Page 2 of My Downfall

“Maybe if you were on time we’d have had the chance for introductions.” Several students in the class guffaw at her words. I feel the same, I can’t believe the balls on this little thing.

“Then, let me remedy that. I’m Dean Davenport.” I expect her eyes to widen, and for her to become a spluttering, embarrassed mess when she realizes who she’s been insulting. Instead, she does the absolute opposite.

“I know exactly who you are.”

Well, fuck me. Why does that turn me on? Nobody ever talks to me like this.

Fuck if she doesn’t need a Daddy to tame her brat. But it can’t be me; she’s a student at my college. I absolutely cannot fuck a student. It would be my downfall.

Chapter Two

Mia

Mia: Girls, my new professor is Dean Davenport

Bella: I don’t understand

Mia: He’s teaching my class

Harper: Why?

Mia: Usual Professor’s had an accident. He’s covering

Ava: Maybe lead with that next time

Bella: Wait, wait, wait. As in the Davenport Davenports?

Mia: The very same

Harper: I just googled him. Holy shit balls

Mia: This is my problem

Bella: He’s your professor, Mia. Nothing is going to happen

Mia: Says the girl who gave her virginity to her dad’s best friend

Bella:Touché

Harper: Also, this is Mia we’re talking about. Anything goes

Mia: My point exactly

Mia: I want to fuck my teacher

Ava: We need cocktails

Bella: Tomorrow? Usual spot?

Mia: It’s a date

***

I walk through the door of the house I recently moved back into. The house I grew up in. Unfortunately, quitting your job and going back to college makes paying rent a little tricky, so I’m back living with mother dearest.

She’s not bad, in fact, as far as moms go, she’s pretty damn decent. However, we’re completely different people. I want a job and to beable to depend on myself, not some guy I married for an easy life, and that’s not something she can understand. It’s also why she can never know that my current professor is none other than a Davenport. She’d either be setting me up with him or trying to make a move herself.

“Hey, sweetie,” she calls as she comes clipping out of the kitchen in her heels. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother not dressed to kill. High heels are slippers to her and she wears them everywhere; pretty sure she even sleeps in them.