Thanks to James and his MacBook Air, I manage to get a decent hours worth of research done on my thesis. I save my document under a folder named 'SLOAN JACKSON'S WORK—KEEP OUT!' and email myself a copy for good measure. I still have five minutes before I need to head to my feedback session and the overwhelming urge to snoop takes over. James Hudson remains a mystery and I'd love nothing more than to uncover his deepest secrets. Still, I have my limits and breaching his privacy this way feels wrong. So instead, I power down and decide to go in search of his office earlier than needed.

He was right. It's located near the entrance of the building, but what he failed to mention is just how luxurious it is. Leather couches line the wall opposite his door, plush and practically untouched. A bookshelf housing classic literature is the main focal point and I find myself wandering over, inspecting the condition of Pride & Prejudice.

"Thank you for coming. I'll see you in class tomorrow."

James' voice startles me and I drop the book, desperately trying not to curse as it lands on my toe.

"Thanks, James."

Clarissa clutches a folder to her chest and smiles at me as she exits.

"Wrecking the spot, Sloan?" asks James, smirking.

I quickly put Pride & Prejudice back to its rightful position and follow him into his office. Much like the waiting area, it's gorgeous. A mahogany desk the size of my bedroom sits in the middle of the room and a couch identical to the one outside lines the back wall where a breathtaking view of the city centre sits beyond a bay window.

"Nice place," I say, taking note of the way the space seems to have captured his smell.

Lemongrass and sandalwood is quickly becoming my favourite scent.

"Thanks."

I sceptically eye his small bookshelf, silently questioning his lack of anything pre- 1990's.

"Those are all works from past students."

"Oh. You weren't lying about getting results," I say, taking a seat on the couch.

To my astonishment, he sits next to me.

"Did you get some research done?"

"Yes, thanks."

I hand him his laptop back.

"Do you need it for tonight?" he asks, hesitant to take it back.

"I'll take one out on loan from the library," I assure.

He nods and positions the laptop next to our feet. "You were right, by the way."

Huh?

"About Clarissa. Her father died two weeks ago."

"Oh, shit!"

"I apologised for my behaviour and she's agreed to rejoin the class tomorrow."

I can tell by his stiff posture and strained jaw that he feels terrible for the way he treated her yesterday.

"You weren't to know," I soothe.

"But you were right. I should've assumed something was wrong."

I shrug.

"I'm sorry," he says, lowering his voice to a gentle whisper.

I match his tone and bring my head ever so slightly closer to his. "You're forgiven."

He smiles and materialises my essay from a stack of papers on his desk.

"You have potential, Sloan."

My smile is immediate.

"But you've got a long way to go."

Ouch!

"Your subject matter and arguments were intriguing, but your voice is—mediocre."

I narrow my gaze. "Mediocre?"

"It was fine," he elaborates. "But I know you can be more than that."

I have no response. No one has ever described my work as mediocre.

"What are you plans for the future?" he asks, fetching his reading glasses from the inside pocket of his blazer.

I'm screwed!

"I want to publish books."

"In what genre?"

I shrug.

He sighs. "That's your problem, Sloan. You don't know."

I sit in silence, taken aback by his criticism.

"Have you written any books in your spare time?"

I nod. "Yes!"

"In what genre?"

"Children's literature. Historical romance. Fantasy."

He smiles.

"Which was your favourite to write?" he questions, looking intensely at me. "Which one resonated with you the most?"

I have no idea.

"Umm—"

I crack under his watchful gaze.

"I'm going to fail, aren't I?" I bury my head in my hands, furious at myself. "I've worked so hard to get here, and now I'm going to mess it up."

"You're not going to mess it up, Sloan," he assures.

I look up to find his face kind and sure.

"I already have!" I insist. "Dry humping my professor in my kitchen is definitely the definition of messing up."

He laughs. "Did the world end?"

"What?"

"After our moment in your kitchen, did the world end?"

"Well, no."

"Did anyone get hurt?"

I pause. "No."

"Then stop putting yourself under tremendous pressure."

I straighten up, prepared to do anything if it means not throwing away all my hard work.

"That's your problem, Sloan. Authors draw from experience. They write what they know. You can't do that because you wont allow yourself to experience what life has to offer. You'd rather study than go for coffee with likeminded people. You'd much prefer to run away instead of being inappropriate with your professor."

I laugh. "You think I should be inappropriate with my professor?"

"I think," he begins. "You have some living to do, Sloan."

I think it through for a moment, not entirely disagreeing with him. Even Lara thinks I'm not adventurous enough.

"Your homework this week is to do something reckless and write about it. A thousand words max."

I gather my planner and pen, prepared to jot down my assignment. James—seeing this—gently places his hand on top of mine to stop me.

"Don't overthink it."

"But—"

He pries my planner away. "You'll get this back next week."

I can't believe it. My planner includes everything and now, it's being held captive by my sexy English professor who I may or may not be having an inappropriate relationship with.

When did my life get so complicated?

Fuck!

****

The view in my bedroom does very little in the way of inspiring me. Not one thought has come to mind in the hour I've been sat here. I don't know how to be reckless. Until recently, the most outrageous thing I've done is stay up past midnight. Maybe I'm not cut out for this. Maybe my chances of being an author are completely over?

Screw that!

I've not come this far to give up now. If James Hudson wants reckless, I'll give him reckless.

If only I knew how?

