He'd known that since the moment he'd laid eyes on her, since he'd first seen her. Long before she'd written him teen angst disguised with minimal skill, long before he'd praised her as if she were some sort of Anais Nin of the college set.

He'd known it, but it hadn't stopped the longing.

It hadn't stopped when he'd mocked her, ridiculed her, done his best to humiliate her. It hadn't stopped when he'd gotten closer, trying to rid himself of the ridiculous notion that those hazel eyes staring at him wanted him too.

Nothing had stopped it. And every step he'd taken after recognizing that fact just prolonged his agony. Every step had brought him closer and closer to her, alighting on her periphery until she'd sucked him so close that he couldn't walk away.

It was wrong.

Not just to want her, but to think about her the way he did. To bring up suggestions that gave her that wild look in her eyes, that made her smile secretively as if they shared something more than a professional relationship. He thought about her too much. Thought about her when students came to his door seeking advice, thought about her when he assigned suggestive reading, hinting at illicit love affairs, hoping they'd all buy his nice guy charm and not realize the truth.

That he wanted her.

That he'd kissed her.

Had he kissed her? She'd leaned into him, she'd come so close, wanted it just as much. Her breath had been hot on his lips, hungry for him. She'd smelled like garlic and coffee and the cold, crisp night. Like wool and denim and vanilla and the soft, sultry scent that was exclusive to girls her age.

Girls he'd left behind half a lifetime ago.

It had been sweet and innocent and scary as hell. His life had flashed before his eyes, coupled with visions of his future, locked in prison for the crime of wanting her. For kissing her. He'd wanted to hold her to him and bury his tongue in her mouth, wanted to hear her whimper softly against his lips as she opened up to him.

He'd wanted to hear her call out his name in the throes of passion.

The bench had been cold beneath him, but all he'd felt was the warmth of her. He'd wanted to touch her, draw her into his lap and feel her, learn her shape and her touch and her feel and her taste. He'd wanted to make love to her there on the university commons, lie above her in dewy grass that he'd only thought existed in sappy romance novels.

He'd wanted to re-enact scenes from books, with romantic maidens and dashing knights, wanted chaste kisses dissolving into Lady Chatterley's Lover or the Story of O where he could devour her and hear the screams of delight escaping her lips. He'd wanted to take a page from his own book and act out sex with frank words and actions that left nothing to the imagination.

He'd wanted to touch her, to make love to her, to fuck her.

He'd wanted to lie beneath her and feel her long, brown hair flicker over his bare chest, wanted to feel her lips sear his skin with tentative kisses, growing bolder, going lower. He wanted to kiss her into submission only to have her take control of him. He wanted to teach her - not English, but another primal language only they spoke.

He'd wanted to feel her body as it covered his. Feel the soft, supple skin, tanned by the sun. He'd wanted to massage her breasts and circle her clit with his finger, his tongue, his cock. He'd wanted nothing and everything from her, tangled in sheets damp with sweat and sex and breath.

He wanted her, he realized as he sat behind his desk, watching her ignore him after he'd hurt her, told her no, pushed her away. He watched her hair fall over her face and wanted to push it away from her eyes and make her see that though what he said was right, what he meant was true, what he wanted was the complete opposite.

He wanted her. Right then, right there. In front of the entire class or alone at his house where no one could see them. He wanted her like he'd never wanted anything else in his life, wanted her more because he knew he couldn't have her. Wanted her.

Because it was wrong.

03/02/02