Page 2 of Teach Me (Deviant Players #1)

‘What do you mean my hypothesis is flawed? Women don’t want to be degraded!’

Dr Braithwaite glanced up at my outburst. He smiled and leaned back against his desk. ‘Good morning, Ophelia.’ The purr in his deep voice sent tingles down my body.

‘Don’t “good morning” me. How is it flawed?’ I propped my hands on my hips, struggling to assert myself as usual.

‘It’s based on an opinion.’

‘Huh?’ Dr Braithwaite had a habit of turning my brain to mush. He could also cut any argument short with a single look, which I got when the other students filtered into the auditorium.

‘Stay behind after the lecture.’ He glanced at my boots, quirking a smile. ‘We’ll discuss it then.’

I swallowed a sigh. It was always a challenge to be alone with him.

Dr Braithwaite was in his mid-forties, but like expensive wine, he’d matured into perfection.

The streaks of grey in his dark hair and the lines around his blue eyes only enhanced his charisma.

It didn’t help that he kept himself in good shape and wore expensive suits that hugged his tall, muscular frame.

Carly tugged on my arm. ‘Are you coming?’

‘What?’ I blinked at her before eyeing Dr Braithwaite again, waiting for…

what? It wasn’t like I needed his permission to leave his side, but I sought it regardless.

He perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his broad chest. His attention was on the rows of seats in front of him, but he maintained that small smile.

Not quite amusement, but close enough to make me wonder what he was thinking.

‘Let’s grab our seats,’ Carly said.

‘Umm, yeah, I’m coming.’ But before I could move, Dr Braithwaite pulled a clean tissue from his pocket and held it out for me. ‘Uh, what’s that for?’ I asked.

‘You’ve left a puddle on my floor.’ His deep voice made his statement sound ten times dirtier, and, of course, I flushed like a teenager with a hopeless crush on an older boy.

I hid my burning face by bending to clean up the spilt drops of tea. God, I had to stop gawking at him. He was probably amused because he knew why I’d worn these boots. Or maybe he also thought I worked at a strip club.

I straightened and stuffed the dirty tissue into my coat pocket. ‘I’ll see you after the lecture.’

‘Mhmm,’ he said with a courteous nod, giving nothing away, his attention still on the other students.

Carly gushed about her early Christmas present from her boyfriend as we climbed the steps.

I tuned her out, having not dated anyone in years.

My last relationship had been a complete disaster, but it had inspired the research topic for my dissertation.

My flawed hypothesis. When we reached our usual seats, I dropped my bag on the floor and shot a scowl in Dr Braithwaite’s direction.

It wasn’t flawed; I was living proof.

Joshua took a seat in the row to my left, blatantly staring as I removed my coat.

My fingers itched with the need to throw something at him, but I didn’t have the guts to do it in front of Dr Braithwaite.

Our lecturer slowly sipped his coffee as he waited for everyone to find their seats.

The slight narrowing of his eyes suggested he had clocked Joshua’s appreciation of my clothes.

Or rather, what they failed to cover. The buttons on my red blouse stopped just shy of my cleavage, exposing the swell of my breasts.

My black skirt was so tight that I struggled to cross my legs.

I tugged on the fabric to cover my thighs, but all I managed to do was tear my sheer tights. For God’s sake. What was I thinking? I was a jeans-and-woolly-jumper girl, like Carly.

I needed to get laid. Maybe that was the cure for this crush. But when had sex ever solved anything for me?

Unfortunately, the only person I wanted didn’t appear to appreciate my wardrobe choice or what was on display.

My heart stuttered under the silent censure hardening Dr Braitwaite’s features as he eyed me over the rim of his cup.

It was ridiculous how this man could chastise me without words.

It was even more ridiculous how much I craved his approval.

Lowering my gaze, I focused on retrieving the right notebook from my bag without further embarrassing myself and took my time choosing a pen, only looking up again when the room fell silent.

Dr Braithwaite handed a stack of papers to a student in the first row. ‘Pass these along, please. Your mock exams, as promised,’ he continued in a louder voice. ‘Please take the time to review your feedback before your January exams.’

Carly stuck hers into her bag without looking at it, then eyed me with a sour expression. ‘Let me guess… nothing but praise as usual?’

‘Hey, I studied hard for this.’

‘Such a teacher’s pet,’ she teased.

I wished.

‘He’s tougher on me than you think.’ I slipped it into my bag, struggling to mask my smile.

Dr Braithwaite hung his jacket over the back of his chair.

The fabric of his blue shirt strained against his taut muscles as he dragged a hand through his short hair.

