by Vi Keeland
At one point, after he removed the tire, he lifted it to put into my trunk and his T-shirt rose, exposing two, deep-set indents that formed a V at the bottom of his chiseled abs. I had the strongest urge to reach out and touch his stomach, run my fingers through the thin trails of hair that ran down from his belly button and dipped into the black band of his underwear, which was slightly exposed.
He placed the deflated tire in my trunk and went to work installing the donut.
“You really should have a full-size spare,” he said as he tightened the new tire. “These little donuts aren’t safe. They throw the balance of the car off, and if you get into an accident driving on it, you’re more likely to flip.”
Every once in a while he looked up at me, and I almost got caught checking him out. I really needed to distract myself, so I went into the car and grabbed my phone to look up the nearest tire shop.
The sun was setting as he loaded the jack back into the trunk and slammed it shut. Even though it had cooled off a bit, it was still so humid. Caine was sweaty, and his T-shirt was definitely ruined.
“I think I owe you a T-shirt,” I said, eyeing the grease all over it.
He looked down. “As long as it’s ruined, might as well make good use of it.” Caine wiped both his greasy hands on his chest, streaking lines across the remaining white of his shirt. He then proceeded to reach back and tug the dirty T-shirt over his head.
Getting the full view of his incredible body, I think my jaw nearly reached the ground. I had no idea if he noticed my staring, because I was unable to lift my eyes from feasting on the sight. He used the shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and then cleaned off his hands some more. I was beginning to sweat myself, even though I hadn’t exerted an ounce of physical energy.
“Do you know where the nearest tire shop is?”
“Umm…it’s only about three blocks from here.”
“Give me a minute to throw my shirt back on and I’ll follow you.”
What a shame. “Okay. Thank you.”
I sat inside my car for a minute, glad for a chance to collect my thoughts before I had to drive. How long had it been since I’d had sex? Eight months? God, I probably should’ve done the deed with Mason last night just to satisfy my libido. A little show of abs and muscle, and my panties were wet. I felt like a horny seventeen year old.
By the time we dropped the car at Tire Express, it was almost seven-thirty, and they told me I’d have to pick it up in the morning. Caine stayed by my side the entire time and even dealt with picking out a tire that was affordable when the salesperson tried to sell me one that cost more than I earned in tips in a week at O’Leary’s.
“I feel like a broken record,” I said once we were settled inside Caine’s car. “I’m either apologizing or thanking you.”
“No problem. You still feel up to going over the curriculum and working on a game plan for the semester?” He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. I can drop you at home if you’re tired.”
“I’m a night owl. Mornings are my issue.”
He nodded. “Okay, then.”
Just before he started the car, my stomach let out the most horrific growl. It was a loud, rumbling, gurgly sound that echoed through the quiet car. There was no trying to pretend it didn’t happen.
Caine grinned. “How about we work on our planning over something to eat?”
I was clearly starving. I’d planned to eat something before I left work, but then we got busy, and I didn’t want to stop somewhere and chance being late. Today was just filled with great planning.
“I’d love that.”
He started the car. “What are you in the mood for?”
“I’m easy. Whatever you want is fine with me.”
“How about a burger? Do you eat meat?”
Thankfully it was dark enough to hide my blush. “Umm…yes. I eat meat.” And apparently that’s exactly what my body and brain were in the mood for.
Rachel
“For the record, I wasn’t feeding you a line the first time I saw you. You do look familiar.” Caine sipped his beer.
The fact that he’d ordered a beer struck me as odd. I’d have taken him for something fancier—expensive wine or aged scotch, perhaps. Seeing him relaxed with a beer in his hand had me viewing the uptight professor in a whole different light. Or perhaps it was his abs that had adjusted my thinking.
“We’ve probably seen each other around campus,” I said. Although I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen him before. I’d remember a man who looked like him.
“Maybe.”
“Do you go to O’Leary’s often?” I asked.
“The other night was the first time I was ever there. Stopped on the way home from a friend’s who just moved in a few blocks away.”
“Well, basically, I’m either at O’Leary’s, on campus, or home sleeping, or studying. Not much time for anything else these days.” I pointed a mozzarella stick at him and smirked. “And that’s not due to change. According to People magazine, this is going to be a year of all work and no play.”
“Oh yeah? People magazine? Sounds like a solid source to set your expectations for the future.”
“I think so. I did answer five questions to get that prophecy, so it’s pretty reliable. One wrong answer and I could have been doomed for a year of adventure or soothing self discovery.”
Caine chuckled. “Well, try to squeeze in a little playtime. You know the old saying—too much work and no play can make life dull.”
“I’m good with dull. I’ve retired from being exciting.”
“Retired from excitement? How old are you? Twenty-two, twenty-three?”
“Twenty-five.” I shrugged. “I got my adventure quota in during my teen years, which were out of control. I’m playing catch-up with my adult life. Busy is good. Adulting is good.”
Caine scratched his chin. “Out of control, huh? Like what?”
