeping when I leave for the office the next morning. I leave
a note on the table along with a mug of coffee and a cup of overnight
oats for her breakfast. I also leave a pamphlet that Dean Pierson
asked me to pass out to my classes today, something I think Harper
might love. It’s a
new scholarship funded by the Society for the Advancement of British
Poetry Studies—the
recipient of the grant wins a year’s
worth of fully paid tuition to any college of their choosing, and
it’s open
internationally, to any student from any country. She mentioned that
her scholarship to Penn was one of the reasons she decided to attend
the school, and she also mentioned wanting to move somewhere farther
away. If she won this grant, she could study anywhere she wanted to,
anywhere in the world.

She
could even come back here for her final year.

Stop
getting ahead of yourself, Jack
.
Aside from the one hint we dropped to each other last night about
thinking this could be something long-term—or,
more specifically, a hint I dropped that she never responded to—I
have no idea if Harper sees this as a hookup or something more.

Besides,
even if she did, she’d
never leave her whole
country
behind just for a guy. Harper’s
not that kind of person. She’d
never throw what she wants away for a relationship, and I respect
that.

So,
I don’t leave a note
explaining the pamphlet or anything. Let her make her own mind up.

Meanwhile,
I have a meeting with Dean Perjurer, to give him an update on the
Eliot papers. Harper and I have made good headway into the analysis,
enough that I felt comfortable sending Pierson a rough draft of our
report last night.

Of
course he immediately called a meeting with me first thing in the
morning to talk about it. Because he couldn’t
just hit the damn reply button, or ask if I’m
free before he sets up conferences.

The
moment I walk into his office, I know it’s
not good news. The lines around his eyes and mouth seem to have
doubled since I saw him less than a week ago, and I could swear his
hairline has recessed another full inch.

“What
is it?” I shut the
door behind me—I
learned my lesson after last time, when Harper overheard us (though,
to be honest, I haven’t
hated the outcome of that eavesdropping).

“Letter
from the warden about the latest allocation of funds.”
He slides a print-out of a document across the desk toward me, with
our school crest emblazoned across the top. “Read
it. I’ll wait.”

Pierson
leans back in his chair and kicks his feet up onto the polished
wooden surface while I scan the letter. My heart sinks farther with
every sentence. In between the poorly-worded business-speak about
wanting to fund scientific research and technological training,
preparing our students for more competitive careers in their fields
of choice, I can read the other implication.

De-funding
the arts.

Because
who needs to study literature, right? Does the world really need more
art history majors to bum around? Clearly we should all just turn
ourselves into programming robots who barf out code—until
they figure out how to train robots to do that, and then what will
even be the point of humans, anyway?

I
clench my fist, wrinkling the letter in the process. They even
printed it on the thick stationary, the one normally reserved for
acceptance letters and offers of job placement. Happy news.

“How
bad is it?” I say.
Because, of course, they could never write a letter like this that
just explained exactly what they planned to do. The letter needs to
make it all sound positive and happy. They leave it to the rumor-mill
to tell all of us lowlife academics what’s
really going on.

“He
wants to cut the poetry department almost completely. Bring us down
to one full-time professor. No dean, no adjuncts.”
Pierson drops his feet to the floor. He’s
glaring, but for once, not at me. He scowls at the letter between us.
We might not always get along, or agree with 90 percent of what the
other one does, but we’re
in the same boat now. Sink or swim.

If
we’re defunded,
he’ll be out of a
job, and without any adjunct positions available, so will I.

“Are
you supposed to be telling me this?”
I lift an eyebrow. Pierson has no soft spot for me. But if they’ve
not announced this department-wide yet, he was probably told in
confidence from the warden. So why share with me?

“Not
strictly speaking. I’m
only telling you because I think you might be able to change his
mind.”

I
grimace. “The Eliot
project.”

“It
would bring poetry back to the forefront of people’s
attention. You’d
make an international splash, and with Merton’s
name written all over it as the place we made the discovery. They
wouldn’t dare cut
the program, not with that kind of attention focused on it.”
He bends over the desk, resting his elbows on it, the better to glare
straight at me. “Assuming,
of course, that you’re
right about the author of those unsigned poems.”

“I’m
sure, Daniel.”

“For
all our sakes, I hope you are.”
He sinks back into his seat and massages his temples. For the first
time ever, I wish he was still glaring. This new, desperate Dean
Pierson makes me more freaked out than his usual shouting. Because if
he’s this worried, I
need to be, too.

