Commencement (5 page)

OMGOMGOMG

“Yep, see? There it goes,” I said in a tone that utterly belied my excitement. I knelt on the floor in front of my computer, completely mesmerized, and completely incapable of shutting down my babbling. “Like I said, buttressing. Who’s your engineer?” I licked my lips—literally licked them in anticipation, and I could feel my salivary glands kicking in like I was watching a late night burger commercial.

The Professor thumbed the front of his waist band and reached into his pants. I could see the outline of his fingers, fisting himself beneath the fabric. His free hand peeled the front of his pants away from his body and dropped them to the floor.

This time I said it out loud. “Oh. My. God.”

He stood there for a moment, his fist pumping the length of his cock with firm, languid strokes.

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

“I must say,” he said, his voice deep, laced with restraint, and amusement, “the look on your face is immensely gratifying. The repeated appeals to a higher power are also flattering.”

My stomach clenched. In my eagerness to worship at the digital altar of the Professor’s cock, I’d forgotten he could see me. My cheeks caught fire and my palms raced to snuff the flames.

“I love that I can make you turn pink.”

His words only heightened my embarrassment, and my arousal. I felt my blood run cold at the same time a hot rush of moisture flooded my core. The pink of my cheeks traced down my neck, and over my chest to the tips of my breasts.

“Your move, darling,” I heard him say.

The moment of truth,
I thought, thrilling at his voice, at the electricity that vibrated between us even when we didn’t occupy the same space. I removed my hands from my cheeks, stood and lowered them, to the hem of my nightie, then smiled right into the camera, even as my fingers trembled with anticipation. The Professor’s hand stopped mid-stroke and I heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Your smile slays me,” he said.

I smiled again, broader this time and I felt my embarrassment washing away. This was him, this was me, this was…us. He wanted me and goddamn I wanted him. I wanted him to see me, to hear him gasp like that again, to see the effect his desire for me had on his body, on his cock. I lifted my nightgown up and over my head, feeling my hair cascade down my back like a silk curtain as the fabric fell to the floor.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“So are you,” I said, and meant it. My eyes were transfixed on his cock, following the careful movements of his strong fingers as they pumped and slipped, pumped and slipped over that thick velvet rod. I saw a bead of moisture collect on the tip, and my tongue flicked out in automatic response. As if I could capture that drop, as if I could almost taste him, as if I just tried hard enough I might be able to imagine the feel of his cock slipping between my lips, deep and wide.

“God, I wish you were here,” I said. “If you were here I’d have my lips wrapped around that beautiful cock before you’d even made it in the door.” I heard him moan at my words and heard myself echo the sound. My hands caressed their way up my hips, to my breasts. I pressed them together, kneading the soft flesh, my fingers finding the tingling tips and rolling, pinching, pulling my nipples until they were aching, dark and swollen.

“If I were there right now,” he said, his voice gruff with strain, “I’d already be buried in your juicy cunt to the hilt, and you’d be well on your way to a matching set of rug burns.”

“Oh God.” I gasped and one hand flew to my pussy, my fingers breaching the slick seam to plunge inside. My hips writhed against my hand as I massaged my sex, circling my sensitive clit in time with the Professor’s strokes.

“Yes,” he said, his hand gliding in rhythm with mine up and down the hard steel of his cock. But then he stopped, and lowered into his chair, that laser blue gaze piercing my own. I could hear the soft sounds of his efforts in the quiet of the room, could tell from his movements on the camera that he was still stroking himself out of view. The image of his cock, that thick veined, glistening pole, was still burned into my mind, but now my eyes were filled only with his. An ocean just before a storm, his gaze held mine, controlled it, dared me to dive in and drown into the passion and the chaos I saw in those depths. I couldn’t have looked away even if I’d wanted to; I was bound to him in that moment, his to command. And then he spoke the words I’d heard him utter nearly a dozen times in our short acquaintance. Familiar, but still deliciously foreboding. “Show me,” he said.

And I was owned.

A
spear
of yellow light breached the perimeter of the draperies and stabbed at my eyelids. I threw my hair over my face, rolled over, and recruited the pillow into my plans for resistance. Comrades in cuddles, together we would hold the tyranny of morning at bay.

