Honestly, I’m really interested in the Romantic movement and how poetry evolved from that into what we’re writing now. I was seriously excited when I got instructor permission to register for an upper level poetry class just for that reason. This is the kind of conversation I’m starving for and could never find in high school, even with my English teachers. The things he’s saying should be captivating me, but I find what’s captivating me instead is his slightly lopsided mouth and his storming eyes and his expressive hands that move as he talks.
This is my second semester taking evening classes at Sierra State University. Mrs. Erikson, my Junior Honors English teacher at Oak Crest High suggested it because our little school, tucked into the foothills, is too small to offer many AP classes. I’m enrolled in AP calculus and history, but we don’t have AP English.
“Most students applying to Stanford and UC Berkeley will have well over a 4.0 GPA, with the AP bump they’ll get from courses at their high schools,” she’d said when she called me before the start of my senior year to express her concern. “It will help that you’re valedictorian, but if you truly hope to be admitted as a literature major, you’ll need to show them you’ve excelled in college level English via some other avenue.”
Last semester I took written composition, or basic freshman English, and Professor Duncan’s assignments didn’t stray from the class reading too much, so I never set foot in the library. I aced it, and when he found out I write poetry, he suggested his upper level Early Nineteenth Century Poetry class for this semester. He assured me I could handle it and signed off on the prerequisite waiver.
So here I am, researching Byron for a presentation at the end of the semester.
“All right, then…” Caiden says, and I realize, once again, he’s been waiting for some kind of reply from me. He hands me the book. “Good luck with your project.”
“I’m supposed to analyze Don Juan’s sexual conflict,” I blurt, taking the book from him. My face goes instantly hot and I hate the blood that betrays me by rising to my cheeks.
The amusement is back in his eyes. “Byron definitely takes a different approach to the classic Don Juan legend.” He starts toward the resource desk and I follow at his side. “Most interpretations, including Molina, Espronceda, and even Mozart, portray him as a womanizing libertine without any moral compass. Byron flips that stereotype on its head, presenting him as a young, conflicted casualty of nonexistent self-restraint when it comes to feminine temptations—more the victim than the aggressor.”
Caiden’s profile is perfect. This is what I’m thinking when it occurs to me I should say something. “So it’s the girls’ faults he sleeps around?”
The hint of a smile ticks the left side of his mouth as he ducks his head slightly. A rush prickles at the base of my spine then spreads when I realize I’ve embarrassed him. And now my nipples are even harder.
His eyes flick to me as we reach the desk and he moves behind it. “According to Byron, yes.”
I lay the book on the counter, shifting a hip up to join it. “Which version do you like better?”
He reaches for the book, and I catch the sweep of his eyes over my body before they lower back to the scanner and he scans the barcode. With the action, I’m mentally kicking myself for wearing my frumpiest sweater. I just never thought…
“It’s said that Mozart based his Don Juan on Casanova, who was in attendance at the first performance of Mozart’s opera. If you believe the stories, there are men like Casanova out there.” He lifts his eyes but not his head, looking at me out from under long golden lashes. “But I think most men are more like Byron’s version—sort of helpless when it comes to resisting a beautiful woman.”
The rush to my groin is sudden and intense.
I’ve felt this rush before. At the beginning of the school year, when I saw the guys in my class notice that I finally filled out over the summer, there was an undeniable tingle in my groin. I liked the feeling of being checked out. There was something empowering about knowing, just for that second, I had a boy’s complete attention. But when the tingling passed a second later, that was it. I’d never felt the hot pulsing ache between my legs that I feel right now—swollen and wet and wanting.
He holds the book out to me. “This is due back on January twenty ninth; two weeks. If you need it after that, I should be able to renew it unless one of your classmates has requested it.”
I make sure my fingers brush his as I take it. “Thanks.”
I feel his eyes on me as I walk toward the stairs and sway my hips just a little more than usual. Though, in my loose jeans, the effect is probably lost. I turn back at the landing and see him watching after me. I lift a hand before turning the corner.
He’s Professor Duncan’s graduate assistant. How old would that make him? He’s no boy, that’s for damn sure. The stubble on his chin was very short and even, as if he’d gone maybe a day without shaving. Two at the most. Very few of the boys in my class could pull that off. When they decide not to shave during football season or whatever, their beards are mangy-looking with bald patches.
If he’s a graduate student, he has to be at least twenty-two. Probably older. I’m sure I was just imagining that he seemed into me. Wishful thinking. What would he want with a high school girl?