Page 50 of Almost Ravaged

I suggested we stay downstairs, but Sawyer swears the people she works with at the ice arena are here and set up on the second floor.

Halfway up, she comes to an abrupt stop and teeters back, triggering my instinct to protect her. I bracket her hips, steadying her, and crane my neck to see what the hold-up is.

Fuckin’ A.

It’s him. He’s here.

Professor Eden, a.k.a. the douche canoe who insulted and disrespected Sawyer in front of our entire class, is here in this narrow-ass stairwell.

And he’s fuckingleeringat my girl.

A scoff escapes me. He would be the kind of professor who drinks at a college bar.

The same fury that overtook me the day he shamed Sawyer returns. I’ve kept it at bay since Monday by not allowing myself to think about him, but now that he’s standing in front of me, my control snaps, and my vision goes hazy.

I hated him the second he stormed into the lecture hall, haughty and disgruntled. He wasn’t prepared for class, and he took it out on Sawyer.

My hands tighten on her hips automatically. I don’t fight it. I’m holding on so tightly it may leave marks. But I have to steel myself and keep my hands occupied. Otherwise, I’m liable to punch this guy in the fucking face.

He hasn’t noticed me yet. If he realized I was standing here, he wouldn’t have the fucking gall to stare at Sawyer’s chest with his mouth hanging open.

The thin fabric of her form-fitting green top is doing little to camouflage her nipple piercings.

Fuck. Those nipple piercings. My angel has a devilish streak. And I can’t wait to fully exploit and explore it.

Two summers ago, when Atty and I visited her during a ten-day break, she wore loose tops the whole time, which was out of character for her. I didn’t ask, though I couldn’t help but wonder why. It wasn’t until I saw the aftercare instructions on her desk and the piercing cleaner in the bathroom vanity that I pieced the clues together.

Then, for the next several days, I was fixated on obtaining visual confirmation. The first time I saw them through the fabric of her shirt, I nearly came in my pants. Even just the outline creates an optical illusion that plays a starring role in my solo-session fantasies.

I can’t fucking wait to see them up close.

Just like I can’t wait to show my angel the piercings I got for her pleasure.

“Hello, Professor,” Sawyer says.

That snaps me out of my trance. Begrudgingly, I release her hips, dropping one hand to my side but moving the other to her low back.

For several seconds, Professor Eden watches her, and I watch him. It isn’t until someone yells up the stairs to keep it moving that traffic begins to shift again.

“See you both in class,” Eden grits out as he rushes past.

I can’t help but sneer. Fuck. I don’t even want to have to think about facing him on Monday. I was fully prepared to drop his class after the shit he pulled.

But then I opened my inbox last night, searching for a message I knew contained information about the required study hours for the team, and found an email in my outgoing mail. An email apologizing for my outburst, assuring the recipient that it wouldn’t happen again. An email addressed to Professor Eden, and one that I did not write.

Whether Professor Eden apologized to Sawyer is a mystery. We haven’t spoken about the incident. But apparently, I apologized to him.

Initially, anger flared hot in my veins. How dare she log in and send an email on my behalf, especially one that was absolutely contradictory to how I feel? I’m not fucking sorry. My only regret is not taking a shot at him when I had the chance.

It didn’t take me long, though, to realize that she did it because she was looking out for me. Just like I do for her.

She wants me to stay in that class, and this apology ensures we’ll remain together. I appreciate her and all the little ways she shows me she cares and that she’s waiting for me, just like I’ve been waiting for her.

Hell, the only reason I chose to major in marketing is because it’ll allow me more time with her over the next few years. I don’t give a fuck about business. I only care about hockey and her.

“You all right, man?” Atty asks when we finally come to a stop near one end of the L-shaped bar.

Sawyer pops up on her toes, scanning the place for her friends, I assume.