When It’s Love, An Excerpt

Professor Sparling, sexiest man alive, comes in late to class.   “I’m sorry,” he says.  “The storm slowed me down.”  He takes off his wet brown coat and hangs it on the back of his chair.  No one has ever looked so insanely hot while hanging a coat.  Every time Professor Sparling moves his hands I imagine them touching me.  I’m completely mesmerized as he smiles at us, his twelve writing students, sitting around tables in a U-shaped formation.  I wonder if anyone can tell how attracted I am to our professor.  Is it obvious that I’m gawking?

Take off your pants, Sydney

Today Professor Sparling is returning our personal essays along with our final grades for the semester.  He’s known to be a tough grader, but I’m not worried about that.  What I’m really anticipating are his comments on my essay, and I’m terrified that he’ll discuss the essays in front of the whole class.  If he talks about my work here in front of the other students, I will die on the spot.

The room is quiet as Professor Sparling arranges his laptop and papers on the desk.  The only sounds are from his sorting of things and rain pelting the windows of Union Hall, the oldest building on the Addison College campus.  “It sure is cold outside, but it’s too warm in here,” Professor Sparling says, delivering the line like he’s straight out of a bad porn movie.

I can’t take my eyes off Professor Sparling as he pulls his olive colored sweater off over his head.  Beneath it, he’s wearing a light blue button down (oh, please take that off that layer, too) and dark tight jeans that make him look more cowboy than professor.  His black hair is still damp from the rain.  That hair…   Every Tuesday evening for the last fourteen weeks I’ve been staring at that hair, dreaming of running my fingers through it.  I have imagined what the skin on his cheeks feels like with just a trace of stubble.  Sometimes when he’s talking during class I tune out his real words and pretend I’m alone with him in my tiny apartment, and he puts his hand under my chin and nudges my face upward to look him right in the eyes.  “Take off your clothes, Sydney,” he says.

In reality, though, Professor Sparling has barely looked at me all semester.

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