“No way, Professor. I’ve made enough bad impressions on you to last a while. I’ll save some of those stories for after I’ve shown you how smart and talented I am.”
Caine smiled. It was the first unrestrained smile he’d let slip past his guard. Leaning back into his seat, he slung one arm casually over the back of the booth. “Alright. Then tell me about you and music. I’ll get to hear a little bit about your smarts and talent, and it’ll help me plan which lessons you should teach.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Why music?”
“You mean, why did I pick music for a major?”
“No. You obviously picked the major because you love music. But why do you love music?”
“That’s a really broad question and kind of hard to capture in a few sentences.”
“Give it a shot. There’s no wrong or right answer.”
“Okay.” I thought for a few long moments. “Because music expresses all the things people can’t say, but are impossible to keep quiet.”
He didn’t immediately respond. “Sing or play an instrument?” he asked after letting it sink in.
I smiled. Having been a music major for undergraduate, I knew my answer always confused people. “Neither. I can hold a tune, but I don’t sing exceptionally well, and there isn’t a particular instrument I excel at, like most music majors.”
Basically, eighty-five percent of all music majors either sang or played guitar or piano. The remaining fifteen percent were the random drummers or saxophonists.
“Can’t say I hear that often.”
“I know. I learned to play a few instruments decently during my undergraduate work, but I don’t want to be a musician or a rock star. My master’s degree will be in musical therapy.”
The waitress came and delivered plates with giant burgers. I’d hoped it would transition some of the attention away from me, but Caine must have been busy piecing the little bits I’d already shared together.
“I’m guessing whatever music helped you express that couldn’t be said might be the same thing tha
t caused you to have those out-of-control years.”
“Am I that transparent, or are you that good at reading people?”
His eyes studied mine. “Neither. Let’s just say I can relate well.”
I nodded. “What about you? Did you want to be a rock star?”
“Something like that.”
I grinned before shoving the burger into my mouth. “Wow. Thanks for sharing. You’re an open book.”
Caine chuckled. “Are you always such a wiseass?”
“Are you always so vague and dodgy when asked a direct question?”
He stared at me while he chewed and swallowed. “Alright. I wanted to be a rock star when I was younger. Is that a straightforward enough answer for you?”
I grinned. “Do you sing or play an instrument?”
“I played the drums.”
“Play or played?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Does that bother you?”
He chuckled. “And there’s another one. Eat your burger, Ms. Martin.”
After that, we ate in relative quiet. But it was a comfortable kind of quiet. Caine cleared his plate, and I was still picking at my French fries when his cell phone rang. Looking at the name on the screen, he excused himself, saying he needed to take the call, and he left the table to speak in private. We weren’t on a date or anything, but it made me wonder if he was married and didn’t want his wife to know he was with someone. Cheater Owen was still fresh in my head.
When he came back, Caine apologized. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” Yet for some completely unwarranted reason, I was annoyed. “I’m done eating. We can get started. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
Once the busboy cleared the table, Caine took a folder out of his bag, and we began to go through the syllabus. We did some rough lesson planning for my first lectures and talked about meeting after the next class to finish going through the rest of the planning we needed to do. I’d be sitting in on three of his five classes and teaching one of my own. Caine asked about my work schedule and scheduled the extra-help sessions I would hold around my hours at O’Leary’s, which was thoughtful. When we were done, he ordered a coffee.
“So, what rumors have you heard about me?” he asked, leaning back in the booth.
“Do you really want to know?”
“I’m sure I’ve heard most of them. But let’s lay them on the table, and I’ll tell you if they’re true or not.”
“Okay. Well, for starters I heard you were a stickler for punctuality. I guess I don’t really need to ask if that one’s true.”
“I guess not.” He smiled. “Anything else?”
“You fired your last TA because she wouldn’t grade hard enough.”
He nodded. “That’s true, too. Although you’re missing part of the story. She wasn’t grading her boyfriend hard enough. Unless she was grading the things he wanted to do to her…because those were pretty well thought out. I’d know since that’s what I found he was writing on his tests. No actual music answers, yet he was getting all As.”
“Oh.”
“Anything else?”
I have no idea why, but I decided to embellish the last rumor to satisfy my own curiosity. “You’re married and you almost got fired for sleeping with your students.”
The look on his face told me I’d hit a sore spot. Caine’s jaw clenched, and his full lips thinned as they drew into a line. “Not married and stopped sleeping with my students after the first year.”
I crinkled my nose. “So you used to sleep with your students?”
“I was young and stupid. The first year I taught, I spent almost all of my time on campus. It was the only place I met people.”
“Ever hear of match.com?”
“Of course, wiseass. But people are rarely what they seem online.”
I scoffed. “Tell me about it.”
Caine raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you know from experience.”
“Just last night in fact.”
“And…”
“And he only had one thing on his mind.”
“Sex?”
I nodded. “Men can be such assholes. No offense.”
