He wondered how she would look without her blouse on. What secrets, what treasures did she conceal beneath her clothing? It was hard to tell, given how baggy her shirts always were, but Josh suspected that her breasts were full and bountiful, despite her otherwise petite figure. And what he would give to see her red hair loose, unencumbered, falling over her shoulders like liquid fire. She always had it pinned, primly in place like an old schoolmarm.
"Josh. Josh, did you hear me?" she said, and he shook his head, clearing it. "I really think you can do better. Don't you?"
He shrugged. He was sitting in her office, facing her from across her desk. It was a small, oak-paneled room that overlooked the back parking lot. At the moment, there were few cars out there. It was nearly four o'clock, and the day was already darkening. The sun hadn't appeared all week, and the February temperatures were fierce. That morning, when he got up, he checked the indoor/outdoor thermometer his roommate had hanging on the wall. Twelve below zero. It was hard to believe spring would ever arrive. He wondered, as he often did in winter, why he had chosen to attend a university so far north when he could have gone to Stanford or USC. Back home, clear across the continent, it would be sunny and seventy right now. Still, the Northeast had its advantages. One of them was sitting across from him, looking him in the eye.
"You're very gifted, Josh," she said, and she placed his paper facedown on the desk. "You should be turning in the best essays in the class." She tilted her head, chewed on her lower lip. It drove him crazy when she did that. He wondered how old she was. Early thirties, most likely. More than ten years older than him. But so what? She was the sexiest professor he'd ever seen.
She was also a nun. Sister Monica, everyone called her. She was one of a handful of nuns still teaching at the university. Decades ago, it had been an all-Catholic, all-girls college. Now it was just a co-ed college, like any other. But the echoes of its past could still be felt—the chapel at the center of campus; the sister house, across the street from the main academic building, where the nuns lived; the 80% female-to-male ratio among the student body; and the few remaining nuns who still taught classes. They didn't seem like nuns, though. At least, not to Josh. Take Sister Monica. She wore regular clothes all the time, not a nun's habit and wimple. She never preached in the classroom, either. She just taught Shakespeare, as any other English professor would do. And yet . . . she was a nun. She had betrothed herself to her God. Josh wondered if she was a virgin. She might have slept around some prior to taking her vows. . . . But he doubted it. Sister Monica seemed too pure for that. She reminded him of the snow falling outside . . . unblemished, unsullied. Just waiting to be taken. . . .
"I know you can do better," she went on, and he regretted having won the Stevens Award for best written document on campus last year. At the time, he thought it was great. He won a fifty dollar prize to shop at the college bookstore—for a literary lover like him, and a broke one at that, that was like gold. But now his English profs all expected him to turn in perfect essays. Usually he could, with little trouble. But Shakespeare? He preferred contemporary literature. He'd never been a fan of the Bard.
He shrugged again. "I'll try," he said. She took a deep breath. "Please do."
He was about to get up, head out the door, walk down the empty hallway, and make the frigid journey across the grounds to his dorm room. But then he decided to take a chance.
"Sister Monica, can I ask you something? I mean, it has nothing to do with class."
She looked at him, her face full of questions. "Of course, Josh."
"When did you first decide you wanted to become a nun?"
Her eyebrows arched. "Hmm. And why would you ask me that? Are you perhaps considering seminary? Do you feel you have a calling, too?"
He laughed. He didn't mean to, but he just couldn't help it. "No, no, it's nothing like that. It's just . . ." This was it, either take the plunge or back off . . . "It's just you're so pretty, Sister Monica. It's hard to believe you haven't . . . I mean, did you ever . . .?"
She coughed. He expected she'd tell him it was none of his business and to promptly get lost, but she actually went along with him. "Wow. I didn't expect a question like that." He noticed her cheeks were flushed, but that just made her sexier. He looked at her chest, again wondering what secrets were concealed there. "I went on dates in high school, like any other girl," she said. "And I've been kissed a few times. But, Josh, I felt my calling when I was very young. So . . . does that answer your question?"
It sure did. So she was a virgin. She had never even necked with a guy, by the sound of it—at least not by his definition. Likely, no one had ever seen her topless, let alone fully naked. What a waste. She was way too beautiful to be hidden like that. He actually felt offended.
"But don't you wonder . . . what it would be like?" he said. "I mean . . . don't you ever feel the need for a guy, for . . .?"
"Josh, I don't think that's an appropriate question." Her cheeks were on fire now. "I think you should go."
He felt a surge of courage. She was reacting to this. He was getting to her. Perfect. "Do you . . . do you ever wonder what it would be like with me, Sister Monica? Because I do. All the time. I wonder what it would be like with you."
She looked away, brushed her hand across her forehead. "Josh. Please go."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. I just think you're beautiful, Sister Monica. So much prettier than the girls on campus. It just seems . . . I mean, don't you ever have needs? Don't you ever just want to feel someone kissing you, touching you?"
He stood up, walked around the desk. She was still sitting in her chair. Her eyes were wide, and she was suddenly blinking too fast and too often.
"Don't worry, Sister Monica. I would never hurt you. I just can't believe you don't ever get turned on. I just want to kiss you, okay? Just one kiss."
"Josh . . . this is so inappropriate it's not even funny," she said. But it struck him, it did—that she seemed turned on. Right from the first day of class, he thought she looked at him a certain way. He wasn't stuck on himself, but he knew he was handsome. Girls liked him. They always had. He was tall and athletic without being muscle-bound, and his thick black hair had a natural curl to it.
He knelt down beside her, placed his hand on her shoulder. "It's okay," he said, and realized how lucky he was that the door to her office was shut. It wasn't locked, but who would just barge in on them? The place was deserted anyway. When he'd come for the meeting to discuss his last essay, he hadn't noticed a single other professor around.
"Josh, please . . ." She pushed her chair back, ready to stand up and issue him out the door. But before she could move, he kissed her. He gave her no time to react, no time to think. In a flash his lips were on hers. She jerked her head back. "Josh! I don't want to have to get you into trouble. Stop, before it's too late."
"Too late for what, Sister Monica? For you to resist? Admit it. You want me to kiss you. You want me to stick my tongue in your mouth and explore. You want to know what it feels like to have me suck on your breasts and chew your nipples. You want to show that sexy body of yours to me, after keeping it under wraps from guys all your life. Admit it, Sister Monica. You're feeling hot right now. You want me to leave because you're worried that if I don't go, you won't be able to control yourself."
The color of her eyes seemed to turn from brown to black. She scowled—he had no idea she could look so fierce. She had never looked more attractive.
"Get out of here, Josh. This is your last chance." She stood up. He did, too. And then he kissed her again. He put his arms around her, and held her to him, not allowing her to escape. She tried to pull away, but he was too strong for her. He waited for the moment when her mouth would yield. She was weak with desire, he knew it, could smell it, feel it Once she gave in, she was his.
He kissed her bottom lip, then gently licked it with the tip of his tongue. She tasted so good. He kissed her again, slowly, softly, waiting, waiting . . . and then, finally, her lips parted, just barely, but they parted. A soft moan escaped her.
