My heart is still hammering in my chest. I can barely feel my legs as I blurt, "I…I don't think we've met before."
His mouth tilts in the faintest smirk. "No, of course we haven't. But your face? Hard to forget."
My stomach sinks. Oh no. No, no, no. Where the hell could he have possibly—
"Your picture was on every bus stop, every shop window, basically everywhere I turned five years ago." His gaze lingers on me, dark but strangely amused. "Rachel Miller. The chess princess. You won the international chess wars."
And just like that, my spirit crashes through the floor. Chess. Freaking. Chess.
I had spent years burying that version of me. The awkward braces, the glasses sliding down my nose, the frizzy ponytail, the girl who spent weekends hunched over a board while everyone else went to parties.
It would've been so much better if he had sex dreams about me. Seriously. Way better.
"Yeah," I mutter, forcing a tight smile. "I'm that Rachel Miller."
His brows rise, and to my surprise, his voice softens. "Wow…that's impressive. Now I'm even more glad to have you in my class."
My heart flutters despite myself. Glad I'm in his class. Glad. As in, he's happy I exist in his orbit? Okay, calm down, Rachel. Breathe. Be cool.
And then, of course, I ruin it. My notebook slips out of my hand and lands at his feet with a humiliating little thud.
"Oh God," I whisper, dropping to my knees before he can even think about moving. My fingers scramble for the notebook, but of course, my eyes just had to flick upward…
And land on the very obvious bulge in his perfectly tailored pants.
Kill me. Right here.
I just...stare. Like an idiot. Like a complete, socially deranged idiot.
"Are you alright?" he asks, voice low and filled with curiosity.
I jolt back up so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. "Yes! I'm good. Perfect. Never better." I reply, clutching my notebook to my chest.
His eyes hold mine a second too long, as though he knows exactly where my gaze had wandered. And then that faint smirk returns. "I'll see you in the next class, Rachel Miller."
My knees nearly buckle. He says my name like it's both a promise and a warning. Then he turns and walks away, leaving me clutching my notebook and wondering how the hell I'm supposed to survive this semester without combusting.
I practically float home. My chest is still buzzing, my body humming like I swallowed electricity. He knew me. Sure, it was the braces-and-frizz version, but hell—Professor MacLean remembered me. My fantasy man was real, breathing, impossibly hot, and apparently just as capable of turning my brain to mush as he was in my daydreams.
By the time I shut my bedroom door, I'm vibrating with it. I can't stop replaying his voice, that sexy smirk when he said my name. My ruined panties are still damp. A win is a win, and God, I need to celebrate.
I strip my jeans off in a rush and sprawl across my bed, yanking open my drawer. My hand closes around my rose toy like it's salvation. The second it hums to life, I'm already parting my thighs, already soaking for him.
"Fuck," I whisper, pressing it to my clit. My hips jolt. My back arches.
In my head, it's him. His big hands tugging my shirt up, palming my breast, pinching my nipple until I moan. His mouth at my ear, that low, accented growl whispering exactly how he's going to ruin me.
"Yes…oh God—" I gasp, tweaking my nipple with one hand while the rose sucks tight against me. The wet noises coming off me are filthy, but I don't care. I want him so badly.
I imagine him climbing over me, grinding that thick bulge against my soaked pussy, sliding his hand between my thighs, feeling how desperate I am. My legs spread wider. I'm panting now, moaning, rocking up into the toy like I'm chasing him.
"Oh, Professor…" I groan, and I don't even care that I sound like a deranged slut. I imagine him forcing my legs open wider, sinking into me hard, whispering how tight I feel around him—
The door slams open.
"Rachel—"
"Mom?!" I shriek, scrambling upright, yanking the blanket over me so fast I almost choke myself. The rose drops to the floor with a humiliating buzz.
Her eyes go wide. "Oh my God!" She covers her face with her hands. "I—Jesus, Rachel—I was calling you for dinner!"
My face is nuclear. "Get OUT!"
She slams the door shut again, muttering apologies as she goes, and I collapse back against my pillow, still breathless, still soaking wet, and absolutely mortified.
Fantastic. My fantasy man is real. And my mother just walked in on me moaning his title like a porn star.
I am so, so screwed.