Will our new erotic fiction have you turning fifty shades of red?
I knock on the door at exactly five minutes to eleven, the time of my first Tutor meeting. I’ve been standing outside for ten minutes already, staring at the name engraved into the top of the door frame: Dr M. Blue. The nameplate looks ancient. He must be pretty old, just like everything else in this city. At least I’ll only have to do this twice a term.
“Come in.” The voice behind the door sounds uninterested, irritated even. I turn the large, brass handle, and step into a wood-panelled, book-lined room with an impressive view of the court below. Dr. Blue is sat behind his desk. He’s young, very young. He looks far too young to be a doctor, let alone a fellow and tutor of the college. He has sandy blonde hair and fierce cheekbones. I gulp a little as I walk towards him – he’s very attractive.
“Georgina Skye,” he says, gesturing at the chair in front of him. He doesn’t look up. I am amazed to see him fingering an iPad, totally absorbed. I feel put out as I take my seat, dismissed before he’s even set eyes on me.
“Please, call me Georgie,” I ask, with undue emphasis on the ‘please’.
Then, all at once, those eyes! Dr Blue’s deep blue eyes are tearing into me like sapphires, leaving me flushed and breathless. He frowns as he considers me, scanning me up and down. I regret the ‘please’ at once. Without taking his eyes off me, he turns off the iPad and places it in his desk drawer. He is still staring as he asks me what I’m reading, his voice deep and slow.
“The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck,” I reply, surprised at his apparent interest in literature. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
“Not books,” he says, looking vaguely amused now. “I mean, what subject are you reading for your degree?”
“Oh, English,” I say, mortified by my mistake. My palms are sweating and my cheeks are positively pulsing with heat.
“That figures,” he says coolly. I watch as he picks up a piece of paper from a nearby shelf. At the top of the page I see the picture I submitted with my application. I look so young! He utters a distracted ‘hmmm’ as he scans the sheet. I wonder what he is reading about me.
“Where do you live, Georgina?” His eyes dart back at me with the question. I feel I’m being interrogated, probed. Besides, doesn’t he have this information right in front of him?
“Buckinghamshire… Milton Keynes.”
“Perhaps I need to make my questioning plainer. Where do you live in College, which room?”
“D12,” I reply, confused. Why would he need my room number?
“Is there anything else you’d like to know about me?”
“Not for now, Miss Skye. If you could just sign here.” He passes a piece of paper over the desk, and holds out his pen. His hand brushes mine as I take its length.
I sign at the bottom of the page, and push the paper back towards him.
“Thank you, Miss Skye. You can leave now.”
His tone is still dismissive, though at least he is looking at me as I get up to leave. I walk towards the door, but before I know it I am hurtling to the floor. I have tripped on the edge of the rug. Could this meeting get any worse?
I hit the floor, but then a hand is firmly clenching my upper arm. His hand. I turn to face him. We are both on our knees. He is inches from my face, holding me so tightly that it hurts. “Are you OK?” he asks, penetrating me with those eyes.
“My ankle hurts,” I say, breathless.
“Let me look at it.” Without asking permission, he drops my arm and gently pulls my leg towards him, resting my ankle between his legs. Somehow he knows it’s the injured one; he must have been watching very carefully as I fell.
He slowly unfastens my shoe, placing it beside him on the floor. The difference between this and his hold on my arm is astonishing. His
touch is so soft, sending shivers between my legs. He presses around my ankle gently before telling me it’s only sprained and that I’ll be fine.
After putting my shoe back on, he helps me stand. We walk to the door together, his arm around me.
“Thank you,” I say, “for examining my ankle.”
“We aim to please, Georgina Skye.”
I’m sure his hand strokes mine as I walk out the door. I turn around to catch a final glimpse of those eyes, but the door is already shut. Still, I am elated. My inner goddess jumps up and down with cheerleading pom-poms as a sense of euphoria washes over her; my outer self can’t jump – her ankle hurts.
Fifty Shades of Blue will continue next week.