I watch his eyes close as he sucks in air. When he opens them and turns his gaze on me, his hazelnut eyes are filled with inner turmoil. “Cash, what I did crossed so many lines, and I can’t apologize enough. Hell, I should’ve apologized much sooner. It never, ever should’ve happened. I shouldn’t have even been drinking with you. I’m so sorry, and I completely understand if you’d rather switch to being an aide to a different professor. Switch classes.”

My stomach drops. What?! Switch classes?! No.

“Hey, no. That isn’t necessary. I’m an adult and I’m responsible for my own actions. I’m just as much at fault. I’m cool pretending it never happened if you are. I don’t think you took advantage of me or anything.”

His face screws up. “You don’t want to switch professors?”

“God, no. It’s my senior year and you’ve been my English professor every year. We work well together. Switching now would suck.”

“Okay. Well, you have my word it will never happen again. I’ll see you tomorrow in class, Cash.”

“Alright, have a good one,” I say, getting out of the car and walking toward the house. I don’t run into anyone on my way up to my room, which I’m happy about, and when I plop down on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind replays Friday night, the kiss, and the conversation we just had.

“You have my word it will never happen again.”

Well, that’s a fucking bummer.

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Stone Philips

He has a hickey on his neck…

Cash has a fucking hickey. Right there on his neck for anyone to see. Why does that make me so angry?!

It’s been three weeks since the inappropriate kiss in Portland that knocked me right off my axis. Neither of us has spoken a word about it since that afternoon in my car when I dropped him off after the trip.

It’s best that way, honestly.

Things in class have been normal. Professional. From the outside, nothing looks different or feels awkward. On the inside, though, I’m drowning. My mind constantly takes me back to that night, him pinned against the side of the pub, my lips moving against his, the way he looked after I pulled away—sexy, flustered, turned-on.

I can’t even count how many times since that night I’ve fucked my fist, remembering the sounds that came from him or the way his body felt crushed against mine. It’s so fucking bad. I’m his goddamn professor and mentor.

Student-teacher relationships are strictly off limits for a reason.