Looks like the secretary's out. But the door's unlocked. I can still go in… right?
I peek around as I enter the English department's reception area. There's the photocopier I need on the right, and there's a dark wooden door a ways away on the left that says HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT with… his name on a silver plaque underneath.
Students aren't technically supposed to use the staff photocopier. Like sometimes if you ask the secretary nicely she'll take pity on your broke ass, but only if you want to photocopy maybe a few sheets. I'm making handouts for a class presentation; there are thirty-four people in my class, times seven sheets per booklet, so that means I need two hundred and thirty-eight pages total. I feel bad about breaking the rules, but I need the booklets by this afternoon's class and I didn't have time to go to Student Services –- they take like a week to get your photocopying done.
I hope the secretary doesn't come back until I'm finished.
I walk over to the photocopier. It's one of those huge ones that stands on the floor and is basically the size of the deep freezer. I stare at the button pad and realize it requires a special log-in code before it lets you use it.
"Damn," I say under my breath.
I hear the door open behind me. I'm already on edge from not eating breakfast and doing all this clandestine photocopier stuff; I jump and whip around.
Oh, crap. It's him.
"May I help you?" It doesn't sound like a question, so much as a cordial way of telling me to skedaddle. His blue eyes survey me. They look even more vibrant and bizarre than usual with the sunshine streaming in through the window on his left. He's wearing a silver button-up shirt that's open around the neck and tucked into gray, neatly ironed dress pants. His narrow waist is accentuated with a slender navy blue leather belt with a silver buckle.
He looks amazing. And I'm wearing leggings and a construction-pylon orange hoodie. I hate my life choices. "Yes." I try to sound like I'm not doing anything wrong. "I need the code for the photocopier."
One of his eyebrows flickers upward. He doesn't say anything. He is so frustratingly unreadable.
This is one of the many reasons why I find Dr. Mirkwood so intimidating. Most of the faculty in the English Department are totally approachable. But he's not like them. He's not like anyone I've ever met, actually.
I haven't had Dr. Mirkwood teach any of my classes yet, but I've seen him in the hallways, his long, white-blond hair flowing behind him as he walks briskly. My heart almost stopped, the very first time I saw him. Why hadn't I ever seen such a man before? I found out later that that was Thranduil W. Mirkwood, the author of the Kings of the Sky series all the upper-level students talk about. There are even people who don't go to this university, people all over North America, who buy his books. Apparently they're amazing, but I'm too bogged down with schoolwork to read for fun.
I could not believe that someone that accomplished and intelligent could be so breathtakingly beautiful. Like, maybe a famous person, but not a person I would ever get a chance to meet. I did a little research on him to see what I could find but, other than his novels and academic articles, there's nothing about him on the internet. He doesn't even have his photo on the university's website like the other faculty. It's just his name and a short bio listing his awards and publications – zero personal information. The backs of his novels don't have his photo either, and the short bio says where he lives but doesn't say if he has a wife or a family. And he doesn't have an account on Facebook or LinkedIn or anything.
Oh my God, I've been staring at him. "I have a class assignment," I add, breaking the silence.
His arms are folded across his chest. Some of his thick, straight hair pokes out beneath his arms. His hair is that long, like below-mid back. Not that I've had a lot of chances to look at him from behind.
He glides toward me, taking slow steps. Every time his foot falls, my stomach flips. When he's finally beside me, he holds out his hand.
My own hand trembling, I put my hand in his and shake it. His hand is much larger than mine, but surprisingly smooth and slender. Judging by the near-flawless skin of his hands and face, there's no way he's older than forty. "I'm Ashley."
He stares at my hand with a blank expression. "The papers, please."
"Oh." I tug my hand away, looking down at my little bundle of seven papers as I hand it to him. I pray I don't blush, but I feel the heat creep into my face anyway.
He gently slips both his gaze and the papers away from me. He presses a few buttons on the machine and opens up the top lid to place the first page face down. He asks me how many copies I need and I tell him. "You are a student?" He keeps his gaze focused on the machine and his dark lashes shield his eyes. Despite his pale hair, his eyebrows are dark and thick.
"I'm a second-year English major."
"Students are not permitted to use this photocopier. But perhaps you did not know that."
