SMOKE OF SIGHS

A Not-So-Cliché BDSM Romance

by Ami

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dedication:

This book is dedicated to all my fellow single-af ladies out there. May we all find ourselves a Dylan, Gavin, or Nero some day. Amen.

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epigraph:

"Love is a smoke and is made with the fume of sighs"

— From Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare

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PART I

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Chapter 1: Samudra et al., 2016

"first impressions may color student experience of instruction regardless of lesson quality"

Samudra, P. G., Min, I., Cortina, K. S., & Miller, K. F. (2016). No Second Chance to Make a First Impression: The "Thin-Slice" Effect on Instructor Ratings and Learning Outcomes in Higher Education. Journal of Educational Measurement, 53(3), 313–331. doi: 10.1111/jedm.12116

***

LAYLA

I love Mondays.

They usually signal the start of the week, a fresh beginning. Back to routine, back to business.

So when school starts on a Tuesday, because Monday is Labour Day, I already know that my entire week is going to shit.

I was supposed to meet with my honours research supervisor first thing this morning. I got up at the stroke of 6:00 AM, showered, and spent a good ten minutes searching for a pair of pantyhose without a tear in them.

I waited in line at the Starbucks and ordered a couple of grande Pikes, splashed some cream and sugar into one of them for Dr. Zabina, and then discovered that the U of E psych department building was undergoing renos. Which meant that the elevator was out of order, which meant that I had to take the stairs up to the fifth floor, which was of course not air-conditioned.

My skin was covered in a sheen of perspiration and my backpack was just about ready to snap my spine into two by the time I dragged my feet off the last step and onto the scuffed linoleum of the correct floor.

And then I found that Dr. Zabina's office was locked and desolate and dark. I rested the coffees on a table in the waiting area, slipped my bag onto the tacky teal aluminum bench and fished my phone out to double check the time and place.

Only to find a typo-riddled email from ten minutes ago with a last-minute cancellation and a hasty promise to reschedule later in the week.

Fantastic.

So that's where I am now, catching my breath in the empty, eerily quiet fifth floor lounge of the oldest, shittiest building on campus.

It's just before 8 in the morning and I don't have class until two. I have a volunteer shift at the Peer Support Centre scheduled at ten, so, I guess I have two hours to kill. Which is a luxury that I'll be dying for later in the semester, I know.

But I just got off four months of summer break that I spent sitting in front of a computer in the basement crunching stats in the name of psychological research, and I actually miss being busy and rushed and stressed, as masochistic as that may sound.

I've just passed the third floor landing on my way back down when my stupid, stupid clumsy ass trips on the edge of one of the steps and I nearly go crashing face-first down the dusty concrete-and-brick staircase.

Except I don't, because, as luck would have it, I crash into something else first.

Not something. Someone.

Holy shit.

He's so fucking hot.

And not just because I just sloshed a cup of steaming coffee all over the front of his black v-neck t-shirt.

"Fuck," he curses in a low, husky voice, one of his strong arm reaching out to steady me so I don't take us both down the stairwell in a pile of sweat and limbs and liquid caffeine.

"Shit, I am so sorry," I apologize. My pulse is ragged and my heart is hammering in my chest because I just did something so incredibly clumsy in front of the hottest guy I've ever seen in my life.

He stands one step below me but still has a couple inches on me as we both take a shocked, incredulous second to recover.

I hurriedly set both paper cups onto the step beside me, blushing as my face nearly brushes the front of his black denim jeans in the process.

Sleek black Doc Martens, black jeans, black t-shirt, jet black hair with just the faintest hint of rich brown where the light hits. Tan skin, a defined jaw dusted with dark stubble, perfectly masculine features and my God, the sharpest, most brilliant pair of coppery hazel eyes that look down at me with chagrin and fatigue and, somehow, I think, faint amusement.

He pulls the dampened front of his shirt away from his strong, lean, sinfully hard chest, lets out an exhale that I can feel as a gentle puff against my forehead.

