The air of the second-rate lecture hall is stagnant as I throw myself behind my creaking desk. The start of a new academic year is upon me, my second one of my illustrious teaching career at Washington State University. Of course, I'm too young for the position but my name and my impressive acceleration of my own education landed me the job with relative ease. A twenty-five-year-old professor of Economics and Politics is certainly not the norm, but those with reservations tend to drop the shocked scepticism as soon as they talk to me. The fact that I'm no longer Christian Grey, but Dr Christian Grey certainly helps.

Not that I care.

I hate the people I work with nearly as much as I hate the job itself.

Drumming the basics of the world into people only a few years my junior and seventy-five IQ points my inferior wasn't something I'd planned on for a living. The fresh-faced and eager freshman of the class of two thousand and twelve will be arriving any minute and the thought of their various incompetence is already boring me. I drum my fingers on the desk. The feeling is still there. The damning knowledge in the back of my mind that I've made an unbelievable fuck-up of my life. The calling of industry is back there too. The sprawling skyline of Washington is filled with captains of industry.

I should be one of them.

There is a gaping niche in the market for a driving force to exploit the green effort, amongst other things. Everywhere I look, I see opportunities to be mined and money to be made. But instead, week after week, I'm trying to explain market equilibrium to people that really should be majoring in something a little easier. Majoring in something that wouldn't require me to stare at their vacant expressions and smell the stench of the stale alcohol upon their uncleansed breath. I have no idea how I ended up here, a stifling career in academia, on a state salary. Moreover, I don't know how in the sweet fucking world I'm going to get through another year of this shit.

I really don't.

The last time I had broached the subject of getting out of the teaching profession and into the entrepreneurial arena, my mother had nearly aspirated on her smoked salmon entrée. They consider my foray into educating the mindless youth as a wonderful stabilising force in my life. If I'm turning up for the nine-to-five, I'm not out drinking all night, fighting my way through every bar in Seattle. If I'm busy throwing myself into the utterly pointless and utterly fruitless quest of educating the next generation of the capitols useless, I'm not free to traumatise the family any further by seeing and being seen with her.

With Elena.

I feel my lips twitch and my fingers drum louder. It's been five months since the sordid tsunami of mine and Elena's past rocked the foundations of the Trevelyan-Grey household. Screams had hollered down the fine hallways of the family mansion, an esteemed and respected medical doctor had thrown herself, claws out, at the woman that had deflowered her son. A usually charming and taciturn lawyer had to be physically restrained from calling every high-flying friend in the city, shouting about custodial sentences and disgusting paedophilia. Mia and Elliot had been too shocked to even verbalise whatever they were feeling, though to her credit, my little sister has a mean aim with a priceless crystal vase when she's provoked.

So, all-in-all, they're just thrilled with my inane occupation.

But I don't know how much longer I can care enough about that to stay in it.

The door of the lecture hall creaks open and I close my eyes in resignation. They're here. Well, one frightened looking kid with glasses bigger than his face is anyway. I don't spare him a welcoming word. He won't last long. This I know. Because I know people. I can read them. Which is why I know the big deal that Frasier, the CEO of the biggest energy whole-sale company on the West Coast, is never going to come through. He's being played. If he read the who's who of society weekly, he'd know that.

I know it.

But that doesn't matter, because I'm here, teaching Neanderthals.

The lecture hall is filling thick and fast now. The usual assortment of confidence and terror, wealth and poverty. I can't bring myself to look up at them until I absolutely have to. I don't have a lesson plan. I don't bother with such things. Conversation hangs in the air. Tentative meet and greets are happening. Eventually, I'm going to have to say something. Pretend I give a shit. Welcome them to the first day of the rest of their lives.

The usual bullshit.

Ten minutes pass and I'm already sick of the sound of my own voice. And I'm definitely already sick of the painstakingly familiar glances of sheer adoration from the simple-minded blonde girls in the front row and the downright alarming glances of lust from the biker trio of girls in the back row. I shake my head internally. They had no idea how misplaced their ardour was. They saw the pretty face, the unusual hair and eyes, the general aura of wealth that hangs over me and their adulations and affections grew monstrous.

Not knowing that I was the real monster.

Thirty minutes later and only the blonde ensemble in the front row are listening to a single word that is coming out of my mouth. About a five-minute improvement on last year's collective. Just as I'm about to move pointlessly on to the fundamentals of demand and supply, the door creaks open behind me. The disturbance lulls the semi-conscious out of their slumber and the hall turns to stare at the interruption. A late arrival. Joyous.

My immediate response of lazy anger turns to something…different.

My inner demons dance. I'm in a dry spell at the minute. Not of my own choosing. And this girl. This long legged, brown haired, brown eyed beauty is exactly the kind of girl that would cheer me up on a cold Seattle night. She's frenzied. Embarrassed. Her cheeks are scarlet. She bumps into the doorframe as she scrambles through it, like a deer in the headlights. Her arms are full of books. Advanced books. Jesus, she might even have a brain to boot. She's all of nineteen or twenty.

