But the woman sitting at that desk, between stacks of books as she frowned down at a pile of papers, did not look like steely, grandmotherly Mrs. Patterson, who'd had the unenviable task of drilling American history into Chaser's hard head. This woman was much younger, first of all. Much, much younger. Not yet thirty, if he had to guess. She had a slight, slender build that would look good on a man's bike, wrapped tight around his back. Her hair was a dark color that glinted red in the overhead lights, and there was something about the intensity of her focus on her work that made Chaser want to see what it would be like to have her pay that kind of attention to him. Or, more accurately, to his cock.
Predictably, that greedy little bastard perked right up at the thought. Chaser leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms, and waited.
She had earphones in, whatever she was listening to loud enough that he could hear a tinny suggestion of a guitar lick. The music explained why she hadn't heard him coming down the hall, his boots loud as fuck against all that industrial flooring.
It took a minute. Maybe a couple. But then she glanced up.
And freaked.
She threw herself back in her chair, so hard it skidded across the floor with a loud screech. She made a gasping sound, one hand slapping into her own chest as she scrambled to her feet and all but flattened herself against the chalkboard behind her. She yanked her earphones out in the next second, her gaze clapped to his down the length of the room.
Not an unheard-of reaction to laying eyes on him, Chaser could admit, though a little surprising from a teacher who'd summoned him here. But then, he was a scary dude, by trade and inclination. This was part of the deal and he certainly couldn't claim he hated it.
"The next time you call a man seven times in twenty-four hours, maybe rustle up a better welcome when he shows up," he drawled without moving from the doorway. He tried to remember the name she'd left. Something girlie and prissy at once. It clicked then. Ms. Lara Ashburn, she'd said, then repeated, like he might have screeched his bike to a halt by the side of I-49 and whipped out a fucking pencil to write it down. "As ordered."
"I beg your pardon?" Her voice was still thin with what sounded like genuine panic. And he should feel bad about that. He really should.
He didn't.
The women Chaser spent time with tended to veer more toward the biker chick side of things, and were usually merrily, noticeably slutty to boot, which saved a lot of time. Tiny tank tops to show off big tits-real or augmented, he liked them both ways. Skintight jeans, a lot of studded leather, and big hair as a recognizable invitation. Ms. Lara Ashburn, on the other hand, was a tiny little thing. All fine bones and slender limbs, she looked like she might break in two with the kind of rough handling Chaser preferred to share with the women who routinely begged for his attention. But she was dressed in one of those skirts that made her look like an hourglass and some frilly, girlie blouse thing up top, and the delicate sleekness of the whole package-astonishing, really, in a biker town like Lagrange, Louisiana, that catered entirely to the club and its horny members-made him want to test that theory.
"You called me about my kid," he told her, maybe a little more ferociously than necessary, to see if it got to her. It did. He saw a tiny tremor work over her whole tight little body. "Seven times."
Then he watched, fascinated, as this little-bitty thing pushed away from the chalkboard and stood up tall. Not that "tall" for her translated into any inches. He figured she'd come up to the middle of his chest. Which meant that if he picked her up he could fuck her standing like she weighed no more than a football.
He might have smirked a little at that. The fiercely strict Mrs. Patterson had certainly never inspired any fantasies. Unlike this new generation version of a history teacher. He wanted to taste Ms. Lara Ashburn everywhere. Get his hands beneath that absurdly feminine skirt and see how wet she was. Get his hands in her hair to see if it was as silky as it looked. And he definitely wanted to make her come. Preferably all over him. Face, hands, cock-Chaser wasn't too picky.
It helped that in addition to being so little, she was pretty. A perfect little nose in an oval of a face and sweet blue eyes that looked way too classy for a man like him. His favorite kind of dessert, in other words.
And now she was sizing him up in a cool way that made him wonder what had startled her in the first place. Because most people got more intimidated the longer they stared at a man rocking a DKMC cut, to say nothing of all his tattoos or his big, powerful frame. He wasn't the kind of guy who wore off. But she looked like she thought she was tough, standing there in those prissy clothes of hers that should have been melting off her in the Louisiana late summer heat. Holding his gaze like she thought she could hold her own.