"I had no idea. I'm so sorry, Doctor Mirkwood." I feel totally vulnerable right now, and I channel that towards appearing like I'm telling the truth.
He shoots a sideways glance at me, his expression warming for only a second, as if he was pleased I used his name. "Second year. That explains why I've never seen you in any of my classes. I teach the honours-level courses."
"I know. I've heard from other students."
"So you've been talking about me?"
My eyes widen. "No, I — just overheard –" I tend to stutter when I get nervous, and I really hope I don't do that now.
He saves me by interrupting, "I'm joking."
"Oh." I can feel the sweat forming on my skin underneath my oversize hoodie. To keep myself from staring at him, I look at the papers popping out the side of the photocopier and watch him switch out the papers on the top of the machine whenever one page is done copying.
I go over possible small talk topics in my mind, but somehow they all seem stupid. The longer I stay quiet, the more I become aware of how awkward I must seem compared to him. He's so composed and calm. Every time he moves his hands, it's with graceful purpose.
I keep my body perfectly still, because part of me wants to run away to escape this anxiety, but another part of me wants to lean in closer. He smells amazing, like he showered under a rainbow this morning. Most guys my age either don't bother with hygiene or wear gross cologne. But Dr. Mirkwood's warm, clean scent is so nice, so mysteriously masculine that, despite his aloof demeanour, I want to trust him. A part of me relaxes and my shallow breaths begin to lengthen.
I glance over at his office door, which he shut. I've been in this reception area tons of times but I've never seen his door open. "Do you ever get lonely by yourself in your office?" I blurt out, my mouth making a decision before my brain can stop it. I wanted to sound poetic and philosophical, but halfway through saying the sentence I realize how totally inappropriate it is.
I want to crawl inside the photocopier and die. I force myself to watch his face, expecting him to glare at me or look at me like I'm a freak.
If I've made him uncomfortable, he doesn't show it. Instead, he speaks as if I've asked him any ordinary question. "Loneliness is just a state of mind." His voice is deep and languid. When all seven pages have been photocopied, he picks up all the papers off the side tray, attaches an enormous foldback clip to it, and hands the neat little bundle to me.
"Thank you." I accept the bundle. It's still toasty from the machine.
"Next time you will obey the policy. I will not be this generous when I have you next year."
"Yes, sir." I look down. When I have you…
Without another word, he heads back to the tightly shut door of his office. A little bit of air escapes through my lips. I guess he doesn't say good-bye. I hug the bundle to my chest and walk to the exit.
"Join me in my office."
I freeze and look over my shoulder at him. I try to speak but all I manage is the "W" sound. I eventually give up trying to ask "why," because my hands are starting to tremble.
"I assumed you could use the company. Given your rhetorical question about loneliness, I can only assume you were projecting your own feelings on to me." He speaks gently, but his face remains impassive.
I tighten my grip on the papers. I didn't think it was possible to feel even more vulnerable than I already do. I do want his company, but I don't want him – or anyone – to know that. I can't maintain eye contact, so I stare at his hair. It looks like it would be cold if you touched it. But I'll never know.
Outside the window, the sun slides behind a cloud. His eyes turn silver in the changing light. "The English students here are known for their collegiality. Yet I've never seen you with a friend." His tone has a shadow of inquisitiveness.
A little spark runs up my spine. So he's seen me in the hallways too? And he remembered me? "I… don't fit in, I guess. But that's okay, I'm used to it." I want to look out the window, but he holds me with his gaze.
He nods. "I won't keep you from your studies." He turns to open the door and steps inside. He looks totally gorgeous from behind – his shoulders are slightly broader than his waist, and his pants are tailored to suggest how slender his hips and thighs are. My heart starts racing because I know I shouldn't be having these thoughts.
I readjust the bundle in my hand so I can put my hands on either side of my body. "Wait."
He stops.
I have to stop thinking with my heart and start using my head. This could be a networking opportunity. How many students can say they've actually sat down and talked with the head of their department? If I can calm myself down, I could learn a lot from him. And…
No, that's it, it's just a professional conversation. I'll ask him about the committees that presented him with his awards and the conferences he goes to, and he'll ask me about my plans – my academic plans for the future. And I'll respond appropriately.