He
grunts, seeming to snap out of the funk. “When
can you have the analysis ready to present to the warden?”

Ah,
there’s the pushy
old git. “It’ll
be ready for the end of term, like we said.”

He’s
already shaking his head. “Not
good enough. They’re
pushing the restructure through before the Christmas break. I need
this in two weeks.”

“Fucking
hell, Daniel, do you understand what you’re
asking?” That’s
like writing a whole thesis in two weeks, when all you’ve
got so far is half an outline and the research ready.

“Make
it happen, Kingston. Or it’s
both our arses on the line.”

Professor
Kingston, you do not look very well rested.
I text him from the middle of the classroom, a full ten minutes
before we’re about
to start. I got here early just so I could express my
appreciation—for
last night, for breakfast this morning, for the signature with his
phone number written in the margins . . . All
of it.

I
watch his phone vibrate on his desk, and lean forward so my cleavage
peeks through the low-cut T-shirt I donned for the occasion.

He
hasn’t noticed the
phone yet; he’s
still busy reading some letter that has him scowling. There’s
only three other students in the classroom so far, and a quick peek
reveals they’re all
deeply embedded in their smartphones at the moment.

What
do you think about this skirt? I need a second opinion,
I
text. Then I cross my legs, letting my skirt ride up just a little
higher. I’m wearing
the same stockings I wore the day he fucked me in his office. The
same garters, too. I let one peek out from beneath the hem of the
skirt, and when he finally picks up his phone, only to glance up with
his eyebrows raised, I smile straight at him, my grin widening as his
eyes roam from my cleavage to my hips and back up.

His
eyes, too, dart to the other students around me. Then his hands fly
across the screen.

I
shut my ringer off, just in case anyone notices my phone buzzing just
after he types. The message arrives within seconds.

Why,
Ms. Reed, I don’t
believe that outfit is up to the standards of our dress code here at
Merton.

I
trail my fingers along my thigh, under the desk where they’re
hidden from view. His eyes are glued to me legs as I hitch the skirt
an inch higher.
Is that
better?
I pause to
text.

The
door to the classroom opens and a few more students flood inside,
making my cheeks flush red. But I don’t
smooth out my skirt. I keep my eyes locked on Jack, and he can’t
tear his from me, even while he types out his response.

Terrible.
See me after class for your reprimand.

What
if I can’t
wait that long? What if I want you to take me right here?

He
swallows hard when he reads that one. I watch his lips compress, and
I have to fight back a smirk. I wonder if he’s
having difficulty concentrating. I lift one eyebrow when he glances
at me again, and there’s
a fire smoldering in his gaze.

Students
who need to be disciplined do not get to decide the where or the how.
They surrender to whatever punishment deemed fit.

Two
minutes until class starts now. The room has nearly filled up. He’s
trying not to look at me now, but his eyes keep stealing glances in
my direction every time they sweep the room. I wonder if anyone else
notices.

I
don’t care if they
do.

Why,
do you have a specific punishment in mind for me?
I reply.

Oh,
I can think of a hundred things I want to do to you, Harper Reed.

The
bell sounds to indicate start of class, and I curse inwardly, my
fingers frozen over a reply. Goddamn it. Now I’m
all hot and bothered with no sign of release for the next . . . How
long is this class?

Ugh,
an hour.

Jack
stands and starts straight in on his lecture. At first, I’m
offended. How dare he be able to think straight right now?

Then
I notice the way he’s
standing directly behind his desk, not walking around the room the
way he usually does, and I feel somewhat ameliorated. He keeps his
eyes fixed somewhere three rows behind me, probably freaking out
whatever poor student is sitting up in that seat.

For
my part, I can’t
help imagining some of those hundreds of things he wants to do to me.
It definitely doesn’t
do anything to help my complete lack of concentration.

I
smooth my skirt back down, cross my legs, and try to force myself to
focus. Halfway through the lecture, Jack asks us to open the text
we’re studying now,
a compendium of the best of English poetry.

“Ms.
Reed,” he says,
nearly startling me straight out of my seat in shock. “Would
you please read the poem on page 141 aloud for the class?”

Even
before I’m done
flipping to that page, I hear snickers building in the back of the
classroom. I snap the book to the right section finally, finding the
poem he wants under a handful written by John Donne. My whole face
flushes bright red. I swallow hard, wet my lips, and start in on the
title.