I raise a brow.

"This lecture began over half an hour ago, Miss…"

She glances over at me like a rat in a trap.

"Steele," she practically whispers, clearly dazzled by my disgusting beauty. "Anastasia Steele."

I stand there, enjoying her obvious discomfort, drinking it in. Visions flood my brain. The things I could do to her. The sounds I could draw from her. The delicate shades of red I could paint across her delightfully pale skin. Her pupils have dilated, her breathing rate has changed, the general betrayal of arousal. I feel my mouth water before the mindfucking realisation sets in.

I am this girl's professor.

She is my student.

She is off limits.

My inner demons snarl and furl up in an angry ball of red. They're not used to being denied. I generally snare any woman I want, wherever I want, whenever I want. But not within the confines of these halls. Not within the boundaries of my ill-chosen and unwanted profession. I sigh and cast an admittedly supercilious hand towards the myriad of vacant seats in the high-rise lecture bleachers.

"Well, a belated welcome, Miss Steele," I murmur sarcastically, "Your fashionably late entrance has been duly noted. Perhaps you would like to refrain from disturbing my lecture any further and take a seat?"

Sue me.

I get snarky as fuck when a perfect piece of prey is on the no-fly list.

I watch her subtly as she flushes puce and stumbles to take a seat in the middle of the hall, a kindly girl moving her bag to allow her easier entrance. My voice fills the room once more, my gaze roves around in equal measure, but she's always in the corner of my eye. The more I stare with subversion at her bent over brunette head, as she diligently writes down my every word, the more my desire increases.

Jesus Christ, what a waste of the education I could really give her.

I drone on and on, boring myself, willing the end of this infernal hour to come as swiftly as possible. Eventually that glorious moment arrives and I dismiss those who are still awake with a crisp farewell and throw myself back behind my desk, wondering is it too early to add some whiskey to my coffee.

It probably is.

I definitely don't care.

I'm lost to my thoughts by the time the lecture hall completely empties. All save for one. I sense her presence before I see it, lifting my head slowly from my new and depressing timetable. She's nervous. Flushed. Jittery. All things I enjoy. I take a second to memorise the slender curve of her hips and the doe-eyed quality of her trembling gaze.

She's stunning.

And different.

Differently stunning.

"What can I do for you, Miss Steele?"

She blushes even harder at the sound my voice and I'm very glad for the cover of my desk to hide the hardening bulge in my pants. She's not sophisticated like the girls I usually go for. She doesn't move with grace, clearly hasn't come from money and obviously has no idea of her cosmetic good fortune.

"I would just like to apologise for interrupting," she mumbles, "I got lost."

I look at her fully in the face and curse my pathetic job to the depths of hell.

Professional. I have to be professional. Fuck fucking sake.

"That's quite all right," I say quietly, managing a spastic attempt at a smile, "These things happen to all freshmen. You'll find your way in no time, Miss Steele. You all do."

She stares at me like she's never seen anything quite like me.

The bounds of my professionalism are being tested the longer I'm alone with her. She needs to go. I need to go. One of us needs to go. It's easier if it's me. I rise and sling my bag over my shoulder and nod at her brusquely, just like any faculty member would do and make for the door. I feel the pull of her dragging me back the faster I walk.

There's something about her. Something more than something.

I can't breathe until I'm out in the courtyard.

The cool air hampers my libido and I drink it in. Students mill around me, taking no notice of me, I look like one of them. The images of her and all the varied and wonderfully perverse things I could do to her refuse to leave my brain, clinging to my grey matter like octopus tendrils. I scrub a hand over my eyes, cursing my dry spell. Vanessa and I parted ways five weeks ago and it's been all Sahara and suburbia since then. My phone is in my hands before I know it, and my fingers are dialling before I can stop them. I had faithfully and dutifully promised my parents and siblings that I would never, ever speak with her again.

But sometimes, needs are needs, and those needs need satiating.

She answers on the fourth ring.

As she always does.

"Christian. This is a surprise. It's been a while. Are you sure it's safe?"

I spare her the pleasantries.

She isn't surprised.

"Elena. I need your help. I need someone. Someone more long-term. And I need that someone tonight, at the apartment, at nine pm sharp. Can you do that and keep it to yourself or do I need to make alternative provisions?"

Her laugher is not unexpected.

"I'm glad to see that your parents lack of understanding hasn't altered the path that suits you best, Christian. I know the perfect girl. She'll suit you like a tailored suit. She'll see you at nine."

As she hangs up, I see Miss Steele crossing the courtyard and a sense of emptiness plagues me.

This girl, Elena's girl, might be the most appropriate girl in the world.

But as I lean against the wall and watch her long mahogany hair flow out behind her in the wind, I know she won't be enough. She'll distract me for a while, sure, but she won't be the girl with the doe-eyes and the something more than something.

I close my eyes.

I really, really hate my fucking job.

…..

TBC

A/N: This story is unrelated to any of my ongoing FSOG stories, they'll be updated soon! Inks x

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