Focus.
I walk towards him, striding in what I hope looks like a confident manner. "I don't have class till one o'clock. I can do lunch here." I start to criticize what I just said: 'do' lunch? What am I, some sort of executive?
No, stop it. I can't talk to myself that way anymore. If I can network with the renowned Dr. T. W. Mirkwood, I can be confident. I can do this.
The tiny muscles around his eyes lower, like he's smiling without using his mouth. "I don't eat lunch. I have coffee." He holds the door open for me.
I stride through. "Sounds perfect."
He has a single-serve coffee machine on a mini-fridge in his office. Since it can only make one cup at a time, he graciously gives me the first one, and then puts a second mug under the spout for himself. I thank him and hold the mug – it's black with University of Toronto stamped in white letters on the side. It's almost too big for me to hold in one hand. It's probably an okay size in his hands, though.
Do you think he rinses his mugs out when he's done? Or does he wash them with soap? I'm not questioning his neatness – he dresses like he walked out of GQ and his office is so organized, the hundreds of books filling his shelves are actually organized according to the authors' last names. On his desk, he has one stainless steel cup for black pens, one for blue pens, and one for pencils. The edge of his sleek laptop is parallel with the edge of his big, oak desk. I'm sitting in the comfy but sturdy chair across from his desk.
See, this is professional; there's a desk between us.
Right before I bring the mug to my lips, I imagine him drinking from the same cup, rinsing it and putting it back on the mini-fridge. This is the closest I'm ever going to get to having his saliva in my mouth.
This is so wrong.
As I sip the black coffee (that's how he takes his coffee, so he doesn't have any cream or sugar), I feel my pelvic muscles squeeze. In attempt to make myself less horny, I remind myself of what I'm wearing and the fact that I'm not wearing any makeup.
Not sexy.
He sits down in his red leather swivel chair. His mug is taller than mine and says Carleton University in faded letters. He takes a sip. With his hand so close to his face, I'm able to check out his rings. He has a large, sky blue stone on his index finger and an intricately wrapped metal ring on his third finger – of his right hand. I can't remember if I saw any rings on his left hand.
Crap. What did I get myself into? This is going to be impossible.
No, it'll be fine. Just say something academic. I gulp down the searing hot coffee. "Dictionary dot com's word of the day today is autoschediasm. It means something that is improvised."
Who the hell opens a conversation like that? I should have asked a question about him.
"From the Greek autos – self, and schedios – near, casual, or offhand," he says. He sips his coffee and surveys my bewildered reaction. "I have always loved language. Communication. When something so mysterious is simultaneously essential to human life, it is necessary to break it down. Analyze it. Control it."
I have to squeeze my mug so I don't drop it.
He gestures with a languid hand to his bookshelves lining the walls. "There are no secrets here. I abhor the unknown."
"I guess you've read every book on these shelves, then."
"I've even written a few of them." His tone is a bit dry, but his eyes are smiling. Every change on his face is so subtle. I'm learning not to look away.
I start backtracking, in case I've insulted him and he's not showing it. "Oh, of course I know you've written many novels. I've heard they're beautiful –"
"You haven't read them for yourself?" He frowns.
I stutter for a moment before I'm able to speak. "No, I want to, but I'm so busy with school." I drop my gaze. Have I blown it?
He puts his mug on a stone coaster on the desk and stands up, probably to show me to the door.
He picks up a book from a low bookshelf beneath a beautiful, old-fashioned window. All the English professors' offices are in this old castle-looking building, and the windows are pointy at the top, like in a church. Then he walks over to me and takes my mug away.
He didn't even ask if he could have it. He just takes it.
His left hand grazes mine. The touch is so brief, so delicate, I get caught up in it and forget to check his left hand for a wedding band.
He sets the mug on the desk and hands me a hardcover book. In capital letters at the top, it says T. W. MIRKWOOD and below that, in smaller letters, Captive of the Sky Fortress and Kings of the Sky Trilogy Vol. 1.
I take a sharp breath in. It's like he's handed me his horcrux. I immediately open it. The dustjacket is matte and smooth in my hand, and the pages whisper gently against my fingers. I've held a paperback version of the book before, but this one is special. Not because it's hardcover, but because it's his copy.
