tempted to spread that kind of juicy gossip herself.
If anyone found out, Alex would probably be dismissed, no matter how old she was. It would all be over before it had begun, and she couldn’t bear that—not that she knew what “it” was yet. He hadn’t even made love to her, so you couldn’t call it an affair, and as for a relationship? You couldn’t call spanking and going down on her a relationship. Not when he’d dismissed her so suddenly.
On the other hand, he had asked her to go back, a prospect that was driving her so wild with desire and anticipation that she could hardly function on a normal level.
“So, are you going to buy this naughty lingerie?” asked Emma.
Carla shook her head. “Nah. I’ll wait and see if it’s in the sale.”
Emma gave a sigh. “Fine, but you only live once.”
No one knew this more than Carla, and as they took the escalator downstairs and out of the store, all she could think of was the lingerie set and how she would be transformed by wearing it from Mrs. Jonas to wicked Carla, the errant student in need of firm correction and a whole lot more by her gorgeous tutor. As soon as Emma left to meet her boyfriend, she retraced her steps and headed back to John Lewis. As she handed her purchase over at the sales counter, she hoped Stephen couldn’t see what she’d spent her inheritance on.
Later that evening, Carla was back in her flat, panicking as the green numbers on the bedside clock told her it was almost midnight. Crumpled balls of paper filled the bin and dotted the carpet next to the empty John Lewis bag that had contained her underwear.
It was no good. No matter how many times she rewrote and edited her Brontës essay, it wasn’t going to turn into a masterpiece worthy of English Lit Journal .
It was also never going to be good enough for Alex, or was that the whole point of him asking her to write it?
She put down her red biro, wondering if she had time to print off another copy as the digits clicked onto 23.45. She now had barely fifteen minutes to send her essay to him, or she’d have missed her deadline. Only technically missed it. He had said he wanted it by Monday, and surely as long as it reached him by breakfast time, that meant she would be okay. Wouldn’t she?
Who was she kidding? Alex had said that he had a “thing about punctuality”, and hell, how he’d proved it. Her stomach clenched at the memory of the chimes ringing out as he’d administered her punishment over his desk. That essay had been on time, even if it hadn’t met his exacting standards. What would happen if she handed this one in late?
She pulled her laptop towards her and opened the lid. She’d give the essay a quick spell check, and then she’d send it.
Her email pinged, and her pulse skittered. There was a message from Alex.
Oh, shit.
From: Professor Alex Lemaitre [email protected]
To: Carla Jonas [email protected]
Subject: The Brontës
Dear Carla, (Oh heck, that was formal. What happened to the “hi”?)
I was wondering if you had sent me your essay on the Brontës yet? It may have gone into my spam file, although I can’t see it there, or perhaps, as they say, got lost in cyberspace. If you have sent it, and the error is mine, then please accept my apologies. It’s my mistake, and I’d appreciate it if you could send another copy.
If you haven’t sent it yet, I’d appreciate it if you could e-mail it *today*. I would like to have time to consider it in detail so I can go through any corrections with you thoroughly at our one-to-one on Monday evening.
Is 8pm okay for you again? You’ll be pleased to know that I don’t have any engagements afterwards, so I can give you the time and attention you deserve this time.
Best,
Alex
Bloody hell, he must be online right this minute, waiting for the essay, waiting for her to fail him, to give him the slightest excuse.
Carla read the email. Then read it again. After the fifth
If anyone found out, Alex would probably be dismissed, no matter how old she was. It would all be over before it had begun, and she couldn’t bear that—not that she knew what “it” was yet. He hadn’t even made love to her, so you couldn’t call it an affair, and as for a relationship? You couldn’t call spanking and going down on her a relationship. Not when he’d dismissed her so suddenly.
On the other hand, he had asked her to go back, a prospect that was driving her so wild with desire and anticipation that she could hardly function on a normal level.
“So, are you going to buy this naughty lingerie?” asked Emma.
Carla shook her head. “Nah. I’ll wait and see if it’s in the sale.”
Emma gave a sigh. “Fine, but you only live once.”
No one knew this more than Carla, and as they took the escalator downstairs and out of the store, all she could think of was the lingerie set and how she would be transformed by wearing it from Mrs. Jonas to wicked Carla, the errant student in need of firm correction and a whole lot more by her gorgeous tutor. As soon as Emma left to meet her boyfriend, she retraced her steps and headed back to John Lewis. As she handed her purchase over at the sales counter, she hoped Stephen couldn’t see what she’d spent her inheritance on.
Later that evening, Carla was back in her flat, panicking as the green numbers on the bedside clock told her it was almost midnight. Crumpled balls of paper filled the bin and dotted the carpet next to the empty John Lewis bag that had contained her underwear.
It was no good. No matter how many times she rewrote and edited her Brontës essay, it wasn’t going to turn into a masterpiece worthy of English Lit Journal .
It was also never going to be good enough for Alex, or was that the whole point of him asking her to write it?
She put down her red biro, wondering if she had time to print off another copy as the digits clicked onto 23.45. She now had barely fifteen minutes to send her essay to him, or she’d have missed her deadline. Only technically missed it. He had said he wanted it by Monday, and surely as long as it reached him by breakfast time, that meant she would be okay. Wouldn’t she?
Who was she kidding? Alex had said that he had a “thing about punctuality”, and hell, how he’d proved it. Her stomach clenched at the memory of the chimes ringing out as he’d administered her punishment over his desk. That essay had been on time, even if it hadn’t met his exacting standards. What would happen if she handed this one in late?
She pulled her laptop towards her and opened the lid. She’d give the essay a quick spell check, and then she’d send it.
Her email pinged, and her pulse skittered. There was a message from Alex.
Oh, shit.
From: Professor Alex Lemaitre [email protected]
To: Carla Jonas [email protected]
Subject: The Brontës
Dear Carla, (Oh heck, that was formal. What happened to the “hi”?)
I was wondering if you had sent me your essay on the Brontës yet? It may have gone into my spam file, although I can’t see it there, or perhaps, as they say, got lost in cyberspace. If you have sent it, and the error is mine, then please accept my apologies. It’s my mistake, and I’d appreciate it if you could send another copy.
If you haven’t sent it yet, I’d appreciate it if you could e-mail it *today*. I would like to have time to consider it in detail so I can go through any corrections with you thoroughly at our one-to-one on Monday evening.
Is 8pm okay for you again? You’ll be pleased to know that I don’t have any engagements afterwards, so I can give you the time and attention you deserve this time.
Best,
Alex
Bloody hell, he must be online right this minute, waiting for the essay, waiting for her to fail him, to give him the slightest excuse.
Carla read the email. Then read it again. After the fifth
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