Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

I didn't bother letting Walt know that Dr. Wilder had offered me a job. After the tense connection in his office, the way he held my waist and walked me to dinner, it didn't seem to be in my best interest to let my brother know he was right about how my own professor had been looking at me like his own personal peepshow.

I had laughed off the demand to stop wearing my skirts, but he said he was serious.

When I pressed on his reasoning during our walk, I was met with a refusal to elaborate. Instead, Dr. Wilder hand delivered me to the dining hall and left on his merry way.

I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and was barely functioning when the clock tolled for breakfast. My homework stared at me with a scowl as I dressed in yet another short, tight skirt—this one earthy brown plaid. It was accompanied by opaque black tights and a matching turtleneck I tucked into the high waistband. I pulled the front strands of my hair into a delicate bow at the back of my head before packing the tired, old messenger bag to head to the library for more studying .

My phone buzzed, Walt's text triggering the same shame my mother's stare might have as a child.

What did Professor Prick want last night?

He saw my GPA. Thinks Dad paid for me to come to school.

What'd you say?

The truth?

Goddammit, Vivan.

What was I supposed to say? I shook my head, throwing my phone into my bag and snatching the trusty black trench coat from its place in the armoire.

The cold Autumn air outside Roosevelt House was steadying. I didn't throw on my coat merely for the fact that icy waves of wind kept me here, on the ground, away from the dangerous idea that, after last night, there could be a possibility for Dr. Wilder to be as attracted to me as I was him.

It was a thought that sent my hands twisting in knots, both in excitement and in terror. It was against any and all moral codes to even flirt with your professor, but whoever made the rule clearly hadn't been taught by Professor Wilder.

So, I kept my coat off, making quick steps to the library an hour earlier than I was required with nothing but a cereal bar and caffeine for company.

Mrs. Cocoran was nowhere to be seen when I entered the now familiar building, though many students had filled the first floor and were flipping helplessly through their books. I took the spiral staircase to the side of the entrance two at a time, climbing to the second floor, which though busier than usual, was quiet .

The same desk in the back corner was free, and I settled there with my computer and books to begin working diligently on an essay for my Romantic Literature class.

Time ticked on in a relentless march and coffee disappeared much too fast. It was a blur, comings and goings of students, the constant stream of words on the screen before me. There was almost a sense of comfort to be in that space, pouring forth the very essence of my soul onto the page.

"Vivian." A voice startled me, bringing me from my reverie in a jolt.

Professor Wilder stood with one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the desk, silver rings of his fingers glinting. My heart was skidding and stammering in my chest as I leaned back to look at him.

"Are you aware that it's rude to scare people?" I hissed, my fingers messaging the blooming headache at my temples.

He chuckled. "Darling, I've been trying to get your attention. Whatever you're writing must be most engrossing."

"It is, actually." My arms stretched upwards to release the stiffness in a delicious wave. "I'm analyzing Keats's work—how his tortured life leant to his romantic success," I explained, closing my laptop and rolling my neck. "I did it again, didn't I?"

"Lost track of time? Yes." Dr. Wilder stood straight, crossing his arms over his lean chest. "I do so love Keats. A gem of his time. The true romantic poet. How does it go? ‘Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, to feel for ever its soft fall and swell, awake for ever in a sweet unrest, still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, and so live ever—or else swoon to death.'"

I stared dumbly, watching his mouth form the words as he spoke, so low and smooth over me I might have melted into the seat.

"Do you often walk around quoting romantic poets?" I asked, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

"As it so happens"—he leaned down to make his gaze level with mine—"I quote it less often than you might think."

"I find that hard to believe. You strike me as the type of man who'd use his literary wiles to lure many a woman into bed."

"Is it working?" he coaxed, long lashes fanning over his cheeks.

Heat flashed up my neck and the collar of my shirt was suddenly too tight, suffocating even. "Professor." I cast an anxious look around us, checking to see if anyone was in ear shot as my thighs pressed together in response—which I know he saw from his wolfish grin.

I suddenly felt inept, out of my league in the world of sexuality.

Dr. Wilder's lips twisted further and he stood once more. "If you're at a pausing point, I'd like to get started. I've decided to train you personally, you'll work on shelving to start. I've brought up a stack of books to show you how to do it properly."

I rose from my seat, butterflies dancing in my stomach in anticipation. His nostrils flared and his eyes came to my skirt as I hoped they might.

"What did I say about your skirts?" A tilt of his head, a gravel to his tone.

I smoothed the fabric, not that it needed any straightening. It was so taunt over my ass and thighs that the garment was constantly pulled into a state of starched perfection. The length was questionable however, and I hoped by his reaction today that I would be able to discern what it was exactly about my skirt choices he didn't like.

It seemed to be as I suspected.

That alone was dizzying .

"I didn't see any harm in wearing one today; it's not as cold as it has been." I donned a set of wide, innocent eyes.

Professor Wilder's jaw ticked as his gaze lingered on my thighs. "You and your skirts are very much becoming a problem for me."

"Is that so?" I asked, crossing one leg over the other and clasping my hand behind my back. A thrill worked its way up my spine.

Dr. Wilder's stormy eyes came back to mine, hard as steel. "Yes, in fact it is."

"And what sort of problem is that, Professor?"

He cleared his throat, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he refused to answer.

