My breathing is getting too fast again. I press a hand to my chest and count in my head as I draw in a breath and let it out slowly. Again. After a few minutes, my heartbeat settles but my mind is spinning.
I pick up my grocery bag and walk home. When I open the front door, I hear the sound of the shower running. I unpack the groceries and go into the bedroom. Dean left his muddy football clothes on the floor. I dump them into the laundry hamper and stare at the bathroom.
There’s a knot in my stomach. I swallow hard and go to ease open the bathroom door a little more. Fragrant steam billows through the room, fogging the mirror and the shower door. Behind the glass, I see the outline of Dean’s strong body, and my heart pounds.
Another step. I stop. His hands move as he soaps his chest, and I imagine wet lather slipping over his slick muscles, tracing all the ridges with my fingers… then his hand slides down to his groin. My gaze follows.
Even through the fogged glass, I can see that he’s hard. Unexpected lust jolts me at the evidence of his readiness. Before I can back away, he curves his hand around his cock and starts stroking.
My knees weaken. I grab the towel rack. I’ve seen him masturbate, of course, but never like this, never without him knowing I was there. His movements are easy and fluid, his body rocking slightly as he thrusts into the vise of his fist.
I suck in a breath, part of me thinking I should leave him in privacy and the other part mesmerized by the sight of such an intimate act. He presses one hand against the tile wall while the other works his erection faster. Heat blossoms through my entire body. I press my legs together as I start to throb in response.
How often does he do this?
What, or rather who, is he thinking about?
The thought dampens my own arousal a little. I continue to stare at him, at the length of his cock, the rapidly increasing movements of his hand. His head falls back, the hot water pounding across his skin as his body jerks with release. His rough groan filters into the steam. I wish I could feel its low vibrations against my skin.
He’s still pressing his hand against the wall, his head lowered against the spray, his chest heaving.
I back out of the bathroom, close the door, and return to the living room. I’m breathing fast as I pace, my mind filling with images that both arouse and dismay me—Dean thinking about another woman naked, fantasizing about fucking her… his grad student with her pretty smile and toned body.
The bedroom door clicks open. My breath catches in my throat. He’s only wearing a pair of boxers, his skin still damp, his arms raised as he scrubs at his wet hair with a towel. When he lowers it, he sees me standing there.
My mouth is dry, though I don’t know if it’s from fear or my own thwarted lust. Unfortunately I suspect it’s the former.
Dean loops the towel around the back of his neck. “You okay?”
I twist my hands together. “I don’t… no. Not really.”
He waits. He knows I’ll tell him eventually, but it takes a minute to drum up my courage.
“Do you… uh, do that often?” I gesture to the bedroom.
He flushes a little. “Not often, no. Not if you’re here.”
“So why now?”
“I didn’t know you were home.”
I cross my arms. My nipples are still hard. I have to know. “Were you thinking about her?”
“Who?”
“Your grad student.” I can’t bring myself to say her name.
Dean frowns. “My grad… Jessica?”
“No.” I try to keep my voice even. “Maggie.”
“Maggie?” He looks stunned. “You thought I was thinking about her?”
“Were you?”
“Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“I saw her today. In the parking lot behind the deli.”
He doesn’t say anything, again waiting for more.
“She’s… uh, the first time I met her, I suspected she had a thing for you.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell. I’m not blind.” Neither is Maggie Hamilton. Or any other woman when it comes to Professor Dean West.
“Liv.” He pulls the towel from his neck and tosses it onto the sofa. “I’d be lying if I said sometimes other women… even grad students… haven’t come on to me. But do you think I respond? Do you think I’d ever let them cross the line? Do you think I’d ever do that?”
I don’t like the turn of this conversation, as if I’m at fault for having doubts. In the deepest part of my heart, I know he’s honorable and loyal to the core.
At the same time, there’s a lot I don’t know right now. And every day I have the disquieting sense that the pool of “don’t knows” is growing larger.
“Maggie Hamilton implied that you’ve made a move on her,” I tell him.
Dean stares at me. “What?”
“That’s what she said.” I swallow past the lump in my throat, the resurgence of unease. “She’s upset that you won’t approve her… her thesis proposal, and then she said maybe you’re expecting more from her.”