In Too Deep by Portia Da Costa Page B

continue, ‘I’ll shelve these for you, and put in that request to Library Interloans. It shouldn’t take much longer than a week.’
    Daniel and I turn towards the newcomer. It’s Greg, the computer tech, who’s carrying a coil of cable and a tool pouch.
    I
think
we’ve covered our tracks, but there’s something so knowing and insolent in the young man’s smile as he reaches us that I’m convinced he knows exactly what just went on here.
    ‘Oh hi, Prof, Gwen, sorry to disturb you.’ He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and when I glance at Daniel he’s regarding Greg with an almost complicit look of male bravado.
    ‘I think I can run an extension from the Library’s network for you, if you like, so you can get a faster internet connection down here while you’re working. The Wi-Fi must be almost non-existent down here. It won’t take more than a quarter of an hour or so.’
    ‘Thanks, that would be great.’ Daniel’s smile is still subtly smug, and suddenly I want to punch him. The bastard! He’s showing off! Letting Greg know that some kind of sex thing has taken place.
    ‘Right. I’m off, Professor, see you later,’ I snap out smartly, and without looking back I stride away in the direction that Greg just came from.
    Men! They’re all the same … bragging about their conquests and taking advantage of women they’re supposed to care about. Fuckwits! So much for temporary-fling-type arrangements! I feel like stomping back to the carrel once Greg’s finished working, and buttonholing Daniel for our first big row.

6 Compensation
    I SPEND THE rest of the day fuming. Especially when Professor ‘Look at me, I just got a blow job’ doesn’t put in an appearance at lunchtime, or even come up into the main library during the day at all. All that talk about ‘lunches’ and ‘honesty’ and ‘not being a prospect’ and all that – was it really just a ruse to get his cock into my mouth?
    But still, I’d rather be cross about being bamboozled into giving Daniel Brewster a blow job than cross about my dreary domestic problems. And it’s not as if I didn’t want to fellate him. Hell, he’s Professor Hottie McHotstuff, famous television historian, and I had a crush on him even before he arrived at our humble library. There must be thousands of women out there who’d give anything to do what I’ve just done, with or without the offer of a ‘fling-type thing’.
    There’s more, too, I know it. Something’s bothering him, something serious. He’s trying to distract himself with pleasure and games, but beneath that there’s an anxiety in him, I can sense it. And if I can help him deal with that, then it’s all right by me. So I spend the rest of my day pondering on that too, and I’m putting on my jacket, ready for home, when a notion literally stops me in my tracks.
    Has Daniel Brewster got something wrong with him, some illness or other, and is that why he thinks he’s not much of a long-term prospect for a woman? He does get bad headaches, after all. It seems a bit drastic, but I have the sort of imagination that can take things to the extreme sometimes. I rack my memory for possible signs, but there’s nothing about him that looks ill. His body is magnificent, he’s in peak condition and, if his sexual constitution is anything to go by, he’s about as far from an invalid as a man can get. His cock was harder and more vigorous than any man’s I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen dozens and dozens, but a woman just knows about these things.
    I’m still mulling all this over as I let myself out of the back door. And find Professor Hottie leaning on the railings, with a taxi standing a few feet away, driver reading a paper, apparently waiting for him and – it seems – for me.
    ‘Good, I’ve been waiting for you. Let me give you a lift home. I, er, well, I feel that certain things were left unresolved and we need to discuss them.’
    My jaw drops. Surely he doesn’t think we’re