13. Ronan

No. I refuse to believe he's here. Right outside my house.

Shirtless too, I might add.

Good God, his body is just stupid. I mean, stupid fucking hot. He's nothing but muscle. Sculpted, chiseled muscle that's so damn defined I can follow each line, which I do with my eyes as I stand outside my front door and ogle the hell out of him.

He has on a pair of loose black shorts and has earbuds in his ears, smiling as he runs up to me, taking them out of his ears. He's sweaty, and his hair is matted, which makes me think he's been running for a bit, but he doesn't seem winded at all.

I'm also wearing shorts, a t-shirt and Nikes for my morning jog. All perfectly in place. I was ready for a nice, relaxing run, and now here Fletcher is, just barreling into my life.

I'm not nearly strong enough for this. "Are you stalking me?" My tone is nowhere near as irritated as I want it to be.

And he must notice because he's grinning by the time he stops in front of me. "Nope. Happy accident." He looks behind me at my house—it's a modest but modern and well-kept, two-bedroom, two-bath, only a couple of blocks from campus. "This is where you live, huh?"

This isn't good. "Oh God, now you're really going to start stalking me, aren't you?"

He waggles his brows at me playfully. "Quite possibly."

I actually frown at that, though, realizing how ill-timed my joke is. The Rhonda Tuttle situation is still mainstream news. Still a huge deal around here, and here I am making a joke about it, while flirting with a damn student.

"Right. Well, don't do that, and have a nice run," I say, brushing past him. I can do this. I can and will resist him. It's not appropriate. What if someone sees him outside my house?

I start to jog down the street, but of course, Fletcher is right there with me, running alongside me with a smile on his handsome face.

"Fletcher, surely this isn't your regular route," I try.

"Actually, it is." He keeps up with me easily as we round a corner. "I can't believe I've been jogging past your house all year, and I didn't even know it."

"You know, if people see us together . . ."

"What people?" he asks, and I don't think he's just messing with me. I think he actually wants to know what I'm worried about.

I liked him better when he was just an arrogant shithead.

Okay, not really.

"Like people who could fire me," I say with no hint of joking in my voice because it's simply not funny. It could very well happen.

"They'd fire you for running?" he asks, and I can't tell if he's messing with me or not, so I stop my jog and face him.

"Fletcher."

He stops running too and cocks his head to the side innocently, but I don't really buy it. "I'm serious." He laughs, which tells me he isn't really. "They aren't going to fire you for running next to me."

"They could. I'm a professor at the college. You are a student."

"Not a student," he quickly corrects, and I groan, leaning my head back and looking up at the sky, I guess for strength or something. But the clouds and the sun give me nothing.

"Whatever. Let's just run," I concede because there's really no arguing with Fletcher.

He shrugs it off easily, and we take off again. It's a brisk run, and it feels good. All my muscles ache, and my chest puffs with air as I breathe through it, but there's a runner's high like none other pumping through my veins by the time we circle back to my house.

We're both out of breath and sweaty when we reach the sidewalk in front of my house. We both stop and stare at the door, then Fletcher looks at me with those big hopeful eyes. "You know, the polite thing to do would be to invite me in for some water."

He doesn't want water.

We both know it.

We'd be going in for one thing and one damn thing only. It's crossing a line. One I shouldn't. One I really can't.

At least, if I'm smart.

But I feel nothing but stupid when I nod my head slowly and motion for him to follow me, my heart racing for a whole new reason and my throat so dry with anticipation, I can't form actual words.

We go into my house, and I lock the door as if someone might follow us. It's insane. It's so damn quiet on my block most of the time, but especially in summer. We didn't pass anyone when we were on our run, but that doesn't mean the paranoia isn't there, which should tell me how wrong this is. But I can't say no.

I can't deny myself this moment with him, and I don't know why.

All I know for certain is I haven't wanted to kiss someone so damn badly before in my life, but I do resist that. Thank fuck.

I walk into my kitchen and pull open the fridge, pulling out two bottles of water and handing one of them to him when he joins me. "This place is nice."

I look around at the sparsely decorated home with wood floors. It is nice. I love it here. And I invited a student into it. My home.

"This is a bad idea," I say carefully.

Fletcher seems to ignore that completely, though, unscrewing the cap on the bottle of water and downing damn near half of it. I try not to watch the way his throat flexes each time he swallows, and I open my own bottle, taking a large gulp.

"Fletcher..." I try again, but he just places his bottle of water on the counter and walks closer to me. My heart stutters in my chest. He's so damn beautiful, I swear it hurts.

"Why?" He stops in front of me, the tip of his tennis shoes touching mine as he reaches for my bottle of water and takes it from me, placing it next to his.

"Why is it a bad idea that you're in my house right now?" I ask, astonished that he'd even need to ask. But I know it's more for my benefit. "You know why," I barely manage to say.