My nose caught the faintest scent of coffee. Morning was not playing fair.

Fuck you, coffee maker,
I thought
. You smell-good jerk.

No, fuck you, asshole. I love coffee,
said my stomach.

So tired, hung over,
my head answered.

Coffee soooo yum yum,
my stomach insisted.

“Noooo,” I moaned out loud and pulled the covers over my head.

My stomach answered in French. “Réveillez petite fleur. Réveilles-toi ma jolie fleur rose. Il est temps de se réveiller.”

“What? I’m not a flower and I don’t want to wake up,” I whined.

“T'es une fleur, une belle fleur, et il est temps de se réveiller.”

“Why can my tummy speak French?”

“Because I studied it at school,” my stomach answered in a sexy English accent.

Wait, my stomach is James Bond now?
I thought, struggling to untangle fuzzy knots of sleep logic. Fumbling with the sheets, I shifted and found my laptop half under me, and half hanging off the bed. I opened it, and the Professor’s disembodied head filled my screen.

“Good morning, darling!” he said with entirely too much enthusiasm. I squinted and rubbed blurry eyes.

“You’re ridiculous…” I said as I took him in. Shirtless, with sleep mussed hair, faint pillow lines on his cheeks, and a dopey grin, he was offensively adorable for so early in the morning.

“You’re way too happy,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “It disgusts me.”

“Oh, you need tea,” he said, his tone sweet and patient as if he were speaking to a sick child.

“I need a blood transfusion.” I groaned, rolling over onto my back.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Woman-up, Claremont. don’t let a little whiskey get the better of you. Two aspirin and a cup of strong tea will right you in no time.”

“Is that your official prescription, Doctor?”

He nodded stoically “It is.” .

“Uuuuggghhh,” I moaned and held a hand to my head.

“Need a second opinion?” my mother’s voice came from the doorway to my bedroom, just out of view.

“Mom?” I said, glancing over at the Professor. His mouth had gone wide, his eyebrows raised in the perfect impression of a teenager that had just been caught in his girlfriend’s bedroom. Which is, I suppose almost exactly what was happening.

“I don’t have aspirin or tea, but I have brought you a cup of coffee,” she said.

“Um…just a second, ” I scrambled for composure, tossing pillows and shaking sheets to find my nightie, which I’d neglected to put back on after my late night tryst with the Professor. “I didn’t realize you were home, Mom,” I called to her.

What time is it, anyway? And where is my nightgown? There, on the floor!

I bent over to retrieve the garment and I heard a low whistle come from my computer, then a disappointed
“damn”
as I drew my nightie over my head.

“Shut up,” I whispered at the screen, as I set the laptop on a desk and closed the lid. “Okay, I’m decent now.”

“I got home just a few minutes ago, sweetheart.” My Mother stepped into the room. “Jeffrey dropped me off and went back to his place. I was anxious to see you.”

Lydia Claremont, my mother, is a compact package of maternal grace and affection. Perpetually draped in Chanel skirt-suits and capped with a sleek blonde bob, she sees all and knows more. She crossed towards me, eyes scanning the room with suspicion, set my coffee on the bed stand, hugged me warmly, then crossed the room again to my laptop and opened it.

“Well, hello,” said the Professor, still shirtless, still mussed.

Jesus Christ, it looks like we’ve been fucking and we aren’t even in the same county.

“Hello yourself, young man,” my Mother said sternly, crossing her arms. She looked at me, then back to the Professor, then back to me. “Care to introduce your friend?” She arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow.

I wasn’t fooled; no way was she mad. What she was, was in the mood for a bit of a laugh at the Professor’s expense. She pressed her lips together, a gesture that I knew was designed to suppress a smile. I was pretty sure that on the Professor’s side of the screen, that smile looked like the snarl of a pissed off Mama Bear. She tapped the toe of one pink patent pump impatiently, and narrowed her eyes at me. Her gaze said
“play along”
.

“Mom, this is um…this is um…” I began. I really was hung over.

“Dr. Thomas Grayson, Ms. Claremont,” the Professor said as he pulled on a shirt, and tried to pat down unruly tufts of hair. “So nice to meet you.”

