***Author's note: This story interweavers with Katie's Escape, but you don't need to read Katie's Escape to follow this story.
~ Sam ~
This was our third interview.
At our previous two, he sat behind his desk, and I sat in the chair on the other side. But for this particular interview, he sat in the chair when I arrived and motioned to the purple couch after greeting me.
I didn't prefer this arrangement, but I was not about to let him intimidate me.
I found the couch overly stiff as I sat and placed my laptop bag down—the abrupt surface near startling as it met my ass cheeks. Trying to think of why anyone would create the illusion of a couch is something I'll ponder later, I decide.
Jake's office was small and already had too much furniture in it. The couch seemed excessive, and it left little space between us. I could feel his heated gaze on my skin as I arranged everything but didn't bother looking at him. He certainly didn't need any encouragement from me.
I also note the precariousness of this setup. At the last interview, I bolted when his flirtatious comments went from shy and vague to pointed and blunt. But at least we had a huge wooden desk between us.
Now there was just air and body heat.
As for the flirtations, that would've been fine if I was single. And not a student. And he wasn't a Ph.D. candidate teaching some intro classes. But those were all true and thus, made any romantic entanglement a really bad idea. And wrong.
Yet, I'd be a damn idiot not to see and feel the tension between us. Despite how much I ignored his advances outward, inside, I was pulled toward him by something.
Something magnetizing, something alluring. Erotic, yet troubling.
You could tell he was dangerous somehow. The way his intense green eyes bore into mine. The slight grin he wore while answering each question or the way he licked his lips and pulled his gaze to my mouth when I spoke.
But none of that mattered. I'm was in a relationship. I was not, nor ever have been, a cheater. And Jake wasn't the first cute guy to flirt with me and wouldn't be the last one I'd shut down.
But the more I thought about it, the murkier things became. The relationship between my boyfriend and I had been rocky lately, and it left me questioning if he was even worth the trouble.
Plus, he couldn't make me come.
With any method.
Granted, he rarely did any foreplay. It seemed like a chore to him when I asked, and his lack of enthusiasm did little to set the mood.
As such, my sexual frustration was as tense as a guitar string. One pluck and ... well, not if my boyfriend was plucking.
So I, very stupidly, faked all the orgasms.
Every.
Single.
One.
At first, it was no big deal. I didn't expect to come the first time we had sex. After the second time, I reasoned he just needed some guidance. A few times after that, I learned coming at all with him was a lofty dream.
Every attempt was unsuccessful, and in the three months of us dating, I realized that not only is he completely hopeless, but he's also kind of boring in the sack.
Case in point, I once got him to switch positions three times, which he later called that "wild sex."
It was all starting to stack up, and I wasn't sure other parts of our relationship were good enough to overlook the horribly disappointing sex.
All of that mess made for a very problematic exchange between Jake Anderson and me. He highlighted the sexual frustration that I was frantically trying to bury. Looking at him or even being around him made me cross my legs so I wouldn't spontaneously jump him. Even more troubling, I knew I never felt this with my boyfriend. Ever.
But, then again, maybe I was desperate for male attention. His unexpected flirtations caught me off guard, and really, he was the only other guy showing interest. Maybe I was idealizing Jake because my boyfriend was lacking. After all, Jake could be a terrible lay too.
But good lord, did he want me to reconsider that point.
I left our last interview rather suddenly because you could cut the sexual tension with the serrated edge of a condom wrapper. Sexual tension he kept stirring up and thickening until the weight caught my breath.
And I tried to stomp that shit down. I flat out stated I had a boyfriend. That deterred him for about 10 minutes. But this cocky jackass kept putting out a slow trickle of sly looks and changing inflections to make very action charged with a different meaning. Jake made these conversations highlight the unspoken attraction between us.
When I reminded him I had a boyfriend for the third time, he responded with a "ask me if I care." Needless to say, I stormed out, shutting him down by not acknowledging the comment at all.
But with today's interview, I was determined to keep it professional. I even had my professional-looking pencil skirt on, which seemed less sexy when I put it on that morning. Sitting there with my legs cinched together, I realized tights would've been a smart move.
That aside, I needed a few more interviews, which was problematic, obviously. However, after thinking about it non-stop for several days, I figured I could easily find another professor or Ph.D. student to interview after this last one with Jake.
Re: a much less attractive one who wouldn't hit on me.
But right then, I had to get through this last interview.
I tucked my hair behind my ear then moved the rest over to one shoulder, a nervous habit that I find oddly soothing.
Clearing my throat, I got as comfortable as I could under his gaze and the cement-like couch cushion. Seriously, this so-called couch might bruise my ass bones — I assume there are several ass bones.
"Let's just dive right in, shall we, Jake?" I wanted to make eye contact but chickened out after I finished asking. Instead, I jotted the date and topic for the interview at the top of my notepad.
"Sure," he said, leaning back in the chair and placing his ankle over his knee.
"Great. I wanted to talk more about your work with human-computer interaction and classroom computer use. I was curious about engagement levels in classes that require a personal computer. I know we touched on that before, but I had more questions when I was typing up your answers." Eyes fixed on the notepad, I rested the pen on the paper, ready to take notes. Try as I might, I was not ready to meet those intense, sea-green eyes.
"Yeah, sure. Generally, I know when people aren't paying attention. It's fairly obvious. But ultimately, I have no control over it. I know professor Steinberg gets offended, but I let it slide. It's their college experience, it's their money. I'm just here to give them the information they need. What they choose to do with it is up to them."
"Mmmhmmm," I nodded while scribbling, "well, are you not concerned with their success? Also, that's your time they are wasting. How do you not care about that?"
"I mean. I used to care. But I have grant proposals to write, my thesis, networking, reading. Whatever. I can only do so much, plus I'm still learning instruction. Maybe I'd care more if I was an actual professor," he replied in a cool yet precise tone.
"Wow, so you just don't care?" I blurted out, finally looking up at him. He was entirely too casual about what he was saying, and it unnerved me even more the moment I saw it in his face.
This guy's ego could fill up a gaping void in the middle of the universe.
He let out a small laugh and looked down. "Sam, I do care, I promise," in slow motion, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, getting that much closer to me before looking up at me. "It's just that I've been going and caring about college for seven years now. I prioritize what I care about a lot more after being slammed with essays, presentations, scholarship applications, grading bullshit assignments, and classes. You're a grad student. You know that there is zero capacity for extraneous bullshit."
I allowed a hesitant nod. I did know. Academia could suck the life out of you if you let it. I'd been going to school for five years straight—even summer classes. I was exhausted most of the time, burned out. Next fall would be my last year, and I'd have the job hunt to worry about on top of everything.
"Yeah," I sighed in agreement as our eyes met, "I do care about different things now. I get it." For the first time, the tension faded, and I felt a moment of compassion. Whenever someone talked about the pitfalls of pursuing graduate degrees, an instant bond seemed to form because we knew. We could both relate.
His eyes fell to my mouth again. I immediately scooted back and cleared my throat, breaking the moment.