His hand trails down the middle of my shirt, my sweat making the fabric stick against my skin, but he doesn't seem to mind in the slightest. "I can't stop thinking about you." His eyes flick up to mine. "About that kiss."

"The kiss that shouldn't have happened," I say, wrapping my hand around his wrist and halting his movement.

"Because you didn't enjoy it?"

"No," I answer instantly. No point in lying.

"Because you pity me and my sad as hell story?" This question was harder for him to ask me. I can tell by the nervous look on his face, like he's afraid that's actually why I kissed him.

I reach one hand up, brushing it over his cheek before I cup his face in my hand and look him dead in the eyes. "No," I say firmly.

He looks relieved, and it breaks my heart. "Then why?"

"You know why, Fletcher." I'm still holding onto his wrist. His finger is resting between my pecs. "I'm a professor, and you're a student. Summer loophole or not."

"But it is summer, and I'm not a student. I'm not your student." He sounds as frustrated as I feel, and goddammit, I want to give in. He's technically right, I know that.

"Have you seen the news lately?"

He huffs at that and pulls out of my grip. I let his hand go, but he doesn't move away from me other than that. "What, that professor who was fucking her student?"

I nod. So he has heard. "Yes."

"Of course I've seen it. It's literally everywhere."

He's not wrong. Every time you turn on the television, it seems like this story is running, and our university is on blast. "Then how do you not understand that we cannot do this?"

He looks truly perplexed now as he looks at me. "Because it's not the same thing."

"It is," I argue. "At it's very basic roots, it is, and you know it."

"Look, Professor," He starts, his tone having a very distinctive edge to it. "That was different. For one, she was twice his age."

"I'm still much older than you."

He scoffs at that. "Only eight damn years. Seven and a half, actually. That's nothing. Eighteen is fully damn grown when you grow up the way I did." I flinch at that but let him continue. "I know you see me as an immature fuckup?—"

"I don't." I feel the need to interrupt him, to correct him immediately, because the truth is maybe I did see him that way before, but I don't now.

"Good. Because I'm not," he says very clearly. "That kid..." I know he's talking about the student on the news. "He is. I've seen interviews with him. It's like nothing bad has ever happened to him his entire life, probably hadn't."

"What does that matter?" I try.

"Because I'm sure that was traumatic for him. He's out on his own. His hot college professor, who's twice his age, seduces him and then tosses him away like that? Of course he's fucked up from it."

"I have nothing to offer you, Fletcher. That would be us. You're out on your own now, and I'm a professor."

He holds up a hand to silence me, and damn it, it works. I'm quiet as I listen to him. He holds up one finger. "One, it's not my first time on my own, not by a long shot. I was on my own for most of my childhood, and it forced me to grow up really damn fast." I don't bother opening my mouth again when he holds up a second finger. "Two, you didn't seduce me. I've read and listened to the interviews, she seduced the hell out of him. She manipulated him and used her power when he first resisted to get what she wanted."

"Exactly. That's the problem with professor/student relationships, Fletcher. No one in a position of power should ever start a relationship with someone who is so vulnerable."

He steps into me, his mouth so damn close, I'm transfixed, even before his lips start moving as he talks. "And who exactly has the power here? Huh?" He doesn't let me try to answer. "He was still in her class when they started fucking, and he was struggling. Even she admits that. She held grades over his head. He was here on a scholarship, and he needed that damn grade. I understand why that was wrong, but you and me?" He motions between the small amount of space between our bodies. "No power struggle whatsoever."

"Fletcher," I breathe, hating how much sense he's making, but it has to be because he's standing so close and making me so damn horny, I can barely think. His erection brushes against mine, and I groan softly, wanting to give in so damn bad.

"Ronan, it's not the same," he says, using my name. There's no hint of teasing, and I hear the desperate plea in his voice. The same desperation I feel to not have to follow the rules just once. "I'm not in your class. I don't plan to be in your class ever again, but even when I was, I was the top of my class. I didn't need a bump up, and I'm not on a scholarship. Hell, if anything happened, and I was in danger of getting kicked out of school, I really wouldn't put it past my mom to buy the whole place just to keep me here." I let a surprised laugh slip from my mouth, and he looks momentarily surprised as well by my laughter, but grins. "She's not that rich, but her dad is, and you know when he kicks it, it's all going to her."

"Jesus, Fletcher." I laugh again.

He wraps a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me into him, but he doesn't kiss me. His forehead rests against mine. "It's not the same thing."

"I can't lose my job, Fletcher." My throat is raw with the honesty. "It's everything to me. I worked hard to get here."

"You won't," he whispers, and damn it, in that moment, I believe him. I believe it could all be okay. "Take a shower with me."

All I can do is nod in agreement. There's no denying how badly we both want this, and even if I regret it later, I'm going to let myself have it.

At least for now.