Half Of My Heart

DIMITRI

The cherubic bella—Anya Renée—looks disastrously gorgeous when I roll the window down.

Standing at five feet eight, Anya Renée has always pulled the sweet-girl look well. She wears innocently seductive outfits, pairing miniskirts and crop tops with fancy blazers, while her blonde hair is always prim and proper.

Her deep, hazel eyes transfix me, and her full, pouty lips make me envious of the pencil she holds between them while she does classwork.

That was how I saw her for the first time in the college library. It was like a rush of feelings that caught me off guard. The next time I saw her was when she tried to sneak out of my home after a night with my son.

I have found myself staring at her more than once, imagining the end of the pencil to be something much bigger and thicker as her swollen pink lips wrap around it. Something bigger and thicker and belonging to the southern part of my body.

My cock grows harder as twisted thoughts of coiling those blonde strands around my fingers while I rut into her from behind momentarily distract me from my charitable actions.

I am so fucked up for thinking this way about my son’s girlfriend—or ex-girlfriend, for that matter.

She is seventeen years younger than me, and yet every time I saw her with him, I was reminded of my own youthful years. I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if she had been mine instead.

I became so hooked on the idea of having her around our house that I gave her a key, all the while harboring less friendly thoughts than she likely imagined.

When I saw her shattered look just now, I had to follow her. But not before the half-naked cheerleader slunk down the stairs. From her expression and the guilty look on my son’s face, I put two and two together.

“Ride with me instead?” I ask Anya, immediately recoiling from the words with how wrong they sound, how predatory, if only to myself. It is not like I need to think of her young pussy riding my cock when I plan to drop her back safely to her apartment.

“I was just getting a cab,” she says. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble. Please, let me give you a ride.” I smile at her.

She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, an action that distracts me for a split second, then she lets it go with a pop. I imagine tracing that lip with my tongue someday, licking a path to the valley between her tits.

No, no, no. She’s still my student. I cannot and should not go there.

After opening the door, she slides into the passenger seat and places a box of cookies on the dashboard. I roll the window back up, blocking the noise from the outside world as I drive through the busy traffic.

She is quiet, so quiet that I steal a glance at her face in the rearview mirror. She seems close to crying, so I turn on the radio for a little noise, hoping to distract her from her sorrow. More glances her way tell me the music is working, but the whole ride is silent.

It doesn’t take long to reach her building, and when I stop, Anya reaches for the door without a word.

In a sudden panic, I click the lock back shut, startling her. “Hey, wait a second. I just want to talk.” I explain myself before she can assume the worst.

Her face relaxes as she leans back in the seat, her skirt riding up. “What about?”

My eyes linger on her thighs until she sighs, a breathy sound that is music to my ears, and I avert my gaze. Drumming my fingers over the steering wheel, I rack my brain for the right words. “I’m sorry. For what Blake did,” I finally say.

Shaking her head, she says, “It’s not your fault.” She exhales. “It’s just my bad luck, Mr. Rossi.”

Discomfort prickles my spine from her words; I wish she would stop calling me that. Not only does it sound too sincere, but it also reminds me of every time she said “yes, sir” to me in college and how I yearned for her to say that in response to one of my naughty commands.

I purse my lips tensely as memories of her loud moans from Blake’s bedroom echo in my ears and images of her wearing only his T-shirt flash through my mind. Then come my fantasies of her on her knees, doing my bidding, which I force back down.

Thoughts like these are the reason I don’t keep girlfriends and get off by being a member of Private Affairs, an exclusive, members-only kink club that is run by my close friend, Luca Kane. There, I can lose my inhibitions and give in to my depraved fantasies.

Anya shifts in the seat, refocusing my attention.

I clear my throat. “Did he ever…hurt you?” I approach the subject with a question, wanting to make sure I am not overlooking any concerning behavior from my son.

“No!” Anya shakes her head. “Never. He’s not like that.”

Relief fills my chest, and I release a breath. “If he ever approaches you again for a relationship, call me, okay?”

Anya stays quiet as she looks out the windshield. The music on the radio dwindles, and a soft, romantic song changes the mood in the car. I watch Anya’s strong facade slowly break, and she begins to let out soft sobs.

“I’m sorry.” She sniffles, rubbing her nose with a tissue. “I…I never cry, but… Why would he do this to me? Why am I never enough? Am I not pretty?”

Is she kidding? She is gorgeous. A one-of-a-kind beauty. If I were her boyfriend, I would never let her leave. I would keep her with me.

What the fuck am I thinking?

“Anya, my son is, well, he’s a little messed up,” I confess. “I’m not saying his actions are justified, but don’t let him be the reason why you don’t smile. You’re so—”

I stop before I can say something that would get me in trouble, and she snaps her eyes to me, my sudden halt alerting her to my potential slipup too. Instead, I give her a small shake of my head and a smile.

“Thanks, Mr. Rossi.” She gives me a tight smile in return. “Thank you for the ride home.”

“Is there anything else you need? Anything I can help with?”

“Well, I could do with a hug, but my best friend’s up there”—she nods toward her building—“so that will have to wait.” She chuckles and turns in her seat. Pulling on the door handle, which unlocks the door, she moves to get out, but I grab her hand.

She turns, looking at our joined hands and then at me.

“I can give you a hug,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound creepy. “I’m your friend too, right?”

She stares at me with wide eyes, blinks, swallows, and then speaks. “You’re also my professor. Professors shouldn’t be touching their students like this.”

I immediately let go of her hand, pulling back. “Sorry, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”

She turns away from me, but I catch her smile in the mirror. The door opens, and she gets out.

Pinching my forehead, I wish I could obliterate myself from existence. What a damnable excuse to touch her. She must think the worst of me now.

The sound of a knock on my window forces my eyes back open. Anya’s standing there with tear-stained cheeks.

I quickly roll the window down. “Anya, I’m so—”

The words die on my lips as she cups my face and leans in, her lips landing right over mine.