Happily Ever Ninja(17)

“You want a fight, asshole?”

“Not particularly. But if you children come across any other adults, I must caution you. Not every man is as forgiving as I.” Holding the chatty one’s feeble glare for a long moment, I added, “Boys, if you insist upon your current course of innate thought pollution, I’m liable to lose my temper. Cease or I shall have to punish you.”

His eyes wavered to the side, to the girl. His fragile ego threatened, he lifted his hand as though to strike me and blurted, “Hey, fuck you, man.”

I caught his hand, twisting his wrist easily, and constricted my fingers around his fist, eliciting a sharp cry of pain. “I don’t want to beat you senseless—not today at any rate, perhaps tomorrow—but allow me to speak clearly since your comprehension of the English language is apparently deficient.”

I paused, squeezing his hand, feeling the bones crunch together. He cried out again. Thankfully we were at the back of the giant, bustling lecture hall, and he had enough pride to muffle the involuntary sounds of pain.

“Stop. Talking.” I shifted my attention to his little friend; his eyes were wide and panicked. “Never speak again in my presence. Or in the presence of any woman. Everything out of your mouth shows that you are vile and insignificant. If you died tomorrow, the world would be a better place. You are filthy little beasts and I shall not hesitate breaking all the bones in your hands. And that would certainly be devastating because we all know the only two types of sexual satisfaction you’re ever likely to receive is of the self-serve variety, or the four legged variety.”

After another long stare and threatening squeeze, I released his fist and turned back to the front of the class, glancing at my watch. The professor was already several minutes late. I hoped this teacher didn’t expect us to stay longer in recompense for his poor planning.

Telltale sounds of the boys vacating their seats, scurrying out of the room like the vermin they were, calmed me considerably. I made another attempt to study the syllabus, but then I felt the weight of someone watching me. Lifting my eyes, I found the girl at my left giving me a shy smile of reverential gratitude.

I nodded once, noting that—if her eyes were any indication—she possessed some intelligence. But she was very young. I had no desire to be worshipped. No desire to be fawned over or—God forbid—needed.

Most importantly, however, I already had a girlfriend. And Vanessa suited me just fine.

She was the shrewd, practical sort who enjoyed frequent orgasms and liberally employed me as arm candy. Intelligent, independent, reasonably even-tempered, Vanessa required very little maintenance. Her self-sufficiency left me plenty of time for my preferred solitary pursuits—namely long-distance running and voracious reading.

Plus, Vanessa was tall. I preferred tall women. I liked not having to stoop when carrying on a conversation.

“I’m Madeline.” Introducing herself, the girl to my left gave me a little wave.

“Greg.” I pressed my lips together, issuing a tight smile, relieved she hadn’t extended her hand for me to shake.

“Do you know her?” Madeline asked, lifting her chin toward a spot a few rows below us. “The girl they were talking about? Is she a friend of yours?”

“I don’t . . .” I shook my head, my attention straying absentmindedly to where Madeline had indicated.

Her.

There.

She.

You.

Stunning.

Are.

Woman.

Want.

I lost my train of thought.

I lost my words.

In truth, I lost my ability to speak.

And think.

I’d been addled insensible by the vision before me.

Dark eyes lined by thick lashes set in an extraordinarily exquisite face—she was a painting. A marble statue, set apart and untouchable. Yet a moving, breathing object of artistry. Everything grace and elegance and beauty.

Her red lips pursed thoughtfully. The unknown woman was searching for something, eyeing the space around her desk, unaware she was being watched, the subject of intense fascination.

My mother had been an object to my father, a means to an end. A tool for a purpose. He was handsome, unfaithful, and soulless. His cold lack of regard eventually killed her. As such, I’d never allowed myself to be blinded or corrupted by a façade. I’d trained myself to search for signs of authenticity and intelligence beyond the false and oftentimes misleading stucco of appearance.

But this woman . . . she was blinding.

Enchanting.

And she was bending over.

And now I was gaping at her remarkably perfect ass. It was the Helen of Troy of asses, the kind wars are fought over.

“You know her?” Madeline’s repeated question pulled me from my brazen gawking.