Ace
There’s something seriously wrong with me. The other day when fucking Professor VanCourt had me writing lines for him—so juvenile by the way—my dick was hard. We’re talking cock-splitting, mind-meltingly hard. The more he berated me, the more agonizing my boner became.
Try doing a training session strapped into the off-ice simulator with one of those fucking things. It wouldn’t go away.
Is the untamed professor hot as sin? Yes. Holy hell. And he’s unconventionally hot, which is my favorite kind of hot. With that wild beard, jet-black hair, worn jeans, and beaten-up tactical boots, it looked like someone abducted him from the wilderness and dropped him in the classroom. His eyes.Fuck.So, feral. Like, I’m talking “raised by wolves” feral. I might have been the first human he’s talked to in a while, judging by how many of his words were just grunts.
And he’s big. A mammoth. It’s not often I come across anyone bigger than me. His hands. Massive. A barbarian like him’s gotta have hands as rough as tree bark. I wanted themon me. Men like him don’t come along often. I mean, I guess Coach is kind of like him, because, yeah, they’re totally related. Besides the shared surname, their family traits give them away. Coach doesn’t have the same level of the fucking predatory countenance the professor has, though. Maybe some, but it’s as if they were raised by a different species. The man even moves like a cougar, ready to strike. Jeez. What made the guy so undomesticated?
Don’t know how I found the courage to speak to him, let alone be a smart-ass—that’s a question for another day, or never.
Point is, I don’t think his criminally good looks were the only reason I was sporting wood like I never have.
There was something about the way he put me in my place. Like he had no fucks to give. And he punished me. I can’t remember the last time I was punished other than the standard stuff at practice teams suffer when their coach is pissed. I wasn’t even spanked as a kid, yet all I could imagine Professor VanCourt doing was spanking my misbehaved ass. There were a few special moments there when I thought he would.
Speaking of Coach, their being related is even worse news for me. I can’t go to him for help. Or, well, I can try, but I doubt he’s gonna do much.
I guess I could go running to my dad or the dean if I really wanted to, but I’m surprised to find that I don’t. This is too fucking exciting in ways I can’t explain.
But all the real reasons I need to worry about this new professor aren’t as pressing as the fucking sexual awakening that took place. What do I even call a sexual awakening like this? His strict, authoritarian voice got me hot and horny. I liked being put in my place by him. Well, maybe “liked” is a strong word, but my dick liked it. Fuck, my dick wants it—wants him to put me in my place again.
It’s not that other authority figures haven’t tried, but not only did I walk all over them, I’ve never reacted to someone like this.
Ever.
I like to be the one calling the shots, dominating in the bedroom, and even a little out of the bedroom.
Not with him, though.
Fuck, I want him to own me. I’d actually fucking let him own me.
Thinking of him now, the veins in his forearms, the sheer command with every move of his muscles—my body shivers.
“Pass,” Shep yells as if we’re doing the juvenile drills Coach gets us to do when we’re being fucking juveniles. A massive cheese wheel barrels my way, and I only just stop it with my quick hands. We’ve rolled up to the Delta Gamma sorority house a little early to help set up, something I didn’t have time for if I wanted to get my English reading done.
Yet, here I am.
The Delta Gamma house is old. A sprawling and elegant Victorian-style house, upgraded on the inside to provide modern accommodations to the bougie bitches inside. That’s fact, not a judgment. I’m a bougie bitch myself and support their choices. I love the finer things, and I approve of their lodgings. Call me a bit old-fashioned, but I like to take care of the ladies who live here a little bit.
It’s not that they’re incapable humans—Mom was always capable—but as even she said, “I like a load off now and then, and I’m fully willing to admit that I love your dad’s big strong form in a dark alley.”
I understood the load off thing, everyone wants that from time to time no matter how capable they are, but Mom took self-defense classes and shit. She was a hockey player. She still liked him beside her at night.
If someone as tough as Mom wanted that, I thought some of these ladies would too, so I’ve always offered the team at their service—we’re just a call away if they need a walk across campus, especially in the dark. We’re happy to do the icky chores of the house they’d rather not do, so they can use the money they’d save hiring someone for fun shit. Plus, donating time and money to their sorority always feels like I’m doing something for Mom. It’s probably the only thing Dad doesn’t come down on my ass for these days.
Celeste, wearing a shirt that just barely covers her bouncy breasts and tiny little shorts that can’t be warm enough for the chilly Seattle weather, bounds down the porch stairs, gripping my arm. Celeste happens to be the Delta Gamma president, so not only are we friends, but we also spend a lot of time organizing events and fundraisers together. Our boards are separate, but there’s a coalition of sorts between us.
“Hey, Ace.” She shivers.
“Jeez, Celly. Here, take my jacket if you’re gonna be out here.” I’m not gonna tell her what to wear, but I can’t be cozy and warm when she isn’t, even if it’s her own damn fault.
Shep raises a brow, and I know what he’s thinking, but it’s not like that. I’m simply being a gentleman. Celeste and I are friends, we’ve always been friends. If I was gonna sleep with anyone tonight, it’s the cute little freshman I noticed in the cafeteria, the same one I invited, hoping he’d show with a few of his friends.
Or you can find out where VanCourt’s staying,the devil on my shoulder whispers.
Yeah, that’s not gonna work. He looks like the kind of guy who would shoot first and ask questions later. He also looks like the kind to keep himself fully armed just in case he needs to go John Wick on someone’s ass. I don’t need my kneecaps blownoff trying to get him to do what I can simply get him to do in class, thank you very much.
Because, apparently, what I need him to do is draw hard lines in the sand and chastise me, and he’s more than willing. Only I know what it does to me. Haven’t told a fucking soul—not even Bender.