“Dr. Grayson.” She nodded then pivoted towards me so that her face was blocked from his view for a moment. She shook one hand like it’d been burnt on the stove and mouthed to me,
“He’s HOT!”

“Jesus Christ,” I sighed.

“It’s
Doctor
Claremont,
Doctor
Grayson,” she said, turning back towards him. “Doctor of Psychology, certified therapist with a specialty in sexual behaviors.” She laid one manicured hand on her chest, her fingers casually caressing the pearls at her neck.

“Yes, of course, I’m so sorry. Jane actually told me that last night. I suppose I could use some of that coffee myself.”

“Yes,” my mother smiled indulgently, then wiped all goodwill from her countenance, “it certainly looks as though you two had a late night. What may I ask is your…”

“Oh yes, PhD in English Literature, I’m afraid. Nothing so useful as what you do.” He laughed and tugged at the collar of his shirt. “You know, you’re helping people, get their um, get um…”

“Fix their sex lives.”

“Um, yes.” He cleared his throat.

“And what do you do? With your PhD in English literature?” my mother asked coyly, even as she snaked a hand behind her back and gave me a thumbs up sign.

I rolled my eyes.

“I teach,” he said, and I saw a shadow cast across his face. He was wondering what to tell her, wondering if he should lie, or tell the truth.

I wondered too. Despite his desire to keep our relationship a secret, I kind of draw the line at lying to my mother. If he started down that road, we were going to have a serious talk about it later.

“I’m a professor at Northbrook in London,” he said, “currently visiting professor at Wagner University in Maryville.”

While I silently cheered his honesty, I saw the thumbs up behind my mother’s back go limp. She brought both arms forward and folded them across her chest again, and that pink patent pump was tapping double time now.

“I see,” she said.

Uh-oh.
Mom wasn’t pretending anymore; she was genuinely concerned.

“It’s too early in the morning, and I’m too hung over to have this conversation right now,” I interrupted, coming up behind my mother and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Thanks for the coffee, Mom,” I said, kissing her cheek. “I’ll meet you for breakfast in a minute.”

She glanced over at me and arched an eyebrow. “Stuff it, sweetheart,” she said before turning back to the Professor.

I retreated with my hands up. There was no deterring her.

“What are your intentions towards my daughter?” she demanded in a tone that would have scared the bonnet off of Mr. Darcy’s bitchy aunt.

The Professor removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with his shirt. After weeks of mental sparring, and last night’s epic game of Scrabble, I’d gotten good at recognizing the game face he was wearing now. He was stalling for time, flipping through the Oxford dictionary in his head looking for precisely the right word to express himself.

“Intemperate,” he said, replacing his glasses on his nose and looking my mother steadily in the eye. “My intentions towards her are self-indulgent, reckless, and unswerving.”

“Those are disquieting word choices,” my mother said, pulling the chair out from the desk and sitting in front of my laptop, and leveling her gaze with the Professor’s. “While I appreciate the candor, what I want to know is, is this
just
sex?”

“Mom!” I was seriously annoyed now.

“It’s not anything yet,” he said quickly. “We are involved, intimately. But there’s a, particular line that hasn’t been crossed.”

“Sexual semantics,” my mother said bluntly. “You intend to have sex?”

“We do. But not until after, she is officially, no longer a student at the university.”

“Do you intend to do anything more than that?”

“I’m not sure—“

“Yes you are, you know exactly what I mean.”

“Perhaps,” he said softly.

“So you’ll be courting my daughter?”

The Professor’s eyes lifted past my mother’s and met mine over her shoulder. She was forcing him to declare himself to me like some sort of Regency Era suitor, and at the moment, it looked like he was about to pull a Bingley and choke. His gaze held mine. I could feel him scanning me, searching my expression for some sign of how he should answer. I knew what I wanted him to say. None of this was “just about sex” anymore for me. But I had no idea how he felt, and I didn’t want him supplying an answer that was based on what he thought I wanted him to say, or that was designed to pacify my mother. I averted my eyes, suddenly enthralled with the hem of my sleeve, suddenly feeling a little wobbly in a way that I knew was not related to my hangover.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’ll be…I am, courting her.”