Half Of My Heart | 18+

[3]

D I M I T R I

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"Eliot in this poem lays particular emphasis on three themes—" I narrate from my mind as I write on the whiteboard for the students. "Industrialisation, urbanisation, the loss of civilisation..."

The scribble of the pens on paper is music to me. I turn, my gaze landing on the subject of my thoughts. Anya is sitting on the third desk of the middle row of the classroom, her stare fixed on a window through which she views the football field outside. The fact that she isn't paying attention to what I have to say is concerning.

Today, she is dressed in a little black skirt paired with a white top that sticks to her shape, making attention flicker to her perfect tits. Somehow, God bless my patience, I manage to keep my eyes on her face while talking to her.

"Miss. Renée?" I call.

She flinches at the sound of her name. She looks at me while the other students look at her. Her lips tremble, making my eyes drift for a second to them.

"Yes, sir?" she says, and blood rushes to my cock.

What could I give to be in another world with her right now. Somewhere where she isn't forbidden to me.

"Are you okay?" I inquire. "You haven't been paying much attention in class today."

I feel bad for asking that considering I do know the reason behind her lack of focus. But my role as her professor doesn't allow for her personal life to get between her studies. If she isn't focusing, it is my duty to make her focus.

She looks down at her notebook which is still shut for some reason, fumbling to open it while she clicks her pen with her other hand, pressing the tip on a new page. I can read her face as she scrounges her brain for what to write.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Rossi,' she mutters politely, trying to hide behind a veil of her hair. "Won't happen again."

"This is important. Focus, please," I voice out a little sternly, jotting down more notes on the whiteboard.

The conversation has successfully managed to distract me from the topic too. I jot down the last of the notes and face the students.

"I'm giving you a short assignment," I instruct. "Do some independent reading and make me a note of what each of you understood about the poem. Submit them to me by tomorrow in the portal. You can start now."

The students groan together, except for Anya who has once again gone blank. I take a seat on my desk, leaning back on my hands as I watch her shoulders lazily drop.

She is such a fascinating subject for me. The dynamic between us is one that torments me every night. It might have to do with the fact that I am familiar with the moans she made when she was with my son. They were wild. More than once have I been a victim of their intense fucking. My son's bedroom is right over mine and he usually prefers the quiet.

Anya doesn't. She is loud during sex, something I insanely love. She is the kind of woman who was born to fuel a man's ego in bed. I had to get out of my bedroom whenever that happened and only regretted it more because a while later she would come strutting out of Blake's room in a shirt that barely covered her hips, with her socks on.

I would sit at the counter as she took out two bowls of ice cream, passing one to me while dipping a spoon in her bowl, and starting to lick from the back of it. Her tongue ran over the cream and I moaned internally, imagining the cream was my cum which she sucked so greedily.

She is an unreal beauty.

Why the fuck did Blake have to break up with her? With her around, my home had a feminine touch that I craved.