MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) Read Free Page A

heads for the door.
    I’m sweating bullets.  Is it because I sense I may be in trouble, or because Professor Hottie just asked me to come closer?
    I approach his desk.  He studies me, his blue eyes so penetrating I have to look away. 
    He says, “Celine, when you walk into this classroom it’s like you’ve come into my house and you’re on my time.  All I ask is for seventy-five minutes, twice a week, where I have your full attention and you leave the phone off.” 
    He isn’t speaking harshly, but there’s a certain authority in his voice that’s intimidating.
    “I, I’m sorry,” I stammer, like a kindergartener caught with a dirty desk.  “It was sort of an emergency.”
    “Relax.”  His voice softens.  “I understand things come up and other professors might not mind, but there is really nothing that can’t wait until after class.  Wouldn’t you agree?”
    I nod my head, then lower it, still mortified.
    “Why do you cut your hair like that?” he asks, tone even gentler, obviously trying to lighten the conversation.
    I look back at him.  He seems genuinely interested in my response.  “Going for Rihanna.  I think she’s really pretty.”
    I study his face.  His skin looks so soft.  My hands tremble.  I want to lean even closer and just sniff him then come right out and tell him that he’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen and I would do anything to be with him.  He seems completely at ease, just like when he lectures.  He stands so close that my knees feel ready to buckle.  He reaches his right hand to his forehead to brush back his side part, which causes me to duplicate the action and flip my own hair back at the same time, off my right eye, so now the brown of both irises are visible to him.  The simultaneous action makes it feel as if it’s his hand brushing my hair and I feel a strong jolt through my body.
    He says, “Celine, you don’t need to cut your hair like that to look pretty.”
    He gathers his papers on the desk.  I’m rendered speechless.  I leave.
    Outside the building, I keep my messages limited to the current drama in Katia’s life when I really want to text about what just happened, the way I felt touched, the way he spoke to me, the way my heart hammered then and now. 
    I want her opinion about Professor Beard’s last line.  Was he speaking in general, as in “one doesn’t need to cut one’s hair like that to look pretty,” or was he speaking directly about me, as in “ I don’t need to cut my hair like that to look pretty,” which would infer that he thought I was pretty?
    I prefer to believe it’s the latter and hold onto the exquisite feeling this inspires for the rest of the day then take it to bed with me that night.
    I wait until my roommate is deep asleep and starts her usual snore.  I slip off my tee shirt and remove my pajama shorts, wanting to be completely naked.  My head settles deeply into the pillow, my eyes close.  I run my fingertips along my upper chest, lightly, the way his fingers might feel if he had actually brushed the hair off my eyes.  I circle my breasts, then cup them entirely, making them feel large and full in my hands.  I resist the temptation to slide my palms lower, instead delicately twirl each nipple between my thumb and index finger, relishing the sensation of them growing under my touch, how they point stiffly toward the ceiling. 
    I have all night to embrace the emotions inspired by Professor Beard, all night to touch myself wherever I want, to imagine anything I want and use it exclusively for my own personal joy.
    We’re completely naked in the classroom.  I feel his hands move over me as I replicate his caresses with my fingers.  There’s so much inside me waiting to burst, just needing the tiniest bit of healthy encouragement. 
    Starting Lacrosse Goalie had been like a temptation to mount a dangerous horse, but his actions were so crude, so lacking in intimacy, it was like being thrown to the