That damn lip twitched again. “No offense taken. Unless of course you’re calling me an asshole—clearly it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Do you spend weeks talking to a woman and telling her you’re looking for a relationship and then show up on the first date wanting nothing but sex?”
Caine’s gaze shifted between my eyes. “I’m not looking for a relationship. But I’m upfront about that to try and avoid any expectations. Although I can tell you that even putting it out there from the get go—women don’t always hear what I’m telling them. They hear what they want to hear.” He paused. “Guess you could say women can be assholes, too. No offense.”
I laughed. “None taken.”
His eyes roamed my face. “Can I offer you some advice?”
“Sure.”
“You’re beautiful. Any man who tells you he doesn’t have thoughts of having sex with you running through his brain the moment he meets you is full of shit. But a man who can’t tell that isn’t what you’re looking for isn’t paying attention. Chances are that translates into a lack of attention in the sack anyway, and he isn’t worth your time.”
He was absolutely right, and there would be time to analyze his theory later, but in that moment, I was wondering one thing…is he thinking about having sex with me right now?
Rachel
Oral perception.
Okay, so maybe the class was Aural Perception. Whatever. My mind was definitely all over the place as I sat in the back, watching Professor West teach about how different people—philosophers, composers, medical professionals, teenagers—conceptualize the act of listening. I remembered taking the course in my first year of undergrad school. I wasn’t sure if I had matured and could appreciate a lecture like this more at twenty-five than at barely twenty-one. At least now the particular professor lecturing was able to hold my rapt attention.
While I was busy listening, the beanie-wearing guy next to me was drawing nudes. He’d sketched a page of faceless bodies that were actually pretty amazing, even if they were sort of lewd and graphic. He shrugged when he caught me looking, smiled and whispered, “Gotta do something while this full-of-himself jerk drones on.”
Caine wasn’t a professor who sat at his desk to lecture. He wandered around the room and interacted with the students. “Listening can be broken down into categories: informative, appreciative, critical, relationship, perceptive, discriminative. The method and timing of delivery can affect what we hear. Tell me, where do you listen to music, how is it delivered, and who was the last musician you listened to?”
A bunch of hands flew up. A woman in the front answered, “On the train, delivered from my iPhone, and Adele.”
A male student responded, “I work at Madison Square Garden, so I get a lot of live music delivered at work. Last jam was Maroon 5 warming up.”
The lecture hall had two sets of stairs, one on either side of the wide middle row of seats. I was sitting at the top, in an aisle seat next to the left staircase. Caine walked up a few steps at a time, taking responses from different students as he went.
A few rows ahead of me, a guy with a long beard said, “In the truck. I work for UPS and listen through an aux cord. Last night was an old Slayer album.”
A woman on the opposite side of the stairs said, “At work. It’s piped in at the doctor’s office where I work as a receptionist. And it’s the same instrumental music over and over.”
“Seems like most people are getting their music delivered while traveling or at work. Anyone listen while doing anything else?” Caine walked up a few more stairs and stopped two below where I was seated. It gave me the perfect excuse to look at him, without overtly appearing to check him out. He spoke to another nearby student as I ogled.
Today he wore a dark suit vest button
ed over a white, textured dress shirt, sans tie. I wasn’t exactly a fashionista, but I knew expensive clothing when I saw it, and Caine shelled out more for his dress shirts than I did for most of my complete outfits. He had a rich elegance about him, even though he’d paired the shirt and vest with a pair of jeans and black chucks. His skin was naturally sun-kissed, so I was reasonably certain he was European in descent—perhaps Greek or Italian. I couldn’t quite place which, but whatever it was, it produced one hell of a chiseled man. His nose was straight and masculine, and from a profile view was as damn close to perfect as I’d ever seen. From the side, his dark lashes were magnificent. Any woman would pay a small fortune for the lushness that framed those chocolate-colored eyes. His jaw line was peppered with fresh stubble, and I found myself wondering what that might feel like against my skin. I was lost in that thought when I realized he was now looking right at me. He squinted, and I saw a hint of amusement in his eyes, even though he didn’t smile.
When he took another step up, I tried to seem nonchalant, as if I hadn’t been worshiping his ancestors, and looked forward—only to realize I was now perfectly aligned to stare at his crotch. I attempted to find somewhere else to put my eyes, but—was that...was that something in his pocket...or…? By the outline, I was pretty sure it wasn’t something. Or actually it was something—something damn impressive.
Caine twisted at the waist to call on a woman on the other side of the stairs, and his jeans pulled more snugly, confirming exactly what I was looking at. Figures the gorgeous man also had a big dick. I turned my head, needing to look away from his thick bulge, and beanie artist gave me a flirty smile. I smiled back…right before Caine called on him.
Beanie artist was the first student the professor called on who hadn’t volunteered by holding up his hand. Maybe he’d caught what the guy was doing and decided to bring him back into the fold of the class.
“What about you?” Caine’s voice was curt. “What was the last song you listened to, and how was it delivered?”