"Well, how unfortunate. I enjoy wearing them. I think they complement my shape well." I peered toward the stairs where a stack of books had been brought up in a shabby, gray tote that looked as though it had seen much better days. "Ah, there they are. Let's get started, shall we?"

With renewed confidence, I sauntered toward the tote, bending just so at the waist as I took an armful of books from inside and inspected their spines. They had already been put into the correct order so it was only a matter of finding the right row.

Professor Wilder joined me, grumbling something as he carried a stack much larger than my own.

"Show off," I muttered, muscles straining under the five or so books I'd grabbed.

He chuckled softly. "Who do you think carried that tote up here? These are nothing." He wore a collared shirt beneath a dark green sweater and his hair was slicked back rather neatly compared to his usual laissez faire style. But still, even beneath his layers, the tempting shape of his bicep strained against them.

"You look nice today," I remarked as we ventured to the other side of the second story. "Much nicer than usual, that is. "

"Oh, how kind of you. I had breakfast with my father this morning." We diverted toward a shelf of nonfiction texts on English kings very near where we'd been the other day.

"The one who takes unscrupulous donations in exchange for the children of alumni?" I teased, placing one of my books in its home.

"The very one." He was a bit farther down, shelving at a speed that left me in the dust. When he finished, I'd only placed two, gnawing my lip in search of the third's location.

"Did you have fun?" My eyes scanned for the correct decimal on the spines of neighboring books with no luck.

"Loads. Breakfast with my father is more of a requirement than anything. He and I don't often see eye to eye." Nothing about his voice made it sound enjoyable at all.

I risked a glance in his direction and my body flashed with desire at the way he was leaned against the stacks, arms crossed over his chest once more. But it was the look in his eyes, the way they tracked over the curves of my body that had me trembling as I finally found the home of a book on Charles II.

"I know what you mean. It's a shame that someone who is supposed to love us unconditionally and support our every endeavor can be so…" I drifted, lost once more on another book.

"So selfishly fixated on their own import?" he offered.

"Yes…my parents care more about how I make them look than my own happiness."

"I hate to hear that you know the feeling." Dr. Wilder's hand came over mine as it placed the book on the shelf and our fingers interlocked, his large palm swallowing my hand. "Your GPA, NYU, those were ways in which you exercised control even if it damned you to Oakwood."

"I don't think of Oakwood as a damnation. I'm starting to really view it as a sort of opportunity. But yes, you're right. "

He leaned in, so close I could only process the scent of his skin, the heat that radiated from his body. I was breathing too fast and entirely unable to control it.

"Tell me more." He released my fingers, instead wrapping his arm around my waist in such a delirious and forward fashion I wobbled.

"Oakwood is far enough from New York that they won't check on me often—if at all. I can do what I like, so long as my grades improve." I turned to face him so that his hand rested in the glorious middle dip of my figure and I throbbed .

"And what have you done with this…freedom?" An arm came above my head, gripping the shelf there. I was caged by him, vulnerable to whatever whim he had tucked so indecently up his sleeve.

And I loved it. I craved it.

Maybe that made me depraved but I couldn't seem to care.

My heart thumped noisily, spreading between my thighs. I gazed up at him from beneath my lashes. "Nothing good," I quavered, that large hand glided up to my neck. My breath caught, and here, now, I knew he would kiss me. Despite every cell in my body telling me how wrong it was, I coveted it like air to breathe.

My body would sing for him.

"What am I going to do with you, Vivian?" His forehead came to rest on mine and my mouth parted in want.

"Anything."

"You're making everything entirely too difficult," he groaned, fingers winding themselves into the hair at the nape of my neck. My chest rose in quick spurts, breasts straining against the fabric of my shirt and though he stalled there a moment, his gaze found mine.

"I can't say that I'm sorry. "

"Fuck. You've stunning eyes, did you know? Something like the bluest ice. They're surreal."

My grip on the last book to be shelved tightened, its leather clammy under my skin. I tipped my head up, waiting, aching for him to kiss me.

Dr. Wilder hovered there, the air between us hot and full of the scent of old books and tobacco. I was enraptured, hooked into him like a drug I was desperate to get a high from.

"Ambrose?" Mrs. Cocoran's voice called in a hush. He cursed, dropping into a squat just as she came around the corner. I turned my attention back to the spine, trying to formulate normal thoughts but my breathing was shaky and my heart tumbled over itself.

"Yes?" Dr. Wilder smiled, his voice tight. "I've found it here, Vivian." He reached for the book I held, which I reluctantly handed over.

"Dr. Greene called, says he's trying to get ahold of you. Sounds important," Mrs. Cocoran whispered, gesturing downstairs. I peered to where he'd placed the book and was surprised to find it was the right location.

How had he known?

"Shit, alright. Vivian, finish up that tote as I've shown you and Mrs. Cocoran will give you further instruction when you're done. Good day, ladies." He squeezed Mrs. Cocoran's arm briefly before disappearing. A rather maternal, proud grin stretched over her wrinkled face.

What would she have thought if she'd caught us only a second sooner?

Would she hate me?

"He's wonderful, isn't he?" she asked, watching down the aisle.

"Yes, I feel lucky to learn from him." I cleared my throat, fidgeting with the hem of my skirt. It threw me off to go from such a charged atmosphere to chilling absence. And with Mrs. Cocoran there to boot. I was in over my head. That was becoming clear.