Home > Professor Feelgood (Masters of Love #2)

Professor Feelgood (Masters of Love #2)
Author: Leisa Rayven


Feelgood in My Pants


Here I am at 7.30 on a Monday morning, more turned on than I’ve been in all my twenty-three and three-quarter years. But am I with the man of my dreams? Am I being wined and dined and romanced out of my pants? Am I in an exotic location involving sand, sea, and half-naked waiters serving drinks with tiny paper umbrellas?


I’m sitting at my desk at Whiplash Publishing, surrounded by an empty office and the faint clicking of the water cooler, as I’m bombarded with very bad thoughts about a man I’ve never met.

This is not good.

I hear a banging sound coming from down the hallway. The only other early bird here today is our Scottish finance manager, Fergus, who has an antagonistic relationship with our ancient photocopier and doesn’t care who knows it.

“Youuuuu base creature,” he bellows, his thick brogue rising in volume as I hear more banging. “You foul, fetid fucker.” His words are punctuated by the sound of ripping paper. “Just … fucking … staple it, you fecking cock-swaddling dick-licker!”

There’s a loud beeping sound, followed by Fergus screaming in frustration. I’d offer to help, but I can’t drag myself away from my word-porn high. Also, Fergus is always extra cranky when he’s compiling the end-of-quarter profit/loss projections, so I’d like to stay out of his orbit as much as possible right now.

As the copier abuse continues, I cross my legs under my desk and glance around to make sure I still have the main office area to myself. If anyone saw me right now, would they be able to tell how turned on I am? Would they know that the blood flooding my bright, blushing face fades into comparison with the blood rushing to lower parts of my body?

With a cleansing exhale, I stand and head toward the bathroom. The rest of the crew will be here any second, and I seriously need to get myself under control before that happens.

I push into the ladies’ room and run my hands under cold water before patting myself down. When I look up at my reflection, I shake my head. No amount of water could get rid of my ridiculous bright-pink blush.

“What the hell are you doing, Asha? Seriously. You want to lick a man you don’t even know. Worse, a man whose face you haven’t seen. You’re out of control.”

This isn’t like me.

I’m a romantic. I want flowers and dinner dates, and long slow kisses in the moonlight. I’m not into random hook-ups and indiscriminate sex. I never understood how my big sister could gain so much satisfaction from one-night stands. I’ve tried them. They’re awkward and full of self-consciousness. I prefer to know the men I allow into my body. To me, there’s nothing sexier than a man who wants to be in a relationship.

But I guess that’s the main reason I’ve developed intense horn-dog cravings for a total stranger. My mystery man has lost the love of his life, and he’s unashamedly telling the world about it. When I read his words, I find his passion contagious and, apparently, stupidly arousing.

After taking a deep breath, I head back to my desk. Once there, I grab my mouse with every intention of getting a jump on the giant pile of work on today’s agenda, but instead, I end up taking one final scroll through the Instagram feed of the man who calls himself Professor Feelgood. Goddamn, he got the name right. Although he probably should have added ‘in my pants’ to be accurate. Right above his name on his profile is a picture of Harrison Ford as Han Solo, and below it is his bio, which reads, “A recovering asshole engaging in brutal introspection one day at a time. I’m a collection of bad choices masquerading as a semi-functioning man.” Well, apparently, a whole bunch of people relate to his bad choices, because he has over three million followers.

I stumbled across his feed a couple of weeks ago when someone I follow reposted one of his poems, and ever since, I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole into his world. There are grainy, arty photos of him, all taken at angles that make it impossible to see his face. Some have been taken overseas in front of famous landmarks, while others are so close to his taut, muscular body I feel like I’m caressing him just by gazing at them.

But more than the provocative images, it’s his words that slay me. His sometimes sweet, sometimes sad, always-sexy words about love and loss seem to bypass my brain and speak straight to my soul.

I want to be inside you, surrounded by your warmth

Trembling muscles and cloudy brain as I thrust, and thrust, and thrust.

I want to be inside you, wrapped in your limbs

Hot skin and oh-God-sweet-Jesus moans echoing around us

I want to be inside you, making your body dance, and burn, and fly,

But really, I want to be inside you

because you’ve been inside me from the moment we met

and now,

it’s my turn.

I’ve read this one about ten times now, and it’s just the tip of the iceberg as far as his talent goes. The more I read, the more obsessed with him I become.

I scroll up to the beginning of his timeline, trying to figure out exactly why he stimulates me so deeply. Yes, there’s a physical response to his pictures, especially those featuring him half-naked, because seriously, his body is insane. But there’s more to it than that. All of his posts feel like deeply personal confessions. I think part of why he’s so popular is because he’s pulling apart his issues, mistakes, and regrets for the whole world to see, and the bravery and honesty that leaps off the screen feels like injecting liquid passion straight into my heart. It’s playing sweet havoc with my blood pressure.

I jump when an exceptionally loud bang echoes down the hallway. I look up to see Fergus walking out of the photocopy room, a badly cracked document feeder slung casually under one arm.

He walks past me and nods in my direction. “Morning, Asha.” With his accent, it sounds like ‘mooorning.’

“Hey, Fergus. Everything okay?”

“Oh, aye. Just grand. Going for a wee walk.”

I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about taking a bathroom break as he strolls to the other end of the office and pushes through to the stairwell that leads to the roof. I briefly wonder if I should I be concerned that he’s going to launch the document feeder over the side of the building and into the river.

I’m about to follow him to make sure he doesn’t do something foolish when my phone lights up with a picture of my big sister smiling as she flips me the bird.

Such a delicate flower. “Hey, Eden.”

“Hey yourself. You’re at work already? Max was going to cook you breakfast, but you were gone before we got up.”

“That’s not true. Judging from the sounds coming from your room, Max was up at least twenty minutes before I left.”

Eden chuckles, and I smile. Her happiness is well-deserved. She finally left behind her cycle of one-night stands with mediocre guys and found a real man. And now, for the first time in her life, she’s in a real grown-up relationship. I just wish I didn’t have to hear the full-on sexcapades that go along with it.

“I’d apologize for my man not being able to keep quiet,” she says, exuding smugness. “But I enjoy his noises too much.”

“Yeah, I got that from all of your noises. Seriously, I have no doubt that you woke up old Mrs. Eidleman on the fourth floor, and we both know she doesn’t put in her hearing aids until nine.”

Another bout of laughter from Eden. Honestly, as aggravating as it is to hear other people having amazing sex when you aren’t, I’m over the moon that she finally has a serious boyfriend. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I thought she might have to be buried with one arm poking out of the ground, so she could eternally give the middle finger to love and commitment. But falling for Max Riley has changed all that. Now she’s so far gone, I practically see cartoon love hearts floating around her every time he’s near.

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