I have a history of making mistakes with men – #married, #bad boy, #narcissist … you get the idea
In fact, mistake no.6 just dumped me, and boy, do I need a break from men. My best friend won’t have it though, she knows “the sweetest guy” for me… no thanks!You see, I like my men with an edge, and sweet won’t cut it. Take my history professor Rick Carter for example, he’s not your typical professor. He’s smoking hot, and when I’m at his lectures… well, let’s just say English lit is the last thing on my mind, #squirming in seat.Of course, he’s just a fantasy, a dirty little daydream, I mean I’m 21 and he’s at least 32 and we move in different circles, in fact, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know I exist.There’s no way he could ever turn out to be mistake no.7… is there?
Footsteps approached the front door. I found myself holding my breath in anticipation.
The door opened and I felt a rush of warm air.
My body nearly shut down when I saw the person who opened the door. It was none other than my young English lit professor, Rick Carter. There he stood in nothing but a pair of red boxers, a sheen of perspiration on his tanned skin and his muscles bulging as if he’d been working out. My eyes took in his broad shoulders, his hard cut abs and, against my will, were drawn to his boxers, which covered what appeared to be a very sizeable bulge.
When I looked back up he was grinning.
My heart pounded in the base of my throat as he, in turn, gave me in my stupid, too tight uniform a once over. His gaze left hot trails on my skin.
He arched an eyebrow lecherously.
“So you’re my maid then?” he asked, without an ounce of recognition.
I felt my face burn with embarrassment and for the longest moment I couldn’t speak. I was struck dumb.
“I-I-” I stumbled over my words like an idiot. “I’m sorry, Professor Carter. I didn’t realize that you were the one who-”
“Wait!” he said, sharply. “You know me?”
I suppose I couldn’t blame him for not recognizing me. After all, I had my hair pulled back tightly, and had let Tess do my makeup – not to mention the outfit I was wearing. In class I always dressed for comfort – jeans and sweaters were my go to.
“I’m in your class,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “It’s me, Rebecca. Rebecca Black. We talked the other day? I’m in your advanced senior writing course.”
Recognition filled his eyes.
“Oh, Christ! Miss Black! Of course – the daydreamer. Wow!” He ran a hand through his messy brown hair with a small sheepish grin that sent my heart fluttering. “I didn’t recognize you all… I mean so h… you look different out of class.”
“The uniform is a job requirement,” I said, almost apologetically as I smoothed a hand over my hair. “And I don’t usually wear makeup.”
“Well you look… great,” he said, and pushed the door open as his eyes flicked over my body again. “I’m sorry. I should’ve recognized you. Well, come on in, you must be freezing.”
I wasn’t freezing. In fact, I felt feverish. And it only got worse as I squeezed past, bumping against his bare chest as he ushered me through the door…