Chapter 9

Farrah

I scan the class. People watching. It’s something I could do all day. I don’t get out much, so it doesn’t take much to fascinate me.

I don’t understand today’s generation. Tattoos claiming every inch of skin. Piercings in every orifice. They are all pretending to be hardcore when in reality, none of them have what it takes. If a gun was pressed to their head, they’d all piss themselves running. Their image is a façade of what lays in their chest. It fascinates me how fake people are. My phone chimes and I look down at it. A missing person’s statement. Shrugging, I slide my phone back in my pocket.

Pulling my earbuds out of my bag, I stick them in my ears to tune out the class. Classical music from Beethoven plays on my iPod. Something Harley wouldn’t ever listen to and I’m surprised she hasn’t delete it off the iPod since I’ve been gone.

Closing my eyes, I nod my head and tap my pencil against the desktop.

This is my favorite class; Professor Prescott’s. He teaches English. I don’t care about the lesson. I care about watching him. The way his arm bulges as he writes on the whiteboard. The way he clears his throat and his Adam’s apple moves just right against his scruffy throat.

Who cares how much older he is than me, he’s divine. He’s what you would call white collar, and handsome. Nothing Harley would give a second glance to. Harley is leather and drugs, so naturally, she’d be attracted to that kind of trash.

I’m nudged from the right and my eyes pop open. My head whips to my right with furrowed brows.

The boy sitting next to me juts his chin at the front of the room. Looking forward, I notice the whole class staring at me, and so is Professor Prescott. Class started and I was here having a concert in my head.

My body warms, and I yank my buds out of my ears. My cheeks warming from all the eyes looking at me.

“Harley, see me after class,” Professor Prescott snaps. Oh, he’s angry. He’s even sexier when he’s mad.

“Actually, it’s Farrah,” I correct him. His brows narrow as he slips a piece of paper off his desk, looking at it as if he’s missed something. Probably the class roster. “I just, I like to be called Farrah is all,” I try and clear up the confusion. Harley signed up for the class, so of course he thinks I’m her. Trying to explain why I’m Farrah and not Harley would scare him more than anything and that’s the last thing I want. My thighs squeeze together as everyone stares at me with curious eyes, all the attention has blood racing to my core making me wet.

Everything about me is confusing to a lot of people. I’m not Harley though, I’m Farrah. We are two different people in the same body. I don’t get to come out much to play though, as Harley has been very good at keeping me away. She must be on some medication or doing more therapy.

She fucked up being around so much temptation, though. It brought me to the front, and I’m not going away so easily.

“Okay, well see me after class, Farrah,” he repeats, a dark tone dragging out both syllables of my name. I swallow and nod slowly. He looks up at me and gives me that look again. One of hunger and longing. My thighs clench together at how my name spills from his lips. He’s never said my name before.

I want to hear it again.

And I will.

After Professor hands out the class assignment, I open my laptop I purchased on my handy dandy credit card and start Googling books to read for the project. I feel eyes staring at me and I glance up, catching Professor Prescott looking right at me with heated eyes. I purse my lips trying to keep from smiling and look back at the screen. My chest tightens as I can still feel him staring at me. The hunger in his eyes not unnoticed. We’ve been playing this cat and mouse game for a couple days now. There’s something about him that brings the worst out of me.

I want him so bad. He’s all I think about.

Word is he’s married. The thrill that he looks at me with such lust even though he’s with another woman leaves many questions in my head. Is his marriage bad? Is he in the middle of a divorce?

Who really cares though?

I silently laugh to myself. Harley would never approve, which is why I’m going to fuck him.

The bell rings and the professor stands up.

“Class is dismissed, I will see you all tomorrow.” I wait for everyone to leave, my skin ablaze with the knowledge I’ll be left alone with the sexy professor. I pull at the thin fabric of the flower dress I’m wearing, trying to cover more of my thighs, but it’s not doing much for my modesty with my hard nipples poking through the top.

Bras are overrated.

“Farrah?” he snaps, gesturing for me to come forward. I grab my things and step down to his desk.

“Sorry about the disruption, I was—”

“I would appreciate it if you would be more cautious of our surroundings and be better prepared for my class,” he schools, shuffling papers on his desk. He’s acting aloof, superior even, and it causes my head to vibrate with confusion. All those looks he’s been giving me have been in my head? The pull I feel between us is real. Right? At my uneasiness, anger creeps its way inside my head. I cork a fake smile, knowing if I get too angry Harley will come forward.

The irony of him telling me to be on time for class is cute though.

Noticing my smirk, he does a double take before his face hardens. “Something funny?” His tone harsh, but something I’ve learned growing up around bikers ... is this man is anything but tough.

“Professor, how can you tell me to be more prepared, when you yourself were late?” I tilt my head to the side, my dark China bangs falling in my face. Sexual tension riles up and laces between us, binding us together in a forbidden atmosphere. It’s electric and my nipples ache for him to touch me.

His fiery blue eyes snap to mine, and a cold rush of desire rushes over me, and I have to look away. He’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. He’s clean, good, soft hands, and a gentle smile.

I peek back at him. He could be easy to love. I… could be easy to love.

“What I do on my own time is my business, Farrah,” he clips. He leans back on his desk, his hands resting on the lip of it, his feet crossed in front of him. The vindication in his voice hangs loosely on his tongue as if he’s waiting for me to argue.

He’s very unhappy with me, and it whirls a hurricane of guilt in my chest.

“I’m sorry.” My smile fades, and I glance down feeling foolish.

Lifting his hand, he tucks one of the strands of hair framing my face behind my ear. My entire right cheek warms with fire from the simple touch. God, I want him to touch more of me.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to back talk your elders. That it’s bad,” he mutters, and the words of manners twist in my stomach like a bad lunch.

Anger boils beneath the surface and the innocent mask begins to slip from my face. I grit my teeth, trying to get a handle on myself. Harley is fighting for the light, I can feel her rattling the cage within, demanding I vanish.

“What can I say, Professor, I guess I’m just a defiant woman.” I flirt, sultry hanging off my tongue desperately. I peer up under thick lashes, my lips parting as a harsh breath leaves my mouth. The touch of my skin clearly affecting him, I notice his dick swell in his slacks. I want to ask him if his wife makes him happy? Happy like I know I could. If she fucks him into oblivion? Takes his cock like I would. I want to so bad, but it would be out of line.

I choke out a breath, stuffing down the things I really want to say. Things… much more risqué.

Fire erupts in his eyes, his blue dress shirt stretching with his large inhale. Quickly he turns, his hands still on the desk.

“That will be all,” he growls, almost as if he’s in pain looking at me. I affect him. Smiling like the devil I am, I hold my books close to my chest and turn on my heel. The cuffs of his dress shirt are rolled to his elbows just enough for me to run my nails over his skin as I walk away and his muscles tense from my touch. Our eyes lock, and the very corner of his lips curves into a smirk.

“See you next time,” I whisper, and a playboy smile flashes across his face.