He was often reserved and kept his emotions hidden during lectures, but a wry smile tipped his lips when his eyes found mine. ‘Let’s talk about sex.’

I dropped my pen.

He clicked a button on the remote nestled in his large hand. ‘Or should I say “gender”? Who can tell me the difference between these key terms and why it matters?’

My pen rolled onto the floor. I barely noticed its clang or Carly’s small giggle.

The slide on the large screen behind him stated ‘gender stereotypes’, so my brain must have misfired.

Dr Braithwaite hadn’t been flirting with me.

He would never risk his career over a twenty-something student in fuck-me boots.

‘Didn’t we cover this as undergraduates?’ Carly whispered as I fished for my pen.

‘No one?’ Dr Braithwaite asked.

I straightened with my pen. Over twenty students were in the room, but none answered him, so I tentatively raised my hand.

‘Yes, Ophelia?’ His usual pleasant smile was back, a welcome sight after his earlier obvious disapproval.

‘Sex is biological. Gender is a social construct.’

He arched a brow. ‘A little simplified for my liking, but yes.’ He looked at another student. ‘Yes, Grace?’

Simplified? I sank back in my seat. Was he playing games with me? Dr Braithwaite didn’t believe in absolutes or certainties. Like most social scientists, he kept an open mind about everything. Had I missed something obvious in my ethics application?

I pulled the hard copy out of my bag, then skimmed the research aim and objectives. Everything was here. My interview schedule was good. The literature review was on point. The methodology was appropriate, and the hypothesis was?—

‘Ophelia, do you think gender stereotypes influence sexuality?’

Oh, hell. I forced myself to look at Dr Braithwaite.

God, he had gorgeous eyes. Encased by dark lashes, the blue in them should’ve represented innocence, but like now, they often held a teasing glint.

This was about my research, wasn’t it? I’d made a glaring mistake, but what could it be?

It would be pointless to ask him. He wanted me to figure these things out on my own.

‘Umm.’ I licked my lips. ‘Gender stereotypes?’

‘Yes.’ He folded his arms again, and all my stupid brain could focus on was the flex of his muscles. I should’ve sat further away. I should’ve picked a different university. He was too distracting.

Dr Braithwaite dipped his head, peering back at me when I remained mute. ‘What traditional gender stereotypes do we have for men and women?’

‘Men are…’ I cleared my throat. ‘They’re seen as strong and assertive. Leaders. Women are passive and soft. We’re the weaker gender.’

‘And how does this influence our sexuality?’

An easy question, as I’d read hundreds of journal articles before formulating my hypothesis. ‘Men are more likely to be adventurous. They take more risks, like casual sex. They also face fewer consequences for exploring their sexuality.’

‘What consequences do you think women face?’

‘Is that a trick question?’

A ghost of a smile tipped his lips. ‘Not at all.’

Yes, it was. ‘Girls are raised to view sex as dirty, our needs as an embarrassment. We’re taught to protect our virginity – in some cultures, our lives depend on it. Nobody expects the same for a guy.’

‘And what happens if you deviate from this norm?’

He was toying with me, daring me to see his point. I still couldn’t. Joshua proved me right when he compared me to a stripper. I had never felt free to explore anything thanks to men like him.

‘Ophelia?’ Dr Braithwaite prompted, his voice softer.

I narrowed my eyes. Two could play this game. ‘Well, what do you call a woman who sleeps around?’

The room erupted in laughter. Joshua gave me and my fuck-me boots another appreciative glance.

I gritted my teeth at his unwarranted judgement.

I had only slept with two men, but it didn’t matter to Joshua.

He’d made assumptions based on my clothes and the discussions I often had with Dr Braithwaite during lectures, wrongly labelling me as some wanton woman because of my interest in sexuality.

Dr Braithwaite chuckled. ‘I am aware of the slur you’re implying, Ophelia. Modern feminism still has work to do, but I want you to be more specific about how gender stereotypes affect our sexuality.’

‘Why?’

‘Humour me.’

I blew out a breath. ‘Men are rewarded for casual sex and their countless conquests. Women are ostracised.’ I gestured in Joshua’s direction. ‘Gender stereotypes are why women still have to be careful about how they dress.’

Joshua laughed. ‘Hey, all I said was?—’

‘Let’s not get personal,’ Dr Braithwaite interrupted. He clicked the remote. ‘Stereotypes can have a particularly negative impact on those who do not identify as heterosexual. Joshua, why do you think that is?’

I fell back in my seat again. God, that man was exasperating. Why couldn’t he make his point without turning it into a lesson for the whole class?

Carly caught my eye. ‘Text me after your meeting,’ she whispered. ‘I want every detail.’