Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Professor Thomas walks in, dress shirt rolled to the elbows, no jacket today. He has a stack of blue books and a coffee, which he sets down with calculated care. When he turns to write the day’s theme on the board—OBSESSION—I get a perfect view of his back, muscles pressing the fabric. He’s so hot it should be illegal. Honestly, it probably is in three states.
The class starts, and the front-row girls are practically vibrating in their seats, one-upping each other with their most thoughtful facial expressions. But Victoria/Veronica takes it a step further; right as Thomas launches into his lecture, she stretches, slow and feline, her arms over her head, chest straining the seams of her top. It’s not subtle. She’s stacked, and the movement brings all the male attention in the room to her humongous boobs. Seriously, the old men in oil paintings would blush. She finishes the move with a little shake, her girls bobbling, then drops her arms and grins to herself.
Something competitive and primal flickers in my chest. Who does she think she is? If this is a contest, I’m not here to lose.
I wait until Thomas starts pacing, reading from his own annotated paperback of Moby Dick. The moment his eyes sweep to the back, I catch them and hold, like a dare. Then I tilt my head, letting my blonde hair fall in a slow, shiny wave over one shoulder. With my left hand, I twirl the end of it, winding it around my finger, then letting it unspool. I do it again. And again. I add a slow, crooked smile—not a bimbo smile, but the kind that suggests I know exactly what I’m doing, and it’s dangerous for everyone involved.
He keeps talking, but his rhythm wobbles for half a second.
I up the ante. I pick up my pencil—pink, mechanical, with a bitten-off eraser—and set it gently between my teeth. Not biting, not chewing—just letting it ride there, lips a little parted, tongue flicking out to taste the plastic. I know what it looks like. I want him to know, too.
He gets to the part about the whale’s “divine malice,” and there’s a tiny stutter in his voice. “Uh. Divine malice—excuse me—Melville means… He’s talking about, uh, fate. Destiny.” Thomas’s eyes flick to the back row. To me.
My heart is hammering, but I keep the show going. This is better than Adderall, better than Red Bull. I cross my legs in the other direction, making sure he can see, then slowly, as if absent-mindedly, I tug at the hem of my skirt, pulling it up a fraction more. My thighs are bare. I’d worn a thong today just for this, but now I kind of wish I hadn’t worn anything at all.
I uncross, recross. No one has any idea of what I’m doing because I’m the only one in the back row today.
Professor Thomas tries to regain his footing, but now he’s reading his notes with both hands, knuckles white on the page. There’s a bloom of pink rising up his neck—barely there, but unmistakable.
Victoria/Veronica is watching him, confused, and for a second, her smirk falters. She senses what’s happening, even if the rest of the class is oblivious.
The lecture resumes. Thomas calls on a few people, never looking at me directly, but always, always glancing my way when he thinks nobody is watching. I don’t give him a break. I chew my pencil, tongue curling around the tip, eyes never leaving his.
He goes back to the board to write a quote. “The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents’ beds, unerringly I rush!” His voice cracks ever so slightly on “rush.”
I decide it’s time for the main event.
I shift in my seat, inching forward. My thighs open, just a little, but enough for anyone standing up front to get a direct line of sight. I can feel the air on my thighs, the cool breeze over my heated pussy. I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’ll notice, if he’ll acknowledge my offering.
He notices.
Thomas stops mid-sentence. There’s a heartbeat of dead air. He blinks, then makes a show of shuffling his notes, but his hand is trembling. His eyes dart to mine, hungry and unsure, and for one delicious second, I feel like I own him.
In the front row, Victoria/Veronica twists in her seat, trying to see what’s going on. She can’t, not from her angle. The rest of the class keeps scrolling, tapping, doodling whales or writing lyrics in the margins.
Thomas clears his throat and tries again. “Obsession is…uh, it’s a hunger. It’s the inability to let go. Melville—he’s telling us that Ahab is doomed, but also, that he’s alive in a way most people never get to be. Because he wants something so much it burns.”