Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
But Clover taking over the class changed things. In theory, sleeping with my hot professor sounds awesome, but in practice, it’s really fucking awkward.
And now I’m sitting here with a forty-fucking-eight percent because I’m 2500 words shy of the minimum word count. That’s like ten fucking pages of words. Also, according to my mental calculations on my other assignments, I’m at risk of failing the course. My initial grades were decent, but since the professor swap, it’s gone downhill, and my midterm grade was trash. And now I only have a handful of weeks to bring it up.
My dad is going to shit a brick if I fail a class. He was pissed enough when he saw I was skating on thin ice with two of my courses at midterm. I got the whole speech: “Just because a team owns your rights doesn’t mean you’re going to get called up. Everyone needs a backup plan.”
He’s not wrong.
Not having a backup plan is stupid. And at the end of the year, I’ll have a kinesiology degree. With hockey seven days a week, school, and my part-time job at the gym, which includes teaching self-defense, I didn’t want to overload myself with difficult classes. This course was supposed to be an easy C. And maybe it would have been if the woman who replaced Professor Connelly hadn’t been on the receiving end of my orgasm delivery before the semester started.
I spend the rest of the class trying to find a way to appeal to my professor that doesn’t entail sexual favors. Though I would willingly provide those, because hot damn, Clover Sweet—her last name has become a bit ironic—is incredible between the sheets. But considering the way she’s avoided any and all contact with me, I don’t see her jumping at the opportunity. Also, it would be considered bribery.
So I need to find a way to dig myself out of this hole. And I’m not exactly sure how to do that.
At the end of class, I take my time packing up, watching student after student approach her to talk about their creative writing assignment.
“You going to the pub, Mav?”
The girl sitting to my right is twisting her hair around her finger and snapping her gum. She looks a lot like my cousins Lovey and Lacey Butterson—they’re identical twins and only people who know them well can tell them apart. I think this girl’s name might be Sandy or Suzy or something. I’m pretty sure it starts with an S. Despite the gum snapping, she’s damn well brilliant. She always has an entire monologue prepared on whatever we’re discussing in class, and it makes Clover—Professor Sweet—absolutely glow. Which makes me hard. In turn, I don’t have very fond feelings toward Sandy-Suzy.
“Not today. I got a few things I need to take care of.”
Her face falls fractionally before her smile widens and she twists more of her ponytail around her finger, pulling her head to the side. “Maybe next week.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Have a good time tonight.” I force a polite grin and wait for her to leave with one of the other girls in the class.
I pack up my books and hang back until I’m the only one left. Then I head for the front of the room where Professor Sweet is busy packing up her worn leather bag. She’s wearing a white blouse with a loose, droopy cardigan, and a pair of dress pants. Her dark hair is pulled up in a tight bun, and her black-framed glasses hang perilously close to the end of her nose.
I adjust my backpack as I amble her way. She glances up at me over the rim of her glasses, then focuses on the papers scattered across her desk, tapping them into a neat pile before sliding them into a folder. “How can I help you, Mr. Waters?”
She always addresses me this way. Never by my first name. Maybe because she screamed it a lot that night we had together at her cabin. I need to not think about that right now.
I lean my hip on the edge of her desk. It’s been a weird kind of torture, sitting in her class, listening to her smart talk about books and literature, knowing what she looks like naked. How she tastes. What she sounds like when she comes. It’s been a lot of weeks of awkward, three-hour hard-ons. I’ll blame the fact that half of the blood in my body is pooled in my dick for the words that come out of my mouth. “You look nice today, Professor Sweet.”
She pauses in her mission to get her laptop into her bag, and her gaze flicks up to mine. Slate gray eyes—piercing and shrewd and not at all impressed.
I flash her my most winning smile and basically shovel my own grave by saying more stupid shit. “I like your cardigan.”