Utterly. Speechless.
That's me right now. My mouth is hanging open like a goldfish, my brain melting into soup.
Mr. Freaking MacLean.
In flesh and blood and bone and muscle and fuck me, look at him.
His jawline looks like it was carved by the gods for the sole purpose of making me soak my panties before noon. And his hair is messy in that intentional way. The kind of messy that says I just rolled out of bed after wrecking someone all night long.
Jesus. He's exactly how I pictured him in my head. Which means either I have psychic powers or the universe is actively trying to ruin my life.
And his voice. Oh, God, his voice.
He's standing there, going on about "Introduction to Psychology" in this deep, rough tone that goes straight through my ears, down my throat, into my chest, and lands right between my legs like a bomb.
By the time this class is over, I'm going to orgasm to his voice alone. I just know it.
And then, of course, he ruins my life further.
"How about you?" His eyes sweep the room, then land on me. "Can you tell us why you've decided to study psychology, given the vast other things you could be doing?"
At first, I don't even process he's talking to me. I'm too busy picturing that voice telling me to spread my legs wider, while he fucks me like a good girl.
It takes the girl next to me nudging my arm for me to realise he was actually speaking to me.
Me!!
"Mm..." I choke, standing up so awkwardly I almost trip over my own feet. Heat rushes to my cheeks. Oh God. Not only am I a sweaty mess, I'm also drooling from my mouth and leaking into my underwear.
"Can you… uh, please repeat the question?" I ask, my voice squeaking like a freaking little mouse.
He raises one dark eyebrow, lips twitching, and delivers a snide remark that slices straight through me. "Already lost? That was fast. First day and we've barely begun."
The entire class erupts in laughter. And my skin burns with embarrassment.
He repeats the question slowly, like I'm some kind of dumb child, and I swear if I had the nerve I'd throw my notebook at his perfect head. Instead, I grit my teeth and give him the smartest, most polished answer in the room, because, newsflash, I didn't graduate valedictorian to be humiliated by a simple question.
"I chose psychology because I want to understand people," I say, my voice steady now. "Not just the good, but their strengths, resilience, creativity. I want to understand the bad too. Why people lie, cheat, break things they love. Why we self-destruct when we know better. If I can figure out what makes people tick, maybe I can figure out how to put them back together again."
A few students murmur like oh damn. I see his brow lift, just a little, but I'm not done.
"Did I answer slowly enough, Professor, or should I draw pictures too?"
I couldn't help myself. He deserved it.
The entire class goes quiet for a heartbeat.
His mouth curves into a slow, sexy smile. His eyes lock on mine. "Touché, Miss…?"
"Miller." I replied.
"Miss Miller," he repeats, slowly, as if testing the syllables on his tongue.
And that… oh, God. That makes something hot and sticky gush inside me, soaking my ruined panties even more.
I am so unbelievably screwed.
I sink back into my chair, my entire body vibrating like a live wire. The class is still buzzing from my little jab, and I can feel eyes darting toward me, some impressed, some amused, a few just waiting to see if I'll crash and burn.
But all I can feel is him.
Professor MacLean.
He moves on, turning his attention to the whiteboard, scribbling out some neat little definition about cognition like he didn't just melt me into a puddle in front of thirty other people. His shoulders flex under the fabric of his shirt, every line of his body carved and controlled. He talks about neurons, behavior, Freud—blah, blah, blah. I can't hear a damn word.
Because all I hear is his voice in my head. Touch yourself, sweetheart. Spread wider. Let me hear you.
I squeeze my thighs together under the desk, biting down on my pen like it'll save me from drowning in my own dirty thoughts. Spoiler: it doesn't.
By the time the lecture is halfway through, I'm convinced I've lost my mind. I can't take my eyes off him. His mouth when he speaks. The way his hand grips the marker. The way his gaze flicks across the class like a spotlight, and every time it even brushes me, I feel like I'm naked.
It's insane. He doesn't know me. He can't know me. He's just a man, right? A very hot, very real man who happens to share the name and face of the guy who ruins all my sheets at night.
Except then it happens again.
I feel it.
His eyes.
They're on me. Not sweeping the room this time. Not casual. But sharp, unblinking. Pinning me down like he knows. Like he remembers. Like somehow he's been inside my head too.
Heat scorches my skin, creeping up my neck, and for one terrifying second, I can't breathe.
I break eye contact first, fumbling with my notebook, doodling pointless swirls to pretend I'm focused. My pulse is a drum in my ears.
When the lecture finally ends, the scrape of chairs and chatter fills the room. Everyone's gathering their bags, laughing, groaning about the homework he assigned. Normal first-day stuff.
Not me. I'm still nailed to my seat, trying to get my heartbeat back under control.
He clears his throat at the front. "Miss Miller."
My head jerks up. He's looking right at me, that sexy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Stay behind for a moment."
My stomach plummets.
The room empties fast, leaving me stranded, my sweaty palms glued to my notebook. By the time the last student slips out, it's just me and him.
Professor MacLean steps away from the desk, closing the distance slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
Every nerve in my body lights up, panic and desire twisting together in a sick, hot knot.
And then, low and rough, he says—
"Funny thing, Miss Miller. I could swear I've seen you before."