Updates from Chapters 1-3: Carrie Bingham and her friends are writing an anthology on their best one-night stands for their Creative Writing class at Sonoma State. All of the girls lust after their hunky professor, Carlo Bianchi, but Carrie feels a special connection to him. Still a virgin, and the daughter of a famous porn star couple, she wonders if perhaps Mr. Bianchi will be her first.
Chapter 4
Carrie filed into writing class behind her friends, each girl stopping briefly to give Carlo Bianchi their extra show of attention. He dutifully nodded to each one of them until he came to Carrie.
It was probably her imagination, but she thought his eyes diverted for just a second, like he was going to blush and had to look away. He stood with his hips slung at an angle. As she walked the gauntlet between rows of desks and students busy getting their laptops out and shuffling papers, she felt him watch her. Specifically, she felt his eyes on her rear. When she turned, their eyes met, and sparked. It was probably reflex, but he wet his lips. Carrie saw hunger there, something she hadn’t noticed the week before, like he was urgently searching for something. He eyed her carefully, slightly hanging his head, hands poised on his black leather belt. She drifted down to her chair without a sound, and sighed. Her panties were soaking wet.
No way around it. He is simply the most handsome man I’ve ever met.
Pain hit her shin as a brown leather pointed toe caught her so hard, she knew she’d bruise.
“God, Carrie. Don’t stare.” Daria said behind her palm.
Carrie was jolted back to the reality of where she was, and shook her head.
“You write your outline this weekend?” Rhonda asked them both, grinning expectantly. She had pulled a red lock of hair under her nose and tried to hold it there with her upper lip. She looked like she was about to burst with her need to tell all.
“Okay, Rhonda, spill it,” Carrie said wearily.
“It will be one of those ‘dark room’ parties. No lights, but lots of feeling. You know, like on the TV show.” Rhonda’s legs crossed tightly and she swung from side to side. She waved her eyebrows up and down.
Carrie rolled her eyes. “Guess I missed that one. Have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You do it with a stranger, and you don’t know who they are, unless you both want to reveal it afterwards. I figured it out, though,” Ronda beamed. “How about you, Daria?”
“Started it, but I know exactly what I’m going to write about. And I’m not telling.” She blushed.
They both looked to Carrie for her turn to answer.
“Ladies, please. We’ve started class.” Mr. Bianchi mercifully interrupted, frowning as he passed out papers. “We’re having a free write today.”
Students in the front row were snickering before passing the papers behind them.
“Oh. My. God.” Lindsay hiccupped. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
There were two questions on the page, centered in the middle:
What do you like the most about the opposite sex?
What do you like least?
Mr. Bianchi looked down into his briefcase, brought out a small leather journal, sat down and began to write.
Carrie stared at the white paper on the desk in front of her and then had an idea, as she penned:
Dear Mr. Bianchi,
I’ve been thinking about the assignment for this class, the anthology my friends and I hope to write. Instead of writing on what I like most or hate about men, I thought I’d ask you for advice instead. If you were me, how would you get someone you find attractive, to ask you out?
She wondered what it would feel like to have him hold her hand, and then slowly bring it up to his mouth and kiss every finger as she watched and struggled with her breathing. When those large brown eyes smiled at her, would she melt, or would she feel bold and strong?
She faced the front of the room. His elbow was planted on the desk, palm resting under his chin as he stared right at her. It was her turn to look down first. She continued to write, sure he was watching her.
I think if I was a man, I wouldn’t like the kinds of girls who come on too strong, or who invite themselves. I always seem to fall for the silent types too. And they are so shy sometimes, I get frustrated. What could I do to make him recognize me, pay attention to me, want to be with me?
Carrie felt a shiver course down her spine. Her hair had fallen in front of her face, cascading over the paper. The top of her cotton tee plunged to a V, revealing her cleavage. She loved the way her full breasts felt, the one thing she was most grateful for. She lifted her curls and threw them back behind her shoulders. But then she glanced up.
His soft brown gaze covered her. He lowered his head and threw himself into writing again, a crooked smile forcing the crease at the side of his mouth to dent. A private joke had tickled him. Carrie was burning to know what he was thinking about just then, and didn’t want to be left on the outside. But she was. She continued to write.
What kinds of things catch your eye, as a man? What is it that makes you ask one woman out over another? Is it the way she looks, or is it the way she acts? When you want someone to notice you, what do you do to get their attention?
Carrie folded her paper in half and looked across the desks to her friends. She tapped her fingers on her assignment nervously. Rhonda was making a list, Daria was texting on her cell phone and had barely begun. Students buzzed with conversation, indicating the class thought they were finished. Mr. Bianchi stood.
“Time’s up. Let’s make sure your name is on your papers. Let’s turn them in now. Pass them forward.” There was a general moan from the class. Rhonda was fanning herself with hers. She had developed a considerable pink face, clashing with her fiery hair. She swung her eyes Carrie’s way, looking dazed and in a sexual fog many miles away. As papers shuffled to the front, Carrie was filled with a sense of dread. Had she done the right thing?
Class was nearing the end. Tomorrow’s assignment was squiggled onto the whiteboard like it always was, not that Carrie was watching the words. When they were dismissed, she decided she had made a mistake. A big one.