The sudden, bizarre desire to lean forward and taste the taut, smooth, golden skin of his neck flashes through my mind and makes me want to hurl myself down the rest of the stairs.

"Um, I'm sorry," I repeat lamely, gripping onto the polished wooden rail to my right to steady myself. "Are you alright?"

His smooth pink lips tilt up on one side into a small, crooked, dismissive smile. "It's fine, don't sweat it."

Oh, his voice. Something about how rough and undeniably masculine it is sends shivers down my spine.

His chest is still inches from mine. His body exudes heat.

I am such an idiot.

He clears his throat and steps to the side and it's like I can finally breathe again. He reaches down, picks up the coffees and hands them to me. I accept them with a sheepish, embarrassed smile and his eyes glimmer back at me.

I wasn't staring, was I?

I really hope I wasn't staring.

"Thanks," I mumble.

"Careful with the rest of the stairs," he advises before walking past me and out of sight.

I stand there holding the stained, dripping cups and wishing I had done something suave like offer him the extra cup of coffee as an apology, but when I twist around to catch another glimpse of him he's already gone.

Most of the black coffee ended up on his shirt and onto the steps in front of me.

The other cup is full.

Except I don't fricking take milk and sugar.

I don't care much for Tuesdays.

***

Thankfully, my shift as a supportive-listening volunteer at the campus Mental Health Centre gives me some perspective.

A girl my age, starting her final year of her degree like I am, comes into the centre bawling her eyes out. I spend the next hour comforting her with tissues and listening to her melt-down about how she doesn't know how she's going to pay rent this year, how her boyfriend just cheated on her, and how her doctor just changed her anti-depressant prescription to something that (obviously) isn't working and like, shit. It's not even half-way through the first day of classes.

So I stay calm and reassure her that I've listened to her problems and that things will be just fine. And then I do all I'm allowed to do, which is break things down into smaller pieces and recommend resources and services to address each of her problems, and then give her a hug and a self-care package and a crap-ton of brochures and send her on her merry way.

I spilled coffee all over the world's hottest guy but actually, in the grand scheme of things, I think I'm doing alright.

***

My 2 PM class is a little larger than I expected it to be when I walk into the brightly-lit lecture hall that afternoon. Psych 471: Special Topics in Social Psychology. I guess people think it'll be an easy enough elective. And, I suppose, this semester's topic seemed particularly intriguing.

I take a seat in the very front row, boot up my laptop and open up the University of Edmonton eclass page, download the syllabus into a new folder in my documents.

Psych 471: Special Topics in Social Psychology
Fall 2020
T/R 2:00 - 3:20 PM
An Introduction to Sexual Deviance —Attitudes, Theories, and Research Paradigms
Instructor: Dr. Kayden Hall

The lecture hall is bigger than probably required for a specialized 400-level psychology course. Long rows of bench-desks face towards a large screen. A few meters in front of me, the instructor's desk with a computer and document-camera sits empty and instructor-less as students start piling into the room.

Dr. Kayden Hall.

He's new this year, I'm pretty sure. I've never seen or heard about him before, and there's nothing online on Rate My Prof about him. As a fourth-year BA Honours Psychology student, I've taken dozens of psych classes in all the psych streams and so I've had pretty much every U of E psych prof at some point. It's a decently-sized but prestigious department and most of the instructors are decent.

I really hope he doesn't suck.

I glance through the syllabus to get a better idea of what to expect this semester. There's a basic outline of the course evaluation. Participation marks, a midterm essay, and a final paper, worth 15%, 40%, and 45% of the total grade. No textbook, but a section of required journal articles to read.

I honestly don't know what to anticipate with this course. I needed another 400-level elective and I figured a social psych course would be a GPA-booster, and would be light enough to take alongside the time-consuming honours research project I have to complete for my degree this year. I've already loaded up on all the available abnormal/clinical psych courses the department offers, and "sexual deviance" seems sufficiently related to clinical psych that I figured I'd go for it.

