From Part 1:
"Perhaps you're defending him because you get hot thinking about how easy it was for Rochester to control Jane."
I sucked in a breath as I watched him walk to the door. He held it open, turned and said, "See you in class Thursday," and coolly walked out.
This was going to be a long semester.
***
I'm stunned at the amount of comments, reads, and rates the first part has received-- especially as I ended the part just as it was getting interesting (plz don't hate me!!!) Here's part two, written soon after the first part was. Hopefully I'll get around to part three and actually increase the intensity to where we all want it. :P Enjoy!
***
After he left, I waited a few minutes, replaying the exchange between Professor Hoyt and I from moments before. I couldn't go to my next class with my heart pounding as much as it was and my cheeks flushed. It seemed to me that the best thing to do would be to catch my breath, straighten things out in my head, and go about my business.
Okay.
Professor Hoyt liked my contribution.
He likes Jane Eyre too.
That's cool.
It's cool he's incredibly knowledgeable about one of the most erotic and intimate relationships I've come across in my readings.
It's cool he knows I like the mysterious character of Mr. Rochester for his sex appeal and manipulative ways.
Totally cool. He probably knows that I wish to be dominated similar to how Jane was. Meaning he knows the kind of guys that turn me on.
Sweet.
And, likely, he knows that the way he called me out for precisely what draws me to that book turned me on to the point that I'd still be leaning against the classroom wall here, shellshocked, hoping to have another encounter with him.
I let out a breath. "Oh, boy."
Backpack over my shoulder, I started heading towards my biology lecture. I was glad to leave. It wouldn't have been great to be caught by the next Professor who walked in, seeing me lost in fantasy about Professor Hoyt.
No. No fantasy. What just happened between us was simply... an encounter. No, a professional exchange which concerned a very relevant topic to the classroom--Jane Eyre is British Literature, after all.
There was nothing about that conversation that indicated anything more than literary enthusiasm. Well, maybe besides the incredible sexual undertones. And the way his eyes held mine as he waited for me to outsmart him. His broadened stance at the moment he sensed that he won.
Stop it, Mel. The fantasizing has to end. He was my Professor, after all, in the same field I was hoping to major in. If I can't get my head straight and focus on taking notes more than I was wishing he'd ravish me, then I could say goodbye to my chances at Brown, not to mention, any hopes of getting a letter of recommendation from him.
But as I was settling down at a front seat in my Biology 101 classroom, I couldn't help but think that it may not be too hard to find a reason for him to give me a recommendation.
--
Thursday came along, and with it, my second Brit Lit class of the semester. I spent a good thirty minutes deciding on what to wear-- repeating to myself, as if a mantra, "It's for the recommendation, nothing else."
Looking in the mirror after having dumped the rest of my closet out onto my bed, I felt like anyone could have called my bluff. I had on the only (and tightest) pair of black slacks I had, a red, ruffled v-neck--which seemed to accentuate my curves in all the right ways-- and my trusted heeled black flats. I looked a true sexy receptionist, especially with my hair tucked in the professional styled low-bun at the nape of my neck.
Hell, no. Dial that back by half.
As much as I loved the look, I was ashamed to be dressing so classy, when my only reason was to impress my teacher. I knew the attire wasn't needed, and would probably be distracting more than helping my chances in that class. I tried on a black cardigan over the shirt, but that only made the ensemble look more complete. More fuckable.
"Yeah, no," I said to my reflection, smiling at the idea of wearing this for Professor Hoyt but knowing that this was going too far. However, glancing at my phone, I balked.
Shit. I was going to be late. Ten minutes ago.
I felt frozen in time, staring at the sensuous but professionally clad figure I saw in the mirror. I didn't want to be more late than I already was, and I knew that if I left immediately and sped on the highway, I might make it in time. But I felt way too overdressed, and wondered what Professor Hoyt might think to see me dressed as I was.
Oh well, I thought, grabbing my backpack and keys, and clomping down the stairs to my car. I have more to worry about than what he thinks of me.
--
I was late anyway. Rushing in the classroom door, I immediately saw that my classmates were reading along to one of our assigned passages in the textbook. I tried to take my seat as quietly as I could, holding my head down to not make eye contact with the Professor. Through side glances I could see he was seated on top of the table beside mine, feet in a chair, book in his lap.
The student finished reading the passage as I was unzipping my backpack on the table.
"Very good," the Professor said. The girl who had been reading looked a little too snooty and proud after hearing that phrase. It seemed to me that she took it as a compliment to her reading abilities, as well as proof that she was better than any of the other students in the class.
She certainly seemed like she was trying to win Professor Hoyt's attention as well. As he discussed some of the background on the excerpt, I took note of his little ingenue. Her auburn hair hung in waves around her face, down past her shoulders, to a reasonably sized and unreasonably visible pair of boobs. She wasn't dressed to the nines as I was, but her minimal makeup and careful clothing choice gave her an edge that I couldn't dream of having. That casual-hot every guy and girl dreams of. Even if the Professor wasn't staring at her, the few guys scattered around the classroom seemed to staring at her cleavage.
I tugged my cardigan closer together. Why did I even bother with trying to impress him??
"...Sanable??"
I yanked my head up and found the eyes of Professor Hoyt laid right on top of mine. "Yes? Sorry, what?"
"I said," he began, with some exasperation, "that the rest of the class has their texts open to page one-oh-nine. Can you please follow along with us?"
I flushed, reaching for my book inside my bag.
Uh-oh.
In that instant, I remembered both precisely where I left my book after doing the homework -- on my bed-- and why I didn't bring it-- was likely covered by my discarded clothes.
I looked back at the Professor to find him still eyeing me. He must have known I didn't have it, if not for my failure to pull the book out, but for the doe-in-the-headlights look I was giving him. His expression didn't change, though. He looked calm but expectant. I gulped.
"Um, Mister Hoy--"
"It's Professor Hoyt, Mel."
My eyes widened to be corrected that fast. I took a furtive glance around the room, noticing several signs of discomfort, some intrigue towards my predicament. The pretty redhead just looked annoyed.
"Professor Hoyt, I--I don't have my book. Today. With me."
He didn't smile but I could see in his eyes a sudden change. He looked to be in a sort of playful mood, which almost put me at ease.
"Is that so." He glanced down at my top, then back up. He seemed much sterner now. "Books are a very important aspect of this class, Melony, and if you don't learn this now, I don't think you'll be too successful as an English major." **
Several people in the room chuckled and a few girls started whispering under their breath. By this point, my late arrival and lack of book had secured the limelight of the class, and I just wanted to be out of it.
It felt like he was rubbing salt in the wound, but he was right: if I didn't focus more on school than on romantic fantasy, I definitely wouldn't deserve a spot in one of the most rigorous programs of the country.
I hung my head, more embarrassed than I ever remembered. But Professor Hoyt continued on without another glance towards me.
As he explored the themes and repetitions of the textbook, I followed along with the boy sitting next to me. I was grateful, but couldn't really focus through the heat of shame that coursed through my ears. I tried noting down everything the Professor said, and it mostly helped.
Ten minutes till the end of class, he pulled up some slides and explained a project he set up to showcase the different authors we'd be reading. Each person was to sign up for a date and author, and present their life story to the class. Starting next Tuesday, there would be one slot each day for a student to present, excluding test days. Along with a powerpoint, we had to submit a typed biography to be graded.
