~ Disclaimer: This story is purely fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author retains the copyright to this original work, and it may not be reproduced without the author's permission. Insert various and sundry legal jargon here. Please vote. Thanks! ;) ~
Walking up the stairs to your office, I am stifled by the heat. There are flies buzzing in the stairwell, and I marvel at the idea that university professors are forced to work under these conditions. After all your hard work, this is your reward. Breathing heavily, I finally make my way to the fourth floor. My cheeks are flushed, my body tingling from the long, hot climb. I feel the butterflies in my stomach as I turn the corner, preparing to walk down the hallway and into your office.
The old, musty building is dimly lit, and the doors I walk past on both sides are closed. It's 5:30 on a Friday afternoon, and there is no one else here; you are the only professor who stayed late today, to help me with my dissertation. I walk halfway down the hall, and stop just before reaching your door. It is open, and I want a moment to collect myself before stepping into your sight.
I round the corner, and you are already looking up expectantly...you must have heard me out in the hall. You smile at me, and clear the paperwork off a chair to offer me a seat, ever the gentleman. I sit, and we begin to talk of trivial things. You tell me about the projects your other classes are doing, we discuss the current events that seem important in the small scope of the college campus...as you speak, I keep up with your conversation, return your witty comments one for another, but I am focused on your smile, and your hands. They are those of a pianist, soft and smooth, large, but graceful. I imagine what those hands could do to me, what they would feel like moving over my soft skin, but I continually tear away my gaze to meet your eyes, hoping that you can't see any evidence of the effect you have on me.
We eventually turn the conversation around to my project, the portrayal of prostitution in modern media. I talk about the subject matter in purely scholastic terms, never quite meeting your gaze because when I do I feel naked, utterly exposed. I cannot control my arousal, I feel so vulnerable near you, and I am always fearful that you can see my feelings, that you know what you do to me, and I don't want things to be awkward between us. Not only because you are my professor, but also because I consider you a friend, a wise and witty confidant, and I always want to impress you.
You make a comment about the nature of sexual tension between men and women, but I am hardly listening. I am busy looking at your chest, wondering what you look like under the olive green tee shirt you are wearing. I note the freckles on your strong arms, a very light brown, which complement your pale Irish complexion, and I wonder where they end, as I follow them up under your sleeves. Suddenly I realize that you have stopped talking, and you are looking at me with a mischievous smile on your face.
I blush instantly, and look away, feeling once more naked and vulnerable, held in your gaze. I cannot meet your eyes, knowing that you will see too much there, but I feel as if I am revealing just as much by looking away. You move to get up, and I do not raise my eyes to your face, but feel transfixed to my seat, unsure of what to do next. You cross in front of me in the cramped office, no larger than a jail cell, and you close the door softly. My eyes are level with your belt, but I am too shy to lower them a few inches more to confirm my suspicions. You hold out one of those masculine, soft hands to me, and I look up, unsure of what you're asking for. You have the same smile on your face, but now there is a different look in your eyes, one that tells me that the moment I have waited so long for may have finally arrived.
My head is spinning as I take your hand, my knees weak as I stand, and my thoughts are racing; I cannot believe I am this close to you, I did not realize how tall you were until now, standing inches away from you. I feel overpowered by you, your broad shoulders, your height, your manly scent, like leather and wool, and while my first instinct is to back away, I resist. You move slightly closer to me, and I do back away out of reflex, but after only one step I come up against the wall. You stop, and I finally have the courage to look into your eyes. Your crystal blue eyes which have held me captive on so many occasions.
You take off your glasses, and it is the first time I have seen you without them. You look younger, but you are just as handsome without them as you were with them on. You toss them carelessly onto the desk with your free hand; the other is still holding mine, still holding me captive in this embrace of energy. We have yet to touch anywhere but with our hands, yet I feel as if I am caught in a swirling vortex of sensations. You put your free hand flat on the wall, and lean in slowly. I feel fire rushing up my spine as you breathe on my neck, blowing softly on my collarbone, not yet wanting to touch me, not wanting to waste this precious moment.
I can smell your masculinity, and part of me yearns to reach up and grab your hair, push your head in closer, pull your body to me until our hips collide so that I can feel your lust for me, but I am spellbound in this moment, unable to move and barely able to breathe. I close my eyes to cherish this, and senses intensify. I can feel your hand in mine, my back against the wall, your hot breath on my neck, as you turn your face to mine. I keep my eyes closed as your lips brush mine, quickly and gently, and I am amazed at the softness of your mouth. My lips are parted, eyes still closed, waiting for the moment of release when you kiss me, waiting to taste you. You can sense my impatience, but you are not willing to give in to me so quickly. We have all the time in the world, and you are not about to rush this moment.
