Professor’s Rule 01 - Giving an Inch (2 page)

He should definitely stop admiring himself and snap a picture for his sister.

Not of his ass, though.

He took one picture and waited for the salesman to return, thinking he’d take one more with them pinned as well. The salesman came back and knelt at James’s feet, and hello, wasn’t that a fun and suggestive position? Then he gathered those strategic pinches again and pinned them in place before standing behind James to assess what he’d done. James snapped the picture, trying not to think about the last man who’d stood so close, looming above him and sending electric pulses of awareness zinging through his body.

“What do you think?” the salesman asked, pulling James out of his unwelcome reminiscing.

“I think it looks good. I mean, I think it’s supposed to look good.” He made an exasperated noise. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m not exactly an expert.”

The salesman laughed.

“I’m actually going to text some pictures to my sister to get her advice on the whole thing. Is that sad?”

“Sad for me because it means you don’t trust my opinion.” He put both hands on James’s shoulders and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “Kidding! No, it’s cool, people do that sort of thing all the time. How about I leave you to do that and bring you back a couple more shirt options?”

“Sounds good.” Nodding, James watched in the mirror as the salesman walked away. His mood had taken a sudden dip right at the end there, which he needed to shake himself out of because up until that point he’d been enjoying his almost-not-quite flirtation with the salesman. Paging quickly through the menu on his phone, he fired off a quick text to his sister.

For your approval, J
.

The reply came way quicker than he’d have expected from his sickly sister. Hard to imagine she was waiting by the phone for him to text, but maybe she’d been using it to surf Facebook in bed.

Who’s the pretty salesman, my sweet?

Oh,
shit
.

Shit. Damn. Fuck!
Why
hadn’t he deleted Carson’s name from his fucking address book two years ago? James hated the way his breath caught, hated the way he could hear Carson’s voice drawling that endearment, hated the way he began to sweat, terror and lust sending his pulse and senses into overdrive in an instant.

As he tried to figure out a way to explain the mistake, or even decide whether to ignore it, his phone vibrated again.

Lose the shirt
.

That asshole. James growled at his phone and typed back,
What the hell’s wrong with it?

Isn’t your pretty salesman going to come back with others for you to try on? You don’t want to make him stand around waiting.

Fuck it all. How could he possibly know that?

Of course
he knew. He
always
knew. Just a hint and he knew exactly what James was doing, exactly what he was thinking. He’d known from a single fucking picture that there were
vibes
happening between James and the salesman, after all. Probably getting off on the thought, too.

James was still busy trying to figure out how to put “fuck off” in terms Carson couldn’t fail to understand when the salesman returned, three Oxford shirts hanging from his hands.

“Okay, let’s try these.”

Caught. Trying not to sigh, James started to strip off his shirt. Then his cell phone buzzed again.

Don’t bother getting his name
.

Don’t tell me what to do, you don’t own me.

Anymore. James curled his lip at his phone. Stuffing it in his pocket, he smiled brightly at the salesman.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Satish.” Those full lips curled into a smile as he handed the first shirt over. “I don’t wear a name tag because I hate hearing people mangle it.”

“Fair enough. Well, I’m James. Pretty hard to mess that up.”

He kept expecting his phone to vibrate again, but it was ominously silent as he shrugged into the shirt and buttoned it up. Once again, Satish stepped behind him and grabbed the fabric, drawing it a little more snugly against his torso.

“A size smaller, definitely. And what would you think about a vest? Something that emphasizes the lines of your body instead of obscuring them?”

Oh, Satish, you are most definitely flirting.
“What lines? I’m a beanpole—albeit a short one. It’s okay to admit it.” He flashed Satish a crooked grin in the mirror.

“Not at all,” Satish countered smoothly, and set his hand in the lower curve of James’s back. “See, right here? There’s a dip here. Put a vest on, you’ll see it.”

His hand felt wonderful, like a lover’s. A little possessive.

The phone in James’s pocket picked that moment to buzz. “Sorry,” he said to Satish and pulled it out.

What’s his name, then?

None of your business
, James texted back and stuffed his phone away again. He smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Nosy sister.”

“Text her about the vest. Go on.”

Oh, fuck it all to hell.

Salesman says I should try a vest. Thoughts?

Salesman has good taste. Do it.

Do it. Those two words sent searing need zinging through James’s body, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Like iron shavings lifting toward a magnet. Carson had always been like that. Magnetic.
Electrifying
.

But electricity could kill you if you weren’t careful. Best to remember that.

James cleared his throat. “She says the vest is a good idea.”

Be sure to send me another picture when you find the right one
.

Satish smiled, clearly pleased with the consensus, and gave James another shirt to try on while he went to grab a selection of vests. After he was gone, James pulled his phone out again.

What part of “fuck off” did you not understand two years ago?

You
are the one who sent me the pictures and asked my opinion, my sweet
.

Well, Carson did have him there. Even if the texting today was an accident, that didn’t change the fact that James hadn’t deleted Carson’s name from his phone when they’d broken up.

It would be so easy to clear up the misunderstanding, explain the mistake, and end this. So why the fuck wasn’t he doing it?

I have been nothing but appropriate with you, James.
James winced. Ouch. It always hurt when he used the name.
You told me you didn’t want to see me anymore, so I made myself scarce. I’m a man of my word, and I respect your right to autonomy.

Well, that’s a first
. James sighed and fired off another message, glancing up to see if Satish was coming back.
But you’re right. You have kept your word. Texted you by accident today.

Happy accident?
Asshole, asshole, asshole. He couldn’t go from Domineering Professor Pervert to Sophisticated Cultured Boyfriend just like that. Not now. He couldn’t.
Because it was for me. You look good. Clearly you’re doing well. I’m glad for you.