He stands over me and his deep voice wafts down. "I'm sure the more senior of your peers have told you I'm ruthless when it comes to assignments. Dare I burden you with another?" He looks down his nose at me. If anyone else did that, it would feel condescending. But from Dr. Mirkwood, it just feels almost protective. "Read it. Report back to me by Friday."
I gaze up at him. I don't know how I'll fit that into my schedule, but I can worry about that later. "Yes, sir. Thank you. I'll return your book in pristine condition."
"No you won't. I want you to have it."
My jaw drops. I thank him again and drop my head down to look at the back of the book, in case there's a slight chance this one copy has a photo of him. No such luck. So I read over the summary on the jacket sleeves. I already know what it's about, sort of. During my 'research,' I wasn't paying enough attention to the info about the synopsis of the book to be able to secure it into my memory. And mostly what the other students talk about are the high fantasy elements, like the different species of characters and the languages they speak.
But as I read the summary now – really reading it, because I want to memorize it so I can dream about this moment later – it seems there are some things other people didn't tell me.
The way I interpret the summary, it's about a Sky Lord kidnapping the woman destined to be his bride, while his brother fights to keep her on earth. The woman is in love with the brother on earth, but after the kidnapping she begins to fall in love with the Sky Lord. It seems as though the Sky Lord is supposed to be the villain, but knowing how subtle Dr. Mirkwood can be, if he put his soul into this novel then I'm sure the hero/villain division won't be as clear cut as other people made it seem.
I run my finger along the crisp edge of the pages. "It seems like it has romantic elements in it."
"You sound surprised, Ashley."
I look up at him. "I just thought it would be pure fantasy."
He leans back, as if he's watching a kitten play with a ball of string. "Did you? Why is that?"
I reply even though it sounds like he already knows my answer. "Because I don't normally think of men as writing about romance, at least not with the level of possessiveness the two brothers seem to have over the princess. Sorry, I know that's not a helpful stereotype. And also because you seem so…" I have to tear my gaze away. He's making me nervous.
But he doesn't drop it. "What do you think I seem like?"
I kick myself internally. Now I've done it. "Nothing. I don't know."
"You're not leaving here until you tell me what you're thinking."
I look up at him, looking down on me, and it doesn't seem protective anymore. It just seems rude. I stand up, making sure not to touch him – he's that close to me. I try to ignore the warm, inviting scent coming from the dip between his collarbones exposed by his shirt. "When I think of romance, I think of emotions, vulnerability, accessibility. But you're so composed, it's like the opposite of all that. You're inaccessible."
That's probably on the top five list of things you should never say to your professor. My face burns. But still, there's no denying why I said those things – because, despite how intimidating he is, he strangely makes me feel at home. Like I've known him all my life. I feel not like I said too much, but that I wanted to say more. I want to tell him everything.
His silence is torture.
He steps back, returning to his chair. "Well." He regards me coolly. "Despite your erroneous first impression of me, I do write fantasy with romantic elements. And I write them well. As I said before, all unknown quantities must be analyzed." He sits down, but his eyes are aflame.
His intense gaze shoots an electric shock through my spine. "Unknown? Is that how you feel about romance?" This time, I don't kick myself for being inappropriate. I want to know his answer. I need to know him.
The fire fades from his eyes. It's like he donned a mask. He looks at the door. "I don't keep a clock in here. Go to my secretary's office to see if it's one o'clock yet."
I whip out my phone from my hoodie pocket and check the screen. "It's not even twelve thirty."
He levels his eyes at me. "That is not what I asked you to do."
I bristle, but really it's to keep from showing any emotion on my face. I don't know how he does it – I always feel totally exposed. I walk to the door, not wanting to prolong my horrible idea of a networking opportunity. I grasp the handle. "I respect you, Doctor Mirkwood, and I want our relationship to be professional. I've been asking questions that don't display that. I apologize."
"Do you really want our relationship to be professional?"
My stomach flips.
His face is still a mask. He rises from the chair and stalks towards me.
I grip his book hard. "Yes."
