SEVENTEEN: I Was Just Meeting With A Student

The second silence is almost just as long.

He looks at me for a long moment without moving, jaw set contemplatively just as it always is when he is deep in thought, before crossing his arms.

"That was quite the performance Saturday night," he says lowly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before cocking his head. "I wanted to make sure you're alright."

I scoff. "You seem positively concerned." My voice is as dry and sarcastic as humanly possible. "The mocking really seals the deal."

He gives me an irritated look. "I'm being serious."

"So serious you didn't even try to ask in the last," I make a performance of looking down at an invisible watch on my wrist. "Nearly forty-eight hours?"

"Well, I couldn't exactly make an appearance at your dorm," he says flatly. "Not exactly an appropriate environment for a professor to enter into."

Neither is a student's cunt, I think, but bite back the words just in time. I can't blame him for that. I'm more than willing. I want it. Want him. Want him beyond just sex, and I'm hurt that he doesn't want me back.

"Have you forgotten that phones are a thing?" I scoff again. "You certainly haven't hesitated to call upon me before."

"I thought that you would want some time," he explains with no particular patience in his voice, "and I wanted to see you." I feel my lip quiver. He lowers his voice suddenly, eyes darting towards the door that I'd left open. "Before I said anything, I wanted to see you," he says quickly. Too quickly.

"Well. I'm fine. Thanks for your concern," I spit.

"You seem fine," he says, the sarcasm rampant but dry in his gruff voice.

"You know what? You didn't stick around to make sure I was fine. You went right back into that bar to cuddle up to whoever-whatever woman you were with. And that's alright," I say, taking a step back and raising my free hand. "I didn't ask you to. You don't owe me that," I scoff.

"What would you have had me do? Tell your friends I wanted to take you home myself? Besides, that woman I was with is just a friend." His voice is growing just as flustered as mine.

"I don't care what she is!" I hiss, eyes glancing toward the door. It seems like everyone is filing out, save a few stragglers that hadn't quite made it towards the exit.

I look down, taking a furious deep breath, and try to compose myself and look as inconspicuous as possible should anyone glance in.

"I don't care what she is." This time, my voice lower, the hushed words feigning a sense of calmness that I don't truly feel. "It's none of my business." The words taste sour in my mouth, whether they are the truth or not. "In fact," I laugh bitterly, "Since you've made it so painstakingly clear what this is," I say, gesturing between the both of us, "you shouldn't have come after me in the first place." I give him a subtle but smug look. "I don't even understand why you did."

"You're a bright girl. I think you know perfectly well that I cared enough to go after you," he spits back.

The word "care" sounds foreign in his mouth, I realize. And by the look on his face, I guess that it feels foreign for him to use.

I shake my head in disbelief.

"You really don't make any fucking sense," I whisper. "You expect me to just show up wherever you are and fuck you at your beck and call, and then tell me to get the fuck out when we're done and that I can't so much look you in the eye afterwards. And now you're telling me that you care?"

My voice is strained, hurt, the words coming out on shaking air. My body trembles. He watches me as I shake with anger and confusion and frustration. And for a moment, I wonder why I'm still there. Why I care to stay and try and hear him out if he has nothing to give me but mixed-signals and pain.

But then, he is suddenly on me, and all thoughts of wanting to leave are as far away in my mind as could possibly be.

My books clatter to the floor. He leaps up to cup my face in his hands and kisses me fiercely. His mouth crashes against mine, hands grip me tight, lips mold against my own. My hands find the sides of his face and I clutch him against me, all pretences of leaving him, of being done, completely having vanished.

The scuff of sneakers outside the door causes me to shove him away, my head snapping towards the entryway. I hold my breath in sheer terror, but exhale when I see that no one is there. I look back to Harlan, who looks just as caught in the headlights as I feel. I run to the door, shut it, and lock it, and by the time I turn around, he is already there, hands on my waist, lips finding mine again.

He is gentler this time, savouring my taste, his tongue dragging across my lower lip. I have questions of course – if he is angry with me for finding out about Ethan Hale. If this means we're together now, at least more together than we are before. If this means that he cares for me – truly. But there will be time for words later.