Damn, I hope I don't spend three hours every week for the next three and a half months listening to a crusty old guy talk about paraphilia.

I glance up from my screen to the front of the room and my eyes widen.

No way.

Oh my God.

It's Hot Coffee Guy.

Dr. Kayden Hall is Hot Coffee Guy.

His shirt looks just fine. Maybe he changed it.

I watch, already feeling the heat flood my cheeks, as he slips his laptop out of his black shoulder-bag and begins plugging it into the projector.

What is it with this man and black?

And frick, how old is he, even? He can't be over thirty.

"Hey, Layla," a breathless voice greets. Hailey plops into the seat to my right with a laborious exhale, tossing her bag onto the desk in front of her. Her wavy, naturally blonde hair is currently dyed a decidedly unnaturally bright red, but somehow she pulls it off like she always does.

"Hey, Hales. How was Bali?"

"Freaking gorgeous," she exclaims, unpacking her things in a hurry. She has a class right before this one and made a sprint across campus with a couple minutes to spare. "Oh shit," she whispers, and when I look over towards her, her sky-blue eyes are fixed at the front of the room. "So is he."

I swallow back the dryness in my throat, somehow hoping he doesn't recognize me. "I have a story for you," I confide quietly.

My eyes flit to the screen where he's loaded up the syllabus.

"So, this morning, I—"

"Alright, everyone, let's get started."

That same textured, faintly rasping voice from this morning makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

I give Hailey a small wave to signal that I'll tell her the rest of it later.

"It's a big room and there's like twenty of you," he points out dryly, his gaze travelling from one side of the hall to the other. "I know sex isn't the friendliest topic, but how about everyone comes closer to the front so I don't have to use the mic."

There are a few awkward chuckles that bounce around the room. His voice is surprisingly loud and confident and projects to the back, and we hear the shuffle of papers and bags and the scrape of chairs as people relocate themselves as per his instructions.

Once everyone's settled down, he continues, and despite the fact I don't really want him to look at me, I can't tear my eyes away from him. "That's better," he approves, shooting us an easy, lopsided smile that does strange things to my body. "My name's Dr. Hall. I'm a new researcher and instructor with the psych department here at U of E."

Normally new instructors will give us a boring recount of where and what they studied previously but Dr. Hall seems to skip that part. "So, as I hope you know by now, this class is going to be an introduction of sorts to sexual deviance."

Something in the pit of my gut flutters unnecessarily as I hear the words 'sexual deviance' coming from that full, inviting mouth of his.

"I'll keep today's class short," he promises. "We'll crush the syllabus and I'll see you guys Thursday, okay?"

He surveys the room and my heart skips a beat when finally, his eyes float right to where I'm sitting. Shit. I can see the recognition flash across the dangerous, handsome features of his face before he smoothly moves on.

"This is a senior-level course and there's an entire fifteen percent of the total grade dependent on your participation in class. We'll be covering topics that some students might consider sensitive or uncomfortable. If you feel that you aren't willing to contribute productively to these academic discussions, I'd suggest considering a different elective before the add/drop deadline."

Okay, so, I will not be listening to a crusty old guy drone on about sex.

Instead, I get to talk about sex to my ridiculously attractive young professor who doesn't seem at all fazed by the roomful of students who are probably nearer to his age than the rest of the U of E psych faculty.

He goes on to describe in that dark, decadent bedroom voice more details about the contents of the course.

"My office hours are Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from one to three PM. Feel free to email me about alternate times if necessary."

He wraps up in twenty minutes and then lets us go.

"Well, this is going to be fun," Hailey determines cheerfully beside me.

Fun isn't exactly the word I had in mind.

***

A/N:

And so it BEGINS. *Squee!*

Thoughts? Ideas? Concerns? Nudes?

Journal articles are much less entertaining than pop songs but I'm trying to be thematic and original here. I used APA format, you guys. Aren't you proud of me?

Can you guys tell I'm in my nerdy student comfort-zone right now? Lmao.

XOXO Ami