Hot For Teacher(113)

“Right!” she chirped, keeping her eyes away from mine. She shook her head and gained composure. “I don’t think I could wear a uniform every day. We have so many rules and restrictions that I don’t think I could handle the school telling me what I should wear too,” she added quietly, keeping her head down.

I lifted her chin so she was forced to make eye contact with me. “That’s good.” I smiled. “It’s a good start.” I grazed my thumb over her cheek and could already see my fly coming undone in the reflection of her hazel eyes.

I leaned into her and she stopped breathing altogether.

I smiled and swept her hair behind her ear so I could whisper into it—low and husky and with just the right amount of suggestiveness.

“But I’d like to see you in one of those skirts every day.” My hand moved down to her thigh and I grazed her inseam with two fingers, so that she was barely able to feel it. Her eyes pleaded with me to kiss her, and I grinned.

Yep, Andrea was definitely a Volkswagen: Reliable. Dependable. And oh so easy.

“You’re so smart, Simon. And you’re one of the most popular guys at school. All the girls want you. And you’re like…really hot,” she said a little breathlessly, closing her eyes, her cheeks burning with embarrassment by her admission.

I admit it all seemed like poorly filmed porn. The dialogue couldn’t get any worse. But it’s not like either of us were there for the quality of the conversation.

Okay, so maybe she was.

I chuckled. “Open your eyes.”

She exhaled. “I’m sorry. This is all a little surreal right now. And I’m really freaking nervous,” she added.

She needed reassurance. She needed to know that I was in the moment with her and that I would acknowledge her at school on Monday. Whether or not that was true—or if I’d even remember her name—was beside the point. She needed that cozy little blanket of knowing that I wasn’t using her.

Piece of cake. There was a reason I took Introduction to Performing Arts last semester.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this moment?” I began, finding one of my go-to speeches I had prepared. “I’ve been watching you for weeks and hoping that Miss Shields would pair us up so that we could be alone. I’m just as nervous as you are right now. So whatever you’ve heard about me or think of my reputation, I can assure you: I don’t do this all the time.” I took her hand and placed it on my chest.

I looked down and scratched the back of my head, hoping she’d pick it up as nervousness.

Her swoon was how I knew I had her wrapped around my pinkie.

“This moment is as surreal for me as it is for you,” I added, taking her hand again and rubbing her knuckles.

“Oh, Simon,” she said, leaning in to kiss me.

I quickly closed my eyes and thought of Miss Shields. If she were Katie Shields, how would I react? What would she want me to do next? She’d be used to a more experienced man, one that wasn’t so eager.

This is what every girl in the past three years has been for me: practice. In every scenario I’ve been in, every sexual, kinky, or intimate moment in which I’ve partaken, I get to this point and close my eyes.

Katie Shields is waiting for me.

It’s always Miss Shields.





Chapter Four


There are a few things I am good at. School is one. Dropping panties is another. And arguing my ass off on the debate team is also at the top of the list.

But my passion is the debate coach.

It’s been three weeks since I turned eighteen. And every minute of it has played tug-of-war with my conscience. Turning eighteen has shone a whole new light on the potential I have with Miss Shields…I mean Katie. This is my senior year: my last year with her. My last chance to make something—anything—happen. And now that I’m eighteen, she doesn’t need to fight the attraction I know she feels toward me.

Because I’m legal.

Sweet, blissful, 100 percent okay to have sex with an older, sexier-than-any-high-school-girl, woman.

I just need to make sure I know what I’m doing when I finally decide to make a move. So all of these notches on my belt were essential.

If a fairy godmother or a genie in a lamp would’ve granted me one wish at the beginning of this school year, it would have been a total no-brainer: I would’ve wished for Miss Shields. I wanted every breath from her full lips, every dark strand of hair on her head, and all thirty-three inches of her inseam.

Miss Shields—or Katie, as I like to refer to her—isn’t like the adolescent females in my school. She doesn’t spend hours texting, posting, or pinning. She doesn’t bother with selfies or applying a fresh coat of lip gloss between classes. And you can bet your ass that all of her status updates use correct grammar.