Each time a thought enters my brain, it gets wisped away, vanishing completely every time I hear one of his small, gruff, and completely precious moans. The sound vibrates against my lips and makes me go dizzy.

I could have kept tasting him forever. His lips are soft, but his kiss perfectly and deliciously rough. Each time he shifts his lips, molds them against mine, I relish in the sound each kiss makes.

"Harlan," I breathe into his open mouth as his tongue slides against mine. He groans in response, the sound of his name causing him to press against me harder. Faster. His hands move to yank my leggings down. Whimpering, I struggle to keep his lips against mine as I move to step out of my leggings, holding onto his collar for balance.

He growls, his fingers darting to unbuckle his belt.

I hear the zip of his jeans, and then, just against my head, on the other side of the wood behind me, I hear a knock at the door.

I go frozen in his arms.

My gaze finds his in an instant. His eyes are as wide as the moon for a moment. But when he hears the second knock, his head snaps up to look at the door. He lifts a finger to his lips, pulling me gently by the arm away from the door, as if there is a monster on the other side.

"Professor Harlan." I hear an unfriendly voice from the outside, and it only makes me panic even more.

I stumble and reach down to yank up my leggings as he buckles his belt and shifts the bulge in his pants through his pocket. Just after I bend down to scramble up my things, he points to the desk and I dart towards it, shoving away all of my books except one, opening it to a random page. He looks at me, his hand on the doorknob, and nods, a silent understanding clear between the two of us.

And then he turns to the door and opens it.

I've only seen the Dean of Students once or twice in all my years at the University. Once at homecoming, and once at a graduation ceremony I attend for a friend. But there he stands, stoic and cold in the doorway, eyes meeting Harlan's.

"Dean Vance," Harlan says flatly.

Fuck, he is composed as hell. That is good. Just seconds ago, he had been a growling beast with his tongue in my mouth and hard cock pressed against my centre. He doesn't let on at all. But something about Vance's eyes are scrutinizing. It makes me nervous. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, hoping I look half as inconspicuous.

"Per my email from this morning, I thought I'd pay you a visit. I wanted to personally congratulate you on a very successful evaluation by the Board."

I stand behind Harlan, a few feet away, and can't see his face. I would still have staked my life on it that he is smirking at Vance, though.

I hear him let out a small chuckle.

"I'm sure you were thrilled with those results, Vance. You'll have to forgive me. I forgot about your little request to stop by," he says, taking a step back and turning casually to face me. His eyes meet mine for a second, and unlike the faux-calmness in his body, they are laser-focused and hyper-aware.

But it isn't like Harlan to forget things. I feel a twinge of concern in my heart.

"I was just meeting with a student."

Vance's eyes land on me, and I suddenly feel like I'm being dissected.

"My apologies about the door. It shut after the rest of my students left. Someone must have left it locked," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking at me. "This is Eden. She's my best student. Truly the most remarkable in her class. I'm happy to show you some of her work on Freud and Shklovsky. And Shakespeare, for that matter," he chuckles, rubbing his jaw. "If we'd had her in class when we were students, she would have given you a run for your money."

My heart swells with pride and flattery. I try not to look at him lovingly.

Something of a grimace drifts into Vance's features.

"Another time, perhaps," he mumbles, giving me a pained smile and a nod. "Again, Professor, I just wanted to congratulate you on a job well done, and say that I hope there are no hard feelings. I'm only doing my job." He says the words like he is a goddamn lieutenant.

"Understood, Vance," Harlan says, giving him a smug grin. "Glad it worked out the way it did."

Vance gives me one more look, and I could have sworn I see his eyes narrow at me. But without another word, he turns on his heel, and is out the door as quickly as he'd come.

I stand in silence for a good few moments after Vance leaves. And after some time has passed, the two of us exhale at the same time. I look at the floor. There is a feeling of clear relief in the room. But there is something else. A sour feeling. Not dread, not exactly. But the feeling that what has just happened is far too close of a call. And that I can never, ever come that close to getting caught again.