Page 36 of When Hearts Collide
His eyes flare and his lips part, a muscle feathering his beautiful jawline. He abruptly looks away and walks to a small desk and chair in the middle of the stage. He looks every inch a prince from the fairy tales…or perhaps, the villain, with his tall, dark looks and angry features.
Ryland shrugs out of his suit jacket, dove-gray today, and proceeds with his daily routine of taking out his cuff links, pocketing them, before slowly rolling up his shirt sleeves. It’s like watching arm porn in slow motion.
I wet my lips and sit up straighter, trying to ignore the pulsing between my legs. My laptop is turned on, and I wait with bated breath for what he’ll do next.
Will he address me? Acknowledge what happened in his office last week? Or will he pretend like it was nothing when it was everything to me?
“Class, I’m disappointed with the last papers you turned in.” His stern voice sends ripples over my skin.
Ryland leans forward on his desk and scowls at us. “The average grade was a D, with only two papers earning As. If you can’t even do well in this class, how will you do well in the real world?”
The room is silent, and I see students hang their heads in apparent shame.
“You may believe otherwise, but I don’t wake up each day intending to fail you in class. I’m not here to ‘get’ you.”
He frowns, his head swiveling to take in every one of us. “I want to prepare you for the future when the stakes are much higher. If anything, I want to leave a lasting legacy…for you.”
Legacy.
My heart races at the mention of the word, reminiscent of the conversation we had in his office. I want this to be my legacy.
Ryland’s eyes snare on mine, as if he too remembers our conversation. As if this is a slipup on his end. His jaw locks, and I see his hands clenching into tight fists.
He drags his gaze away and releases a deep breath. “And so, for the first time and most likely the last time, I’ll give you another chance. Rewrite your papers and if you can turn in something more profound, something to change my mind, I’ll use those grades as your final grades for the assignment.”
He walks around the desk and props himself up against it. “Don’t. Disappoint. Me.”
The classroom is quiet as he splits the tall pile of essays on his desk with his TA and they walk around the room to hand out the papers to us. Tracking his movements with my eyes, I twist my fingers on top of the table, gnaw on my lip, and wait for my turn.
The stack of papers thins out over time until he is left with one. He pauses at the end of my aisle, his forehead pinching in concentration, his shoulders taut and raised. He runs a hand over his thick, luscious hair and finally turns toward me.
Our eyes catch and hold, intense grays against dark blues, stormy clouds hovering over deep cerulean seas, and I swallow, my breathing quickening with each step he takes, each step bringing him closer to me.
Hushed chatter fills the background as students talk amongst themselves, no doubt about their grades or comments on the papers, but I don’t really notice. All I see is this hulking man striding toward me with the lethality of a predator in the woods who has identified his prey, his next meal.
“There are rumors he’s a beast in bed and gets off from chasing willing women in their sex clubs. I totally wouldn’t mind him hunting me down.”
My classmate’s words from the first day of class whispers across my mind and sharp heat shoots between my legs.
Tangled limbs. Sweat and bites. Having the control taken from me.
My lips part and my face feels warm. My sexual experiences with Lloyd had been forgettable. Lackluster. The man couldn’t get a woman off if his life depended on it. Somehow, I don’t think that would be the case with the towering man in front of me.
Ryland sets the paper face down on my desk and hovers above me briefly. He releases a deep exhale, one I can hear above the noise in the classroom. I put my hand on top of the paper to take it away from him before he stops me, his much larger hand pressing against mine, his pinkie grazing my thumb.
Leaning in ever so slightly, he whispers, his voice a gravelly seduction, “Good job…Millie.”
My name on his lips. A bolt of heat shoots straight between my thighs.
Unbidden, my tongue darts out to wet my lips and he freezes, his eyes glued to the motion. They darken and smolder, and in that instant, the rest of the room fades into darkness and my world is only him. The tempestuous charcoal pools holding me in place, drawing me closer. The heavy raggedness of his breathing. The small but distinct pressure of his little finger pressing against my thumb. The spicy citrus tinged with a masculine scent of the outdoors that’s uniquely him.
This can’t only be one-sided. My mind is groggy, drunk from the presence of Ryland Anderson.
After another second, he straightens up, his lips curled in a half-snarl, in disgust. Danger. He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets and stalks off, taking the maelstrom away with him, leaving me breathless all the same.
I flip over the paper and see his elegant, masculine scrawl on top.
“Strength is the morality of the man who stands out from the rest.”