Oh God damn it. James sighed.
Won’t know if I’m doing well until Monday. Or whenever they decide on my Ph.D. candidacy I guess.

Well, you know as part of the department faculty, I can’t comment on that, but I’m really pleased you’ve come so far. I’m proud of you.

Jesus. Why did those words still have any meaning to him?

Maybe because once upon a time, a screwed-up sophomore in danger of flunking out had turned his life around because of them. And in defiance of them. Like it or not, James owed Carson
everything.
God, those first few months, the way Carson had combined sexual and academic discipline . . . It had hurt when he’d failed and it had been heaven when he’d succeeded and he’d come to adore both, in their ways. The whole thing had been absolutely mind-blowing, life-changing, and boy had his grades improved.

Carson had driven him until passing wasn’t good enough. He’d made James
excel
.

Funny. Right about now, James could use a little of that reassurance that he could accomplish anything he set his mind to. And having someone to tutor him, guide him, give him a kick in the pants, yeah, all of that.

He swallowed. Considered.

Took the plunge.

Thank you, Professor.

Funny how their relationship had twisted the meanings of completely ordinary academic words. Discipline, of course. Study. Professor. James’s mouth was dry just thinking about it. Remembering himself saying “Yes, Professor” and “Thank you, Professor” as he wept with pain from a caning or swallowed a mouthful of foamy cum.

The wait for the next text seemed to take forever.

Go into one of the private changing rooms once your salesman gets back. Tell him you want to try a different pair of slacks. Text me when you’ve done so.

Shit.
Shit
. Were they doing this? After two fucking years of no contact whatsoever? Were they really doing this again?

James’s thumbs seemed to have a mind of their own.

Yes, Professor
.

Satish returned with two different vests, and James didn’t have to know jack squat about fashion to know they would both look great on him. Which they did, bringing color to his face and making his eyes snap somehow.

“See?” Satish murmured. “In a baggy, formless shirt, you may look like a not-that-short beanpole. But bring everything in, cinch it up a bit? You’re David Bowie in his prime. And I must say, the green check in this one brings out your eyes. Well, eye.”

David Bowie, indeed. “Looking into my eyes, are you, Satish? And before you ask, yeah, they’re natural.” One brown eye, one green; James had been born with them, and although they’d gotten him teased as a kid, as an adult they’d proven a surprisingly good icebreaker. In fact, Carson had commented on them on that fateful day he’d summoned James to his office for a talking-to.

“They’re great eyes,” Satish replied, unabashed. “Does your sister want to see a picture of these, too?”

“Oh!” Shit, James had almost forgotten what he was here for. “Yeah, sure. Also, can I try these with a different pair of slacks?”

“Of course. Just head back to the changeroom you were using before and I’ll bring you a couple more options. Careful of the pins, though.”

When he was gone, James took another picture and sent it to Carson. A moment later, another message came in.

Explain to me why I never put you in a corset
.

James blushed hard.
B/C you aren’t into cross-dressing?

Cheeky. And lying. We both know I’m “into” almost everything.

That was most definitely true. Which, of course, had been their problem. But James didn’t want to bring that up just now. Didn’t even want to think about it, actually. He ducked into the changeroom and unfastened the fly of the slacks he was wearing.

Try again.
People always said you couldn’t determine tone from text alone, but James could hear the chastisement loud and clear.

We didn’t get a chance
, he typed back, perfectly honest. Baring himself to the Professor, yes, that was an old pattern, easy to fall into.
Because of me
, he didn’t add.

Much better. You know, it doesn’t necessarily have to be accompanied by all the other feminine accoutrements. A corset alone, especially in a specific cut and material, can actually be masculine-leaning-androgynous.

Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.

Although I certainly could see myself enjoying you in some panties, too.

James’s face burned with shame just at the thought. And yes, this was why they’d broken up—or rather, why James had walked away. Too much, too fast, always pushing the limit. No matter what you gave Carson, he wanted more. More, more, more. Right at the end, James had begun to wonder if he was going to wind up like an orange squeezed to pulp.

Maybe it was time to try something different. Something he hadn’t said before. Hadn’t known how to say. He’d been so under the spell that by the time things had become more than he could handle, he hadn’t known how to refuse.

Too far
.

Oh, did my clever little student finally realize that things don’t have to be all or nothing, even with me?

Okay, and now he was getting pissed off.

You could have fucking said that at the time.

Asshole.

You’re right. I’m sorry. We should have been clearer on boundaries from the start. You were just so wide-eyed and eager, I suppose I got carried away.

James blinked at his phone, gobsmacked. An apology? Fucking hell,
who
was he texting with again?

He was still trying to figure out how to respond without sounding ungracious when Satish knocked on the door.

Satish is back
.

Oh, so that’s his name. Well, by all means, don’t let me keep you.

James opened the door, smiling, forgetting that his fly was open and his pants were hanging halfway down his hips.

Satish’s eyebrows lifted, but he was obviously far too good at his job to say anything. He had what looked like four or five pairs of pants over his arm. “I’m afraid all of these are at the very least going to need to be hemmed. There’s a couple colors and fabrics here for you to choose from, though. The brown might look nice with that vest you’re wearing.”

“Cool. Thanks.” James, inexplicably bewildered, accepted the stack of clothes with arms that seemed to move of their own accord.

“No problem. There’s a little button on the wall there you can ring if you need anything else, but I’ll leave you to it for now.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Thanks. I promise to buy something.” Jeeze, now he was babbling. Time to close the door before things got any more awkward.

With timing so impeccable James could’ve sworn Carson was psychic, another text arrived the moment he threw the bolt on the door.

You didn’t invite him in?