She let her friends chatter off down the hall, and hung back, having purposely spilled the contents of her backpack. By the time she got everything into it, she was the last student in the room. He was waiting by the door.
“Mr. Bianchi, I’ve kind of had a change of heart about what we wrote today.”
“Oh? How’s that?” He leaned back against the door, his Adam’s apple becoming prominent as it moved up and down his tanned neck when he swallowed. His aftershave was subtle, a faint citrus scent.
It wasn’t fair, being this close to him, not even three feet. Carrie’s nipples perked, her bra constricting. She was aware he glanced at her heaving bosom as she tried to inhale courage. But courage faltered, and then fluttered down around her ankles just like her panties might have if she hadn’t squeezed her knees together.
Or if he hooked a forefinger at the lacy top and commanded them to fall.
He was patient, drinking in her appearance like he knew the effect he was having on her whole body and liked it.
“I want my paper back. I—I’m not sure I’m comfortable with what I wrote. Not sure it was—appropriate.” It was more painful than she thought to tell him this.
“Well,” he said as he picked up his briefcase, setting it on a desk and opening the zipper with delicate fingers dusted with dark hair. He pawed through the pile until he came to hers. Looking up with a smile, he extended it out toward her.
Carrie reached for it, but at the last minute he held it above his head.
“Why?” he asked.
Do I need a reason?
“What’s so awful I can’t read it?” He drew the paper to his face and began to scan it. White light bounced off his tanned cheeks and forehead, a reflection from the paper.
Carrie grabbed the assignment, crumpling it up as she did so, and immediately turned her back to him. Aware of his body heat reaching out to her from the few inches that separated them, she heard his rhythmic breathing in her right ear and felt him step closer. The delicate hairs at the side of her neck feathered to attention. She held the paper with one palm, and used the other to smooth the wrinkles out. He was looking over her shoulder. And she let him do it.
In a hoarse whisper, he read out loud what she had written.
“I think if I was a man I wouldn’t like girls who come on too strong or who invite themselves. I always seem to fall for the silent types. And they are shy sometimes, so I get—frustrated.” He stopped and added, “Honest question. What’s wrong with that?”
She turned to him in profile, pulling the crumpled paper to her chest. Blood coursed in the veins of her neck. She was sure he would be able to hear the thumping of her heart and raggedness of her breathing.
“Are you—shy, Carrie?” He said so softly she thought her knees would give way.
“No.” It was a reflex answer.
“Too bad.”
She whipped her head around and looked at him too soon.
Damn.
He gave her a warm smile. His pink tongue darted behind his straight white teeth, sending her pulse higher. He was so close, he could have just leaned in a couple of inches and kissed her. But what she saw drove her over the edge. She saw that he desired her. She felt his heat level rise, reaching out to her.
She inched forward just a fraction, then he did, then they both approached slowly and, just as their lips were going to touch, the classroom door swung open.
Wendell Knowles stepped inside like he had been blown in by a sudden gust of wind. He stopped abruptly when he saw the proximity of flesh to flesh.
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize you had company, Carlo.”
Mr. Bianchi cleared his throat and looked at his shoes. Carrie made a motion to leave when Mr. Knowles stopped her, placing a hand on her upper arm. “Hey, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He addressed Carlo, but left his hand on her arm.
“I can come back another time, okay?”
“Don’t be silly. I was just leaving,” Carrie said, recovering her dignity. She made it out of the room as fast as she could, heart pounding in her throat.
She got away. I almost caught her. Carlo was annoyed at his friend for his lack of checking through the tiny window in the door before entering. He reminded himself Wendell thought he had rights to everything.
Even Carrie?
“Wow, Carlo. You picked the one with luscious parts in all the right places.”
Carlo didn’t utter a word.
“I didn’t…” Wendell started, but was interrupted.
“I don’t date students, Wendell.”
“Oh hell, my friend. I didn’t say date them, I meant play with them.”
The rest of Wendell’s questions were background noise to where Carlo’s head was. He still thought about the way her breath scented of spearmint, her short stilted gasps made him want to claim her with his mouth. He could kiss away her hesitation, make her bloom, moan with ecstasy. He knew he could make her come with one well-placed finger.
He’d gotten hard, and adjusted the tent in his pants. Even now, as he thought about how close she had been to him, her nipples lazily grazed across his chest, he realized he was called to her, wanting to answer her heat with his own. He wasn’t done with her. He knew she’d gotten wet, and could smell her desire. Yes, he could play with her all night and into the next morning.
Had Wendell made a confession? He was drawn back to his friend’s conversation.
“So, what do you say?” Wendell asked. “We going to go on that trip or what?”
“What trip?”
“Didn’t you listen to anything I just said? Thought we could spend a wild weekend together, maybe go to Las Vegas or something. You know, before the wedding?”
Carlo had to admit, while the idea of partying in Las Vegas was thrilling, he was mesmerized by the wonder of what her lips would feel like as they licked a trail down his chest, lower to his groin, as she wrapped that pretty pink tongue around his cock and sucked.
She practically begged him to sleep with her.
Yeah. He could do that. But he would have to be careful.
I need to talk to her—alone.
Everything Erotic 