My phone pings with an incoming email and I use it as an excuse to distract my thoughts for a moment. It's an automated email from the University, confirming my enrolment. Nothing exciting. The email underneath—however—may just be the answer to all my problems. I click on it, finding the time slots for each individual student's feedback session from earlier. I scroll to the bottom and—low and behold—there it is. In the centre of James' email signature lies his contact number. I quickly add it to my contacts and hit 'send message'. Hundreds of possibilities work their way though my mind, but in the end, I settle for something simple.

Sloan:
Hey!

Within minutes, I have a reply.

James:
Hi, Sloan.

James:
If this is your idea of reckless,
I'm afraid to say you've failed
the assignment. You can do better.

Bollocks!
He's right. Texting his work phone is risky, but I can do better than hey. A lot better.

Sloan:
Fine!

I leave my desk and go in search of a picturesque background, settling with the wall beside my bed. It's neutral, spacious and not distracting. There, I unbutton my jeans and shed my top until I'm wearing nothing but my white, lace bra and matching panties. My heart pounds as I snap a flattering picture, redoing it seven times before I'm satisfied. Before I can talk myself out of it, I attach it as a message and hit send.

Holy fuck!

I watch as the three dots appear, palms sweating. Adrenaline pumps through me in waves, fuelling my need for more.

James:
Better...

Better, but not good enough. I huff my frustrations, figuring I've not come this far to chicken out last minute. I've never been one to shy away from an assignment, and I really, really want a good grade for this one.

As I make my way towards the bed, I bite down on my lip in contemplation and giggle as I hit the small video icon at the top of my screen. It chimes twice before he answers.

"Take your clothes off," I demand.

His smirk is immediate.

"You're bossy when you're being reckless," he replies.

I can't make out much beyond his beautiful face, but can tell he's in his bedroom by the furniture.

"Do you approve?"

"Most certainly."

I lie back against my many cushions and wiggle myself into a comfortable position.

"Get on your bed," I say, batting my eyelids for good measure.

He quirks a brow, but humours me nevertheless.

"Shirt off."

He obliges, exposing his perfect body to me. Defined, each of his muscles dip and curve in a way that makes me long to reach through the phone. Underneath his right pec is a tattoo of a quote I can't quite make out and—HOLY FUCK—he has his nipple pierced.

"Now what?" he asks.

"Trousers."

He keeps the camera angled on his face, but I can tell by the rustling that he's obeying my every demand.

"Done."

"Good," I say, smiling. "Now touch yourself."

That filthy smirk of his comes into play. "Where?"

I bite my lip, recognising his tactics. "Where do you think?"

He laughs and flips the camera so that I have a perfect view of his strong thighs and bulging cock. His boxers are on, so I don't get the full picture, but the sheer size of it doesn't leave much to the imagination.

"Here?" he asks, dipping his hand below the waistband of his boxers to stroke his delicious length.

"Yes."

He hums his delight and the sounds goes straight to the area between my thighs.

"Are you doing it, Sloan?" he questions.

"Uh-huh."

"Show me!" he grunts.

I flip my camera, showing him just where I'm doing it.

"How many fingers?" he asks, breathless.

"One."

"Use two."

He grunts as I slip another finger into my panties.

"Good girl."

Oh God!

"Go deep," he instructs. "Pretend it's my cock inside you, Sloan."

I moan as I push further, wishing more than ever it was him. I watch him fist his erection, cementing the image to memory. I doubt it, but if this is the last sexual interaction I have with him, I want to remember it.

"Does it feel good?" he asks.

"Yes, but I wish it was the real thing," I admit, arching my back.

My stomach tightens as my orgasm approaches. I quicken my pace, chasing what I desire most.

"Slow down, Sloan," he orders, "Enjoy it."

I listen to his instruction, and lessen the pace to a more steady rhythm.

"Tell me what you'd do to me if I was if your bedroom," he probes, sounding strained in his asking.

I imagine his lean body sprawled out across my bed, glorious and strong.

"I'd lick you,"

"Lick me where?" he asks.

"Your stomach, all the way down to your—ohh!"

A jolt of pleasure passes through me as I imagine my fantasy playing out.

"Down to my what?"

"Your cock," I explain. "Then I'd take all of you into my mouth and I'd suck."

"Hmm."

"You taste—amazing," I continue. "Desire mixed with desperation."

He doesn't respond, and I can tell by such silence that he's imagining it vividly too.

"I'd make my way up your body and I trace the outline of your tattoo."

"Are you still licking?"

"No, I'm biting now," I say, tensing each muscle in my body. "You're moaning my name and pulling my hair, greedy in your need for more."

"Do you like having your hair pulled?" he questions.

"Yes."

He grunts, approving of my answer.

"I lift my hips to meet yours and slide myself down you long, greedy cock."

"Sloan!"

I can feel my climax hurtling towards me.

"You push up," I say, seconds away from exploding. "And—"

"Sloan, do you want to—Oh my god!"

Nicole barges into my bedroom and gets an eyeful. I quickly jump up and end my call with James, flustered to fuck.

"I'm SO sorry," she says, failing at hiding her giggles.

I flush as she eyes my current attire, and can only assume her amusement means that she didn't see her brother's face on my phone moment ago.

My embarrassment is interrupted as I get a text from James.

James:
What happened?

Sloan:
Your fucking sister
just walked in!!!!!!!!!!

✨✨✨✨

On a scale of 1-10, how furious are you at Nicole right now?

Also, about the nipple piercing—because I predict a lot of you will be asking—go check the front cover again and look REALLY closely at the model's left pec. Your welcome. 😈

Anyway, that's the last time I'll interrupt them. Third time lucky and all that. ✨

Lots of love,
Rebecca xo