His skill, I thought, as a shiver ran through me, causing goosebumps to breakout all over my skin. I closed my eyes, and my sex clenched as my breathing hitched. I swallowed again.
Class, I reminded myself. This was a just another class, but now I was feeling nervous. Even among all of these students, I was as worried as if I had his direct attention, his laser-like focus solely on me. I always strove to excel, but now… another emotion took over. I wanted to impress, to stand out, to make him… come. I let out a choking cough.
Proud. I berated myself. I wanted to make him proud. I was struggling for composure, surprised at the direction of my thoughts. Was I no better than any other swooning woman here? If he had this kind of effect on me without even a glance in my direction or one word spoken, I was done. I was forced to acknowledge the commanding presence of this man.
He rubbed a hand over his lower jaw and then trained his gaze sharply out into the room. He was smoldering, and sexier than any of us could stand. If I didn’t know better, he was looking right at me and I sat up a little straighter in my chair, waiting with the same bated breath as every female and gay male filling the vast facility… to see if his voice, when he spoke, would be as devastating as his body; his face; his presence. He had a strong, overt elegance that exuded sex. He was dripping with it… so who better to articulate it on the page?
“Ahem,” Dr. Michaels cleared his throat.
“Here we go,” Michelle murmured. She nudged me hard with her elbow.
“Ow!” I grunted, rubbing my injured arm.
“I told you, right?” she asked.
I turned my head and looked at her. Her skin was flushed and her eyes wide. I could only imagine I had a similar red hue to my appearance, as did every woman in the room.
Indeed, I thought.
“Yeah. You told me,” I agreed.
2
“Welcome to The Art of Sex...” I paused suggestively for effect and waited for the room to burst out with enthusiasm, then dashed their hopes. “…in Writing,” I said sternly.
Perched casually on the edge of my desk, I looked out over the mass of young, wide-eyed faces of my students. “I’m Dr. Jaxon Michaels and over the next few months we’re going to get intimate on the page.”
As intended, the room erupted in a mass of expletives and enthusiastic shouts again. I flashed a smile and wagged a finger. “Don’t have any misconceptions. This course is not about sex.”
An ensemble of moans, grunts and gripes replaced the zeal of just seconds before.
“It’s in the title!” a young man shouted from about twenty rows back.
I folded my arms across my chest and stood away from the large piece of antique mahogany that had been placed for my use at the front of the large lecture hall. My voice was amplified by the small microphone that was clipped to the lapel of my dark grey Hugo Boss suit jacket.
“Yes, it’s in the title. How else would the university get this many butts in these seats?” I asked, pausing to wait for the groans and guffaws to cease. Outwardly, I offered slow smile, but I was silently disgusted and sort of pissed off. I’d hoped at least half of the students filling the lecture hall were here to learn something, but it was always the same result.
It was always the same, and while it had been amusing two years ago when I first taught the course, it had become aggravating over time when a good majority of the students failed to take it seriously. The classes were smaller then, easier to get to know a student’s writing style, but now, there were too many students taking the class for entirely the wrong reasons.
These days they seemed more interested in exploring sexual behavior than in the writing of it in a realistic, believable way; thinking they’d get to spend three hours a week being titillated with little work involved. Young men who were looking to get their rocks off and young women would wax ignorance for my office time.
I huffed out indignantly. If only the course wasn’t allowed as an elective; I wouldn’t have these fucking problems. It fell under the umbrella of liberal arts, mass communications, English, media, marketing, journalism and several others, including my favorite, creative writing. I found it a somewhat ironic oxymoron that, in reality, most creative writing courses actually taught students how to write realism. That was what I found so rewarding about teaching this class. Realism was my forte; my editor and publisher assured me it was the formula for my vast success, though my agent had her own ideas about what pushed me to the top of New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists, and her version pissed me off, too.
I groaned inwardly as my eyes scanned the faceless masses. The university had moved this class into an actual lecture hall in order to accommodate the larger demand for the spring semester. I ran a hand through my thick mop of hair, uncaring that I was messing up the meticulous style, held in place by the gel I’d used earlier that morning. I cleared my throat and adjusted my designer glasses.
“It’s not about evolution or procreation, or about getting off,” I said, dryly. “Though, having a solid grasp of these things will improve your skill, and we’ll explore all of it.” More hoots and pleased comments followed. I pushed my glasses up on my face with one finger at the bridge again; irritated.
Clearly the hundred and fifty or so students who filled the hall were going to be disappointed that they actually had to work in this course. “It’s not about improving your sexual prowess; that’s not what I meant either, though undoubtedly, I’m sure many of you need instruction,” I added drolly.
I almost laughed at the resurgence of hoots, suddenly replaced by groans; many of them uttering they didn’t need lessons in the bedroom. It all became a confused din in the large space. I wanted to frown to show my disapproval, yet I couldn’t help but grin and shake my head.
Stupid assholes, I thought. “Mostly, you need to understand that writing is fucking hard. If you expect it to be easy, drop the course right now.”
Instantly, the room went quiet.
“First the rules: When I talk, you don’t.” I started to pace back and forth on the platform. “Second, this is not a throw-away course; you will earn your grades just like any other class at Columbia. Third; I expect excellence. If you aren’t prepared to give one hundred percent; get out. Fourth, get your writing assignments in on time; I live by deadlines and I expect you to live by them, too; all successful writers, do. If you abide by those four things you won’t piss me off, and you’ll pass.”
Now that I had their full attention, I continued.
“If you’re here for anything less, or if you’re here just to get off, you’ll be sadly disappointed. You might be in the habit of disappointing yourself, but you will not disappoint me. I won’t stand for bullshit, so if you aren’t going to take this course as seriously as any other, there’s the door.” I pointed to the two sets of double doors located at the back of the hall at the top of both rows of stairs that led down toward the platform where I stood. I paused to give anyone who wanted to leave the time to do so.
Several students shifted in their seats, but not one stood to leave.
“Let me repeat: Getting off is not what this course is about.” Clearly, I was baiting them; seeding the waters with sexual tension; the very tension I was warning about. I waited for a response but there was none; there was no sound other than the sound of students shifting in their seats and some paper shuffling. “So? What is it about? And, why do we care?” I walked from the podium back to the desk and resumed my haphazard seat on one corner. “Anyone?”