TWO: I Need Your Permission

Is he going to beat me up in here? I think for a brief moment.

With motions that aren't quite my own, I reach out and lock the door, wondering why he’s always singling me out. Why he'd humiliated me in front of the entire class.

I turn around to face him. With a sigh, he leans back on the front of his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose before motioning for me to approach him with two fingers.

I take a single step forward.

He raises his head, eyes meeting mine, and the meaning of it all sinks in. I'm alone. With him. And he is staring straight at me. I don't know whether to be thrilled or terrified, so I don't choose between the two.

I'm both.

"If you are going to come to my class hungover and unfocused, it would be better if you did not come at all."

My jaw sets. For a moment I don't say anything. Then, it strikes that maybe it isn't appropriate for a professor to mansplain my own personal life to me.

"I'm not hungover."

He looks at me flatly. "The bags under your eyes are dark enough to make me think you've been punched in the face. Twice."

I swallow thickly, standing up straight, trying to maintain my dignity.

"It's a Monday, Ms. Shaw."

"I don't see how that's any of your business."

His brows cock. He looks slightly surprised – and something else. Interested. Amused. Contested. Eager. Urging me to keep challenging him.

"When you called on me, I didn't see anyone else fighting me to answer your question. This is confusing stuff, and I know what I'm doing. I'm not a distraction to the class," I argue, “I'm doing well on this unit, I–”

"Your last essay. Why didn't I receive it?" It sounds more like a statement than a question. A flat, monotone phrase meant to make me feel like he already knows the answer

Because I didn't do it.

"Time got away from me." I lie. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again, I–"

Suddenly, he stands, and I feel myself take a step back.

"You did well in class today, when called upon," he tells me with a small nod, eyes almost understanding. Almost. "But I would argue that giving 'fuck-me' eyes to your professor and speaking incessantly on sexual desires is a bit of a distraction to everyone else."

"You asked the question." I shoot back, slightly outraged, holding my ground this time, staring up at his 6-foot-tall frame that hovers over me like an intimidating black shadow. "You called on me specifically to answer it, knowing what I had to say. I know my Freud – my answer was correct," I say, drawing out the word so he'd get the point, "and Freud would be proud."

He looks at me with darkness in his eyes, jaw set, inches away from me, so close I can smell his rich-guy cologne, it drifts against my senses, making my mind go dizzy, and instantly, instantly...

He’s on me.

Hands cup my cheeks as his mouth crashes into mine, lips tight and plush and wanting against my own. He shoves against me until my back hits the door, a good few feet behind me, but I don't mind the pain that wracks against my entire backside – I'm grateful for the support behind me because I'm about to melt completely in his arms.

I part my lips, urging him to open his, moaning into his mouth. My hands find his hair, his sexy, dark, wavy hair that I've been dreaming of tugging on for weeks.

Dragging his lips against mine, one of his hands finds my hips. "And the eye-fucking, Ms. Shaw?"

I notice my chest is rising and falling dramatically, the back of my head resting on the wood behind me.

"I would argue," I say, tossing his own words back at him, hoping they'll land heavy on his chest with a painful impact, "that you're just as guilty of that as I am."

Professor Harlan smirks, pushing himself off the door and away from me. I pant, resisting the urge to pull him back to me. I'm pretty positive that he wouldn't appreciate that move.

I'm completely and utterly at his mercy – the mercy of Harlan fucking Harlan.

Slowly, he takes a few steps back, a hand rubbing his jaw. He’s clearly in thought, eyeing me for a moment before his gaze falls to the floor, contemplative and measuring. Within moments, he'd made up his mind.

"Get on the desk." He says, snapping his fingers and pointing to his desk that sits at the front of the classroom.

"What?"

"Sit your ass on my fucking desk." He says, storming to me furiously, hissing the words into my face.

Eyes wide, my head hits the back of the door again.

"Make your choice." He says, hand clenching around my wrist. "You will sit on my desk, or you will leave. Now."

It isn't the hardest of decisions, but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous.

I do as he says, walking towards the desk and lifting myself to sit on its cold surface. I can feel the chill of the table top begin where the cuffs of my denim shorts end.

As he walks towards me, for once, my attention isn't on him. Instead, it’s on the door. Locked as it is, I'm pretty sure the other professors have master keys. Panic sets in...

...and dissipates when Professor Harlan places a hand gently to hold my jaw.

"Don't you worry about that,” he breathes lowly against my neck. It’s as if he is reading my mind.

He nudges my legs open at the knee, using his thigh to step in between them and draw himself as close as possible. His hand moves from my jaw downward to clasp my neck with the same gentleness as before. He isn't grasping.

But he could. I know he could if he wanted to.

His lips go to my ear. Feeling his breath against my delicate skin makes my mind go fuzzy and the clenched muscles of my core to drop.

"I need you to tell me that this is what you want before we go further," he nips at my jaw suddenly, causing a sigh of pleasure to spill from my lips, "I need your permission."

His head moves lower, sucking at my collarbone, threatening my skin with his teeth. It’s all I can do to keep my hips from erratically bucking forward.

"With it," he continues, "you agree to trust me. To trust that I won't hurt you." He pulls away then, face hovering inches from my own, his hand moving to lift my chin. "Much."