Her Dirty Professor Read Online Free PDF Page B

entire package, nodding and making faces. “You look amazing, but it’s not finished.”
    She does my makeup next. She keeps my eyeshadow neutral, but gives me deep red lips that make them look sensual. I feel like a completely different person. I’m not sure if Mr. Johnson will even recognize me outside of my university sweatshirts and jeans. Most days I don’t even bother to apply mascara, let alone full warpaint.
    “I guarantee if you were to walk into a room full of men right now, every head in the room would turn your way,” my roommate says.
    I’m only looking to turn one man’s head tonight.
    “Well, yeah, because I would be fidgeting so much they’d think I was up to something,” I say.
    She laughs. “Shut up. You look hot. If I wasn’t with my boyfriend, I’d totally fuck you.”
    I laugh nervously and let out a shaky breath. That’s not the kind of attention I’m used to getting from men. Or women. I get looks sometimes, but the most attention I get at school is guys asking for my help with assignments.
    “Now,” she says, giving me one last once-over. “Go get laid. You deserve it.”

    * * *
    M y cab takes me to the address Mr. Johnson gave me with two minutes to spare. It’s not a neighborhood I’d expect someone to live at on a teacher’s salary. It’s a large, two-story house with a big landscaped yard, mature palm trees, and a koi pond out front. It’s nestled among other big beautiful houses of the same caliber on the wealthy side of town. It’s a place I’d expect a politician or CEO of a small corporation to live.
    Then a terrible thought hits me: what if he’s married? If his wife makes all the money, a house like this would make sense. What if she’s out of town and I’m coming in like a one-woman homewrecking crew in a red dress?
    In the year I’ve been in his class I’d never once heard him mention a wife or even a girlfriend. He doesn’t have a picture of anyone on his desk like my other professors do, and he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.
    I decide to let it go for now. Once I’m inside I’ll know. It’s impossible to hide a woman’s touch.
    Walking up to the door, I feel the warning signs of panic pushing down on me: heart racing, blurry vision, shortness of breath. I’m bombarded with questions and worries. What if he doesn’t even live here and he gave me the wrong address to embarrass me and put me in my place? I’ll get back to school and he’ll be like, that’s what you get for blackmailing me, even though it definitely wasn’t blackmail.
    I start to regret sending the cab away. I guess if this doesn’t pan out, I’m close enough to campus to walk. Or, if these miserably sexy shoes destroy my feet, I could just call another cab.
    A squeaky porch swing sways with the wind, and next door I hear the trill of chimes. These sounds distract me from my rambling thoughts enough for me to focus on the task at hand. Taking a deep breath, I fix my dress, check to make sure everything is under wraps, and smooth down my hair. Then I knock.
    The door is painted red and has a brass lion knocker. It’s a really pretty door. I’m terrified it won’t open. Yet, at the same time, I’m terrified it will.
    Feels like forever before the door opens, but it’s probably only been ten seconds or so. The tension in my shoulders eases up just the slightest bit.
    Mr. Johnson stands at the threshold and isn’t dressed at all like Mr. Johnson. He’s barefoot, wearing loose jeans and a form-fitting baseball shirt that hugs his toned chest and arms wonderfully. I never would’ve imagined him being a sports fan. I guess with his athletic build, it makes sense. He probably plays sports, too. I’ve never been attracted to jocks in any way, but for some reason, the thought of Mr. Johnson all sweaty and pumped up after a game—doesn’t matter which kind; it could be badminton for all I care—really turns me on.
    I feel overdressed. Kind of like a call girl. What the hell was I