Lessons in Desire

[3] L- Tension Between the Pages

The library at Rosewood had always been my sanctuary. A place where I could lose myself in the solace of books, surrounded by the quiet hum of knowledge and the faint scent of aging paper. It had been this way for five semesters now, and every planning period I spent here felt like a reprieve from the classroom. I relished this time — these peaceful moments where I could sketch out lesson plans, revising lectures, and draft notes for upcoming discussions.

Today was no different. My table near the window overlooked the quad, where a few students meandered between classes. I had a stack of books and notes strewn across the polished oak table, focusing on piecing together a lesson on Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn." My pen hovered over the page, twirling absently between my fingers, but no matter how hard I tried, my mind wandered.

Poetry had always been my first love. The way language could be bent, stretched, twisted, and formed into something so profound yet beautifully cryptic. But today, not even the allure of poetry could center my thoughts. They kept circling back, like moths drawn to a dangerous flame. And that flame had a name: Sophia Bennett.

I sighed and forced myself to concentrate. Keats. "Beauty is truth, truth beauty." I underlined the phrase and started jotting down notes about how I wanted the students to analyze the symbolism of permanence and art versus life. My pen moved quickly across the page, but even as I wrote, I felt a pull deep inside me, a distraction lurking just beneath the surface.

That was when I heard it—light, playful laughter cutting through the quiet murmur of the library.

I looked up, eyes scanning the room with mild curiosity, until they settled two tables away from me.

Sophia.

She entered the library with her friend, who I didn't recognize—some girl from another department, perhaps—but I couldn't focus on her. Not with Sophia standing there, radiant in the afternoon light that streamed through the windows. My breath hitched as I watched her sit down, gracefully placing her books and laptop on the table.

She was wearing a short skirt, and my eyes were immediately drawn to her legs—those long, caramel-colored legs that seemed to go on forever. The curve of her thighs peeked out from beneath the fabric, and I felt a sudden tightness in my chest.

It was wrong, I knew. I shouldn't be looking at her like this. She was a student, one of my students. Yet, I couldn't tear my gaze away, not as she shifted in her seat and crossed her legs in a way that made my pulse race. My pen stilled in my hand as if time itself had frozen.

She glanced up, and our eyes met. Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles—soft, teasing, and knowing. A rush of heat pooled low in my stomach, and I felt myself growing uncomfortably aware of her presence. Every move she made, every gesture, seemed deliberate, like she knew exactly the effect she had on me.

Her friend spoke to her, but I couldn't hear the words over the blood rushing in my ears. Sophia's attention shifted momentarily, but not before she gave me one more glance—a look that was both innocent and mischievous.

I couldn't stop watching her.

Her legs parted slightly under the table, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the lace beneath her skirt. A flash of black. My heart thundered in my chest, and I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away. But it was too late. The image of her, of that brief glimpse, was seared into my mind.

Sophia, seemingly unaware of the havoc she was wreaking inside me, leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest as she listened to her friend. Her dark curls fell over one shoulder, and she absentmindedly twirled a strand of hair around her finger. The way she crossed her arms drew my eyes to her décolletage, I could see the very tops of her breasts through  the scoop of her sweater's neckline. My pulse raced. She bit her bottom lip, a slow, sensual motion that had my blood pounding in my veins.

I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to stand up and walk over to her, to say something, anything, that might ease the tension coiling in my gut. Or even worse the desire to go over to her and do something unbecoming of a man of my position. But what would I say? What could I say? You're my student, I reminded myself. This is wrong.

Yet the more I tried to rationalize it, the more my thoughts betrayed me. Her lips, her skin, the way she moved—it was all intoxicating, and I was helplessly caught in her web.

Sophia's eyes flicked up again, catching mine across the library. This time, she didn't look away. She held my gaze, and slowly—deliberately—she crossed her legs again, the hem of her skirt riding up just enough to show more of her smooth thighs. I could barely breathe.

A slow smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, as if she knew exactly what she was doing. My grip on the pen tightened, and I glanced around the library, half-expecting someone to have noticed this unspoken exchange between us. But no one was paying attention. No one, it seemed, except me.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to focus on the notebook in front of me, but my vision blurred. The words on the page made no sense. Keats? Ode on a Grecian Urn? It might as well have been a foreign language. All I could think about was the girl sitting two tables away, teasing me with every subtle movement, every flick of her hair, every slow bite of her lip.

My throat felt dry, and I was about to turn back to my work when she did something that completely undid me.

As if she knew what she did to me. It was as if she knew what I had done the night previous, with her image in my mind and my blood pumping. Like she knew the very turmoil she put me through every second of every day.

And then she winked.

Just a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but it sent a shockwave through me. I was frozen, utterly captivated by her. My heart hammered in my chest, and my skin flushed with heat.

I was losing control, and I knew it.

Before I could react—before I could even decide what to do next—I heard the scraping of a chair being pulled out in front of me.

"Lorenzo," a familiar voice said, jolting me from my trance.

I blinked rapidly, tearing my gaze away from Sophia and looking up to see one of my colleagues—Daniel, the History professor—sitting down across from me. He dropped a few books on the table and smiled, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside me.

"Planning for the next lecture?" he asked, flipping through a book.

I forced a smile, trying to mask the flush on my face. "Uh, yes. Just...finalizing a few things."

Daniel nodded, thankfully not noticing my distraction, unable to see the effects the young woman across the room had on me. I could feel the tightness in my trousers, how did no one notice? But he was none the wiser.

He started talking about some new project he was working on, but I couldn't focus on a word he was saying. My mind was still on her—on the way she had teased me, toyed with me, like it was some kind of game.

My gaze flickered back toward Sophia, but she had turned her attention to her friend, now fully engaged in conversation. Still, the damage had been done. She had left her mark, and I knew it would be a long time before I could forget the way she had looked at me, the way she had silently called to me with her eyes.

As Daniel continued to talk, I forced myself to respond here and there, nodding along and pretending to care. But my thoughts were miles away. The library no longer felt like my sanctuary—it felt like a prison, with her as the warden.

And the worst part? I wasn't sure if I wanted to escape.

By the time I left the library, hours later, her image was still imprinted in my mind. Every step I took echoed with the memory of her smile, the way her legs crossed and uncrossed, the way her lips had curled into that playful smirk.

That night, as I lay in bed, her face haunted me, and I knew there was no going back. Something had shifted between us, something dangerous and thrilling.

As my hand started moving beneath the covers I realized, I wasn't sure how much longer I could resist.