Campus has apparently discovered that their new literature professor is a walking fantasy wrapped in academic credentials, and I'm getting really tired of watching it happen.
Every day after Cassian's lectures, girls cluster around him like he's handing out free degrees instead of discussing the finer points of feminist literary theory.
Their voices pitch higher when they talk to him, their touches linger on his arm when they ask "questions" about assignments that have absolutely nothing to do with Victorian novels.
"Professor Harrison, I'm having trouble understanding the symbolism in Jane Eyre," Jessica Reynolds coos, batting her eyelashes like she's auditioning for a mascara commercial. "Could you maybe explain it to me? Privately?"
I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out of my head.
"Of course," Cassian responds with that easy smile, completely oblivious to the fact that Jessica is basically eye-fucking him in broad daylight. "Office hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays, two to four."
"I was thinking maybe we could discuss it over coffee?" Jessica presses, leaning forward just enough to showcase her very deliberately chosen low-cut top. "I learn better in informal settings."
I bet you do, I think acidly, shoving my notebook into my bag with unnecessary force.
"God, I wonder what he's packing," I overhear Jessica whisper to her friend as they finally abandon their prey. "Those hands are huge. You know what they say about proportions..."
My face burns with embarrassment and something that feels uncomfortably like jealousy. Because the same thought had flickered through my mind during yesterday's office visit, and I hate myself for it.
I'd noticed the way his dress shirt fit across his chest, the way his forearms looked when he'd rolled up his sleeves, the way his fingers had looked wrapped around his coffee mug.
I keep finding myself paying attention to things I have no business noticing. The way Cassian's voice drops when he's explaining complex theories. The way he moves around the classroom with unconscious grace.
The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs at student jokes that aren't even that funny.
I'm walking up the stairs to my apartment that evening, mentally composing my essay, trying not to think about how Cassian's smile had made my stomach flutter during class, when I nearly collided with a familiar figure unlocking the door directly across from mine.
"Are you following me, Miss Coffee Disaster?" Cassian grins, holding up a set of keys that glint under the hallway's fluorescent lighting. "Because if stalking is your hobby, you're remarkably bad at it."
I stare at him, my brain struggling to process the implications of what I'm seeing. "You live here. You live right there."
"Door 4B, brand new lease." His smile turns sheepish, and he runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that's somehow both nervous and charming. "The university helped me find housing close to work. Hope you don't mind having a professor in the building."
Mind?
My brain screams.
I mind everything about this. I mind that you're attractive and kind and living fifty feet away from my bedroom. I mind that I noticed your forearms today. I mind that other students are throwing themselves at you and I'm weirdly jealous about it.
"It's a free building," I manage instead. "I don't get to approve the tenant applications."
"Good point."
He adjusts his bag strap, and I catch myself watching the way the movement pulls his shirt taut across his shoulders.
"I promise I'm a quiet neighbor. No loud music, no wild parties. Just boring academic reading and the occasional Netflix binge."
Quiet neighbor. The phrase echoes in my head as I let myself into my apartment, already knowing that having Cassian Harrison living across the hall is going to be a problem for my peace of mind.
"How was class?" Cleo calls from the kitchen, where she appears to be attempting something ambitious with pasta and possibly too much wine.
"Fine," I lie, dropping my bag by the door. "Uneventful."
"Liar. You have that look that says you're thinking about someone's body parts." She waves a wooden spoon in my direction. "Please tell me it's not Adrian's body parts, because I will literally throw this marinara sauce at you."
"It's not Adrian's body parts," I say quickly, and it's not entirely a lie.
"Good. Whose body parts are we thinking about then?"
"Nobody's! Why does everything have to be about body parts with you?"
"Because you're twenty-two and haven't gotten laid in five months," Cleo replies with her usual brutal honesty. "Your body is probably staging a revolt at this point."
She's not wrong, which is why I retreat to my bedroom earlier than usual, claiming I need to work on my essay. But once I'm alone, the words won't come.
Instead, I find myself staring at the wall that separates my room from Cassian's apartment, wondering what he's doing over there.
Probably grading papers, I tell myself. Or reading some dense academic journal about postmodern narrative theory. Very boring, very unsexy professor activities.
I manage to convince myself of this until around eleven PM, when the sounds start filtering through the wall.
At first, I think maybe he's watching TV. The walls in this building are apparently tissue-thin, and it's not uncommon to hear muffled conversations or music from neighboring apartments.
But then I hear it more clearly—a low, masculine groan that's rhythmic and unmistakably sexual.
Oh God. I freeze in my bed, laptop balanced on my knees, cursor blinking mockingly in my unfinished essay document. He's... he's jerking off. Right there. Like twenty feet away.
I should put on headphones. Should turn up my music. Should do literally anything except lie here listening to my professor pleasure himself through the thin walls of our apartment building.
Instead, my body betrays me completely. I feel a familiar tingling sensation between my thighs as my imagination runs wild, picturing what he looks like in the throes of pleasure.
Those capable hands wrapped around himself, his head thrown back, that gentle smile twisted into something more primal and desperate.
Stop it, I command myself, but my fingers are already sliding beneath my panties before conscious thought kicks in. This is wrong. This is so incredibly wrong.
But I can't stop myself from circling my clit as I imagine Cassian's broad shoulders, the way his muscles would flex and strain, the sounds he would make as he got closer to release.
The fantasy builds perfectly in my mind—his hands on my body instead of his own, his mouth hot against my neck, his voice whispering encouragement instead of academic lectures.
I'm so close, so lost in the fantasy, when Adrian's face suddenly invades my mind like a virus.
Storm-gray eyes and commanding voice, the way he'd made me come apart with clinical precision, the memory of his hands controlling every aspect of my pleasure.
My body responds instantly to the memory, muscle memory more powerful than conscious thought.
But my consciousness recoils like I've been burned. The fantasy crumbles, leaving me gasping and frustrated and angry at myself for reasons I can't even articulate.
I yank my hand away, rolling over with tears of frustration stinging my eyes. Even now, even when I'm trying to imagine being with someone else, someone kind and gentle and available, Adrian Lewis still owns parts of me I can't seem to reclaim.
Fuck, I think, pressing my face into my pillow to muffle the sound of my pathetic crying. Even in fantasy, even with another man's pleasure echoing through the walls, he's still there. Still controlling my thoughts, my body, my ability to want anyone else.
The sounds from next door have stopped, leaving only silence and my own ragged breathing. I lie there in the dark, wondering if I'll ever be free of Adrian's psychological hold on me.
Or if part of me even wants to be.