Page 58 of Pink Ink

His pen momentarily faltered, but he didn’t look up from his notepad or even nod his head.

Undeterred from trying to be a half-decent person who did not have a sex dream about her professor, I beelined for an empty chair in the middle of the room, turned on my computer, then waited while everyone else trickled in, andstillhe didn’t look my way. He just stationed himself in the corner of the classroom, sketching something on a pad.

Only half of the seventy-ish people who’ve signed up to the class attend this particular workshop time. The others take an early-morning one. And Maddox is all“Good afternoon”for every single one of those thirty-odd people who says hi to him.

An hour and a half later, once we’ve all been given today’s assignment, there’s nothing more for Shaw to do other than sit back in his brownleather wingback chair and answer questions whenever one is asked. But stillnothing. He didn’t even throw a single question my way.

Well, he did respond when I put my hand up to ask for clarity on a concept—in the same tone he would to any other student. The exchange felt like I was talking to an entirely different person.

I didn’t like it.

The Maddox Shaw I’ve come to expect is a raging dick who forces me to participate in class, has strong opinions on my extracurricular activities, and maybe potentially probably was not jealous of his brother for touching me.

Mr. “That’s a good question. We can circle back to that in class next week and cover it in more detail” isnotmy Maddox Shaw. Not that any version of him is mine.

When I feel the heat of someone’s gaze on me, I look his way to find his nose in his sketchpad.

Fine. If he doesn’t want to look at me, I’ll shamelessly look at him.

He’s beneath the light of a single desk lamp, backdropped by the green chalkboard covered in his elegant writing.

It’s enthralling to watch him be so focused. Even with the bags under his eyes, it’s the first time I’ve fully seen him this relaxed. Occasionally, he tips his head to the side or frowns at whatever it is he’s drawing like he’s committed some kind of offense.

The tendons and veins in his forearms ripple with each minuscule movement. Flashes of those fingers curled inside me have my core tightening. I regret notfixingthe issue before I left for class this morning. Now I’m going to spend the whole day with the lady equivalent of blue balls.

Even picturing the way his hands would look pulling my bra down before his lips descend on my—

No. I amnotlusting after Maddox Fucking Shaw.

I swear I need to be tied up like a damn werewolf on a full moon whenever I’m ovulating. I don’t recognize myself.

Actually, I take it back. I don’t need to be tied up. I need to be put down.

Watching Maddox is making my deprived libido even more depraved. In that dream, he told me to put my hands on the painted canvas while he fucked me from behind. Since the most creative thing I’ve done is get on my hands and knees in bed, that dream is permanently ingrained into my brain.

I could sit here for hours watching the way his hands move while he’s in his element. I’m half tempted to creep closer to sneak a look at what he’s drawing, but he’s positioned himself perfectly so no one can see the sketchpad on his lap.

If I’m insistent enough on getting his attention, maybe I’ll get a reaction out of him. Which probably isn’t a good idea since I apparently have a meeting with him soon.

In all honesty, I’ll be screwed if Bradford comes back. Shaw gave me an A− on the last assignment, which isn’t great, but it’s bumping my GPA just enough to make me feelslightlymore secure that I won’t lose my scholarship by virtue of bad grades.

“What I would give for five minutes alone with him,” the girl next to me says dreamily.

I look away from the murder scene I’m editing from a previous assignment. I recognize her as one of the girls in the Cresswell film club. If memory serves, she’s best buds with the club president, who told me I lacked the “credentials” and “background” to join.

What she really meant—based on what I overheard her tell the girl beside me—was that she thinks my work is “messed up” and “too inappropriate” to represent such a prestigious institution.

I glance at Nicole to see if she was listening before flicking my attention back to the girl who’s staring at Shaw. The lust in her eyes has me questioning if I have what it takes to be a killer.

“He’s a busy man,” I say through pursed lips.

“A busy man still has needs.” She smirks.

Beyond a smile here and there, I’ve never interacted with this woman before. I don’t even know her name. Now she’s telling me that she wants to fuck our teacher? Seriously, is Nicole hearing this?

I don’t know what has me twitching more: the unprofessionalism or the fact that she could sleep with literally any other teacher and I wouldn’t bat an eye.

Buthim?