He locks his eyes on me. He holds my hand and extracts the book from my grasp with his other hand. Never looking away, he puts the book on the desk. I wait for him to let go of my hand. He's so much taller than me, it makes me dizzy. Or maybe that's because my breathing has become shallow again. If I took another step back, my back would be against the wall. His thick hair falls over his shoulder. He steps towards me; the combined scent of his hair and the skin of his neck makes me want to throw myself at him, but his intense gaze makes me want to hide.
He brushes his thumb lightly against the line of my jaw, allowing his fingers to find their way into my hair as he grasps the side of my jaw and neck. "I don't."
He leans down.
I raise my hand, not sure if I'm going to pull him in or push him away.
He grasps my wrist – gently, but it's enough to stop me. His lips linger in front of mine. It only takes a millisecond until it's torture.
He's close enough to kiss me, but he won't. I lean forward.
He leans back. "Tell me." His voice is husky.
"Tell you what?" I blush at how breathy my voice sounds.
"If you want me. I need to know."
Why is he asking that? Does he not know how gorgeous he is? I think he's just trying to humiliate me even more by making me state the obvious. I've always been a horrible actress, cursed to wear my heart on my sleeve, even as it's bleeding. "Of course I want you."
He is so close now, his own hair brushes against my cheek. "Really?" There is a single, impossible ripple of vulnerability in the ocean of his eyes.
My heart races. Is he opening up to me? I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, but it's no use. I've always thought with my heart first and my head second, and I'm not going to learn how to change that here.
He won't let go of my wrist, but that's okay. I don't need it. With my free hand, I grab him around the waist and pull him towards me. "Yes."
The last thing I see are his lips.
The softest, sweetest mouth in the world presses against mine. He kisses my bottom lip first, then my top lip. I open my mouth for him.
He pulls away. I try to pull him back, but he doesn't move.
I feel embarrassed and frustrated all at once. It can't be over yet.
He pushes me against the door. His hard pelvic bones crush into my abdomen and I feel his erection through his pants. He places his hands on either side of my face and angles it up until he can take my mouth with his again. I refuse to open it for him so easily this time.
He licks my top lip briefly. He trails a hand down my neck, his thumb sinking down to my collarbone. I can't believe how sensitive my skin is. Was I always this way or does he make me like this? I open my mouth and let out a sigh crossed with a moan.
He pulls his glorious mouth away. He looks at me for a moment before saying, "Shh," and gesturing with his head to the door behind me.
I manage to nod. He slips his other hand beneath my hoodie so that he's touching the top of my shoulder and the side of my neck. He keeps me in place but doesn't kiss me right away. He stares at my lips like a cat deciding when to capture a mouse.
I want to pull him towards me to stop the agony. But I'm helpless. I'm forced to wait for him to decide when he wants to –
He kisses me. He enters my mouth this time. He licks circles around the tip of my tongue and at the same time my pelvic muscles squeeze. I press my legs together.
I can't believe how fast I went from being in a dreamy state of attraction to such an intense level of horny desire. I trail my hand up his back until I feel his smooth hair. I move my other hand to his waist and slip it down over his gloriously bony ass.
He breaks away, his eyes teasing. "Ashley, do I have to send you into the hall?" He pants – only slightly – but it's enough to send a wave of anticipation down to my groin.
I need to take this ridiculous hoodie off. I'm way too hot. The strands of his hair cling to my sleeves as I reach up to grasp his jaw. "Just kiss me."
He steps back, dropping his hands from my body. "I know a better place."
And then he walks to his bookshelf behind his desk. I use all my energy to keep from crying out in frustration.
He uses both hands to tug at one of the wooden shelves. I furrow my brows, confused.
The entire bookcase swivels.
He does it slowly so none of the books fall off.
There is a hidden room behind the bookcase.
My jaw drops.
"It is a small soundproof chamber I had made when I first took this office. It is my secret room, a place I can go when I need to escape from people. No one but me has ever been inside." He holds out his hand to me, palm up. "I'd like you to come with me."
I look down at his hand and back up at him. "Soundproof?"
He looks at me. His eyes say yes.
I stammer, "It's surreal." I'm compelled towards the hidden room as if it's magic, but something makes me stay put.
Should I go in?