Returning (so-called nontraditional) students always seem to have a different attitude about school. Benedick was no different.
A fastidious note-taker, he seemed to revel in sharing his opinions and fostering discussion in his classes. With a biting wit that sometimes flirted with political incorrectness, he seemed to have a knack for drawing classmates and professors alike into debates.
And so it was with her.
Benedick knew he was one of her favorites. He caught the sly smirk at his occasional remarks. He knew she understood that he sometimes played devil's advocate strictly for the purpose of encouraging his classmates to defend their points of view.
And she knew he relished those opportunities when she took him to task, forcing him to defend his own point of view. In truth, he rarely seemed to win those encounters with her. But he never seemed bothered by it. In fact, she noticed that each time she engaged him in that repartee he catalogued her responses for future use, making each challenge tougher than the previous one.
This was what a professor loved to see. This was a student who loved the subject, devoured knowledge and knew how to apply it.
So it was odd that late morning after Beatrice's final class.
As she stood with her back to the door, wiping the day's remarks from the whiteboard, she heard his familiar voice. A solid, self-assured, deeper-than-average voice.
"Professor?" he said.
She turned to find him leaning against the door frame, book under his arm. His faded jeans did little to conceal the muscular thighs beneath and his broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his black T-shirt.
Recognizing him, her eyes flared briefly, recalling the spirited conversations they'd had.
"Benedick," she said, "come in. What can I do for you?"
"I wanted to talk to you about something," he told her, walking into the empty classroom and shutting the door behind him.
"I have office hours this afternoon," she told him, feeling the heat from his smoldering glaze. Somehow, his presence was imposing, but not threatening. A strong-willed woman, Beatrice had never been one to shy away from conflict, but something about this man made her question her fortitude.
He stood before her, slightly closer than teacher and pupil should be. She looked up at him, noticing the faded scars along his strong jaw and wondered briefly how they got there.
"I'd prefer to do it now," he said with just a hint of a smile.
"Oh," she said, taking a step towards the desk to retrieve her bag, an obvious attempt to put a little more distance between the two of them and give her a chance to retreat and regroup and re-establish a position of dominance.
"What's on your mind?" she asked trying to cover the slight quiver in her voice.
"I wondered if you offered any chance for extra credit," he asked as he confidently sidestepped, placing himself between her and the desk.
Beatrice immediately evaluated her position and stepped back, trying to act nonchalant as she found her back against the wall.
"You've got a good solid 'B'," she told him, "You don't need any extra credit."
She noticed his eyebrow raise slightly and saw his smoldering green eyes, seeming to look right through her.
He took another step forward and now they were separated only by inches.
"Would you please step back," she asked, trying to sound stern, but unable to control the quiver in her voice.
She reached out to put her hand on his broad chest to press him back, but his hands snapped forward, catching her wrists and he stepped forward again. Now he was pressed against her. Her wrists pinned against the wall.
"You get off me this instant," she began to protest, but found the last word muffled as he bent his head down and pressed his mouth hotly against hers.
Her lips still parted, his tongue darted into her mouth and she felt her knees go weak. Her head spun as she tried to wrap her mind around this turn of events. Her logical side told her to fight off this imposition.
Her sensual side, however, betrayed her. The side that she had thought was so well-controlled now raged to the surface and she found herself kissing him back.
"You can't do this," she panted as he broke the kiss and looked at her.
She looked at him through half-lidded eyes and felt her tongue slide across her lips, tasting him. She cursed herself silently for being so easily controlled by this man.
"But I am doing it," he told her with a mischievous grin, "And you're not going to stop me. Are you?"
She knew he was right. She wouldn't stop him, though she felt he would stop if she seriously wanted him to.
Problem was she didn't want him to and she knew he knew it.
Moving her wrists above her head, he grasped both of hers with one powerful hand. His long, slim fingers wrapped around her wrists. She put up a token struggle, realizing the part she was expected to play.
His free hand pulled her shirt up and over her head. As it reached her wrists, he brought her arms down behind her and twisted the fabric, binding her arms together.
She felt the cold surface of the whiteboard on her bare shoulders and she shivered.
He reached behind her with one hand and with a quick twist, she found her bra unclasped. Her arms now hanging limply at her sides, he untwisted the shirt that bound them, slipping it off and her bra along with it.
Her nipples, already hard, stiffened more as the cool air from the air conditioning, blew across them.
"We can't do this," she tried to protest.
He ignored her and she heard his zipper being pulled down. She glanced down and saw his pants drop to the floor. With a combination of fascination, desire and fright, she saw him pulling a sizeable cock out of his black briefs.
He stroked his cock slowly a couple of times and then took her hand in his and placed it on the throbbing shaft.
Instinctively, she wrapped her fingers around it, feeling it pulse in her hand. It was as rigid as a bar of iron and yet as soft as velvet. The head, growing shinier and larger as it filled with blood, flared from the shaft in a smooth ridge.
She stared at it, transfixed.
He lifted her skirt and slipped a finger beneath her panties and felt her wetness.
She sighed at his touch, slightly embarrassed at being betrayed by her own reactions.