“Is that right?” Her lips press together as she fights a smile. “And what are you going to do if I start falling behind in class, professor?”
“I suppose I’ll have to punish you, Miss Collins.” I hold her gaze as I run my palm over the curve of her ass to her thigh and then back up to her waist, loving the spark that lights her eyes when she realizes what I’m playing at. “I might have to lift up your skirt, pull down your panties, and show you what happens to students with poor study habits. What do you think about that?”
She looks up and to the left, pretending to seriously consider my question. “Um, I think that could be…interesting.”
I arch a brow. “Interesting, huh?”
She shrugs. “I think so. Maybe for lesson five or six.”
“So, in your twisted little mind, spanking and role play come several lessons before deep throating?”
Uncertainty flickers across her features. “Maybe? Is that weird?”
“Nothing is weird as long as it’s what you really want,” I say, the teasing note vanishing from my tone. “But make sure it’s something that really turns you on, not just something you think turns me on. I know some men feel differently, but I don’t want you to do anything with me that you’re not totally into. Making you hot is the thing that makes me crazy.”
Her gaze softens. “You’re a very generous person. And lover.”
“You’re blushing again,” I say, laughing as she slaps my shoulder.
“I’m starting to think spanking you should be lesson two.”
“Then let’s hit the shower, baby, and you can redden my ass with the flat side of my back scrubber. It’ll make a great paddle.”
She laughs, pretending to still be angry with me as I carry her into the shower. But by the time the spray is warm, we’re kissing again and then there is more coming in the shower and in my bed and back on the couch, where we get sidetracked on the way to raiding the fridge for Leftovers Dinner.
I’m having so much fun that I really don’t want Libby to go, but I finally walk her down to the parking garage around ten, after extracting promises of a sleepover very soon.
“Tomorrow night,” she promises. “You can come over as soon as I get back from my knitting circle.”
“I’ll come with you to your knitting circle,” I say, not wanting to be apart from Libby or her pussy any more than absolutely necessary. “I’ve got practice early, but I’ll be free by four.”
She nods slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Okay. But you’ll be the only man. I assume that’s okay with you?”
“Totally okay. I like women. You in particular.” And then I kiss her some more, until I’ve got her pinned between me and her car door and I’m seriously considering making her come again in the parking garage. But the elevator opens before I can slip my hand down the front of her pants, and Libby pulls away with a wicked grin.
“Tomorrow,” she says. “I’ll pick you up at four thirty. Remember to bring your work in progress. And your toothbrush.”
“See you then.” I kiss her one last time, lingering on her sweet lips, and then I let her go, feeling like a lucky bastard. In less than twenty-four hours she’ll be all mine again, and tomorrow night I won’t have to say good-bye.
Chapter Nineteen
Libby
Joining a knitting and crochet circle can be an empowering and heartwarming experience.
I’ve been a part of politically active circles that brainstormed ways to aid the re-election efforts of our favorite education commissioner, and charity-minded circles that knitted caps for babies in the NICU. I helped coordinate a knit-in—a group of forty women who took turns knitting around the clock for a week outside the Oregon Arts Council office to raise awareness of the oft-neglected needlecraft arts—and secured funding for after-school knitting groups across the greater Portland area. And just two summers ago, I joined a group of handicraft-minded craft brew enthusiasts. We meet four times a year to sample the latest micro-brews selected by our fearless leader, Mindy, and spend a long afternoon seeing who can hook the most adorable beer-themed project.
Bottom line: I’m no babe in the woods when it comes to socializing with yarn.
But in recent weeks, my current knitting group has gone off the rails a bit. The introduction of two coordination-impaired newbies and a woman who insists on large-format knitting—using PVC pipe to knit massive installation pieces for her gallery—has put a strain on the usually cozy and boisterous dynamic. Tempers have flared, snark has flown, and Edna, our seventy-year-old host, threatened to put the box wine away last week if Priscilla, the self-absorbed PVC princess, didn’t stop jabbing people with her pipes every time she got to the end of a row.