Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 36

I try to focus on Cassian's introduction to contemporary feminist literature, I really do, but my brain keeps short-circuiting every time he glances in my direction.

Which is often. Way too often for someone who's supposed to be delivering an academic lecture to thirty students.

"The intersection of gender, power, and narrative voice in twentieth-century literature." He's saying, but all I can think about is the way his dress shirt had clung to his chest when it was soaked with my coffee.

"The way authors like Virginia Woolf and Simone de Beauvoir challenged traditional patriarchal structures through."

Our eyes meet again, and heat crawls up my neck like I'm fourteen and getting caught staring at the cute boy in algebra class. Except this is infinitely worse because the cute boy is now my professor and I've already made the worst possible first impression.

"He keeps looking at you," Cleo whispers, nudging me with barely contained amusement.

"Stop," I hiss back, trying to sink lower in my seat. "Maybe if I make myself small enough, I'll disappear entirely."

"Why are you being weird? It's not like you've never had a professor notice you before." She pauses, studying my face. "Oh my God. You know him, don't you?"

I close my eyes and pray for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. "That's my coffee victim from this morning."

"Your what?"

"The guy I ran into before Morrison's class. I destroyed his shirt and called the situation 'fucking shit' right to his face."

Cleo's eyes widen to cartoonish proportions before she claps both hands over her mouth to stifle what sounds suspiciously like hysterical laughter.

"It's not funny," I whisper desperately.

"You're right," she manages through her fingers. "It's not funny. It's absolutely fucking hilarious."

"Cleo!"

"I'm sorry, but you are definitely cursed when it comes to professors, aren't you?"

She's trying so hard not to laugh that her whole body is shaking.

"First the whole Adrian situation, now you're assaulting the replacement with beverages. What's next? Are you going to accidentally set the next guy on fire?"

"Don't give the universe ideas," I mutter, slumping further down in my seat.

"I mean, at least this time you didn't sleep with him first before causing property damage."

"Can you please stop talking about my disasters like they're entertainment?"

"They kind of are, though. In a tragic, romantic comedy sort of way." Cleo grins wickedly. "Besides, he doesn't look traumatized. If anything, he looks amused."

I risk another glance toward the front of the room.

Cassian is explaining his approach to close textual analysis, gesturing with his hands in a way that draws attention to those distracting forearms, but every few seconds his gaze drifts back to me with what definitely looks like fondness rather than horror.

"See?" Cleo whispers. "That's not the look of a man who's planning to file assault charges. That's the look of a man who thinks you're cute."

"Miss Hale, Miss Rossi," Cassian's voice suddenly cuts through our whispered chaos with gentle authority. "Since you seem so engaged in discussion, perhaps Ms. Hale could share her summer reading analysis with the class?"

My stomach drops through the floor and possibly into the basement of the building below us. "I'm sorry, Professor Harrison. We were just…"

"Discussing the material, I hope?" His tone is light, but there's something in his eyes that suggests he knows exactly what we were whispering about.

"Of course," Cleo says smoothly. "Sophie was just saying how much she loves close textual analysis of feminist theory."

I'm going to murder you, I telegraph to her with my eyes, but she just grins back innocently.

"Excellent," Cassian says, and that dimpled smile appears again. "Then she won't mind sharing her insights with the rest of us."

I fumble through my bag with shaking hands, looking for my Virginia Woolf essay.

I'd worked on it for weeks over the summer, analyzing the stream-of-consciousness technique in Mrs. Dalloway and its relationship to feminist narrative structures. It was good work—maybe the best academic writing I'd ever done.

My fingers close around what feels like the right paper, and I pull it out without really looking.

"Go on," Cleo whispers encouragingly. "You've got this."

I approach the podium on unsteady legs, hyperaware that every student in the room is watching my walk of academic shame. Cassian meets me halfway, accepting the paper with that same easy smile he'd given me in the hallway.

"Let's see what insights Ms. Hale has about feminist literary theory," he says, settling back against his desk. He unfolds the paper with professional precision, clearing his throat. "Ahem... 'Chapter One: When Darkness Falls, So Do Panties.'"

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. Somewhere in the back rows, quiet laughter rolled through.

My face drains of all blood so fast I'm surprised I don't faint on the spot.

Good Lord, anything but that!

"'Seraphina's heaving breasts pressed against the velvet of her corseted gown…'"

Cassian's eyebrows are climbing toward his hairline as he continues reading, and I realize with growing horror that instead of my essay, I've handed him the ridiculous romance parody that Cleo and I had written during a wine-fueled study session.

"'She knew the mysterious stranger would claim her completely, his throbbing manhood—'"

"Stop!" I practically shriek, lunging forward to snatch the paper from his hands. "That's not… That's the wrong— Oh my God, I'm going to die."

The color has completely drained from my face, but Cassian doesn't look horrified.

If anything, he looks like he's fighting back laughter as he quickly scans the rest of the page, which I now remember contains detailed descriptions of throbbing cocks, dripping pussies, and scenarios that have absolutely nothing to do with Virginia Woolf.

"Well," he says, folding the paper neatly and handing it back to me, "that's certainly a... creative interpretation of feminist narrative structures."

A few students snicker, but it's not cruel laughter. It's the kind of amused murmur that happens when everyone recognizes they're witnessing something mortifying but harmless.

"Accidents happen.” He tells the class with a gentle smile. “In fact, I once accidentally submitted a fluorography as my thesis bibliography. The doctor's conclusions were satisfactory, if any of you are wondering."

The tension breaks as students laugh, and I feel some of the mortification ease from my chest.

"Why don't you take your seat, Sophie," Cassian says kindly. "We'll catch up after class."

I practically flee back to my desk, clutching the evidence of my humiliation like it might spontaneously combust.

"Holy shit," Cleo whispers as I slump into my chair. "Did you just hand our professor vampire erotica instead of your feminist theory essay?"

"It wasn't vampire erotica," I hiss back. "It was a parody of paranormal romance that we wrote when we were drunk on wine and making fun of bad Kindle books."

"Same thing. And oh my God, his face when he read the heaving breasts part…"

"I'm transferring schools," I mutter, burying my face in my hands. "I'm transferring to a different continent. I'm becoming a hermit."

But even through my mortification, I can't ignore the warmth spreading through my chest.

After months of Adrian's calculated cruelty, his deliberate humiliations designed to break me down and build me back up in his image, Cassian's gentle rescue feels like mercy I don't deserve.

He could have destroyed me. Could have read the entire thing aloud, could have made me the subject of campus gossip, could have treated me like the disaster I clearly am.

Instead, he saved me.

And for the first time in five months, I'm wondering if maybe, just maybe, there are men in this world who see strength in kindness rather than weakness.