How is this possible?
How can fate be so cruel?
Through heavy lids threatening to expel tears, I watch as he studies me intently. A student’s coughing in the distance has him giving his head a little shake. Righting himself. But the rigidness of his body betrays him. He’s as unnerved as I am.
“Lateness will not be tolerated,” he stammers before abruptly turning on his heel, heading back to his desk. “Take the first seat in the row and open your book to page one.”
HOLY SHIT.
This is hell.
If I ever wondered what hell would be like, this is it. I mean, where else could I be?
My teeth grit from the effort to remain silent, to not launch into an attack and demand to know why she’s here. Why she’s sitting right in front of me. Torturing me with her mere presence. And Lord, is she torturing me. From where I’m standing in the class, I can see her creamy thighs peeking out from that scrap of material this hellhole calls a skirt. I can only imagine what she’s wearing underneath it. A lace fucking thong. One that could be ripped from her body, exposing . . .
Head in the game, Carson.
When I woke up alone on the beach, I was pissed she had snuck out on me, but I knew it was for the best. With her going back to school, and me starting my job, there was no future. But God, she was incredible.
Fuck, how did my day go so wrong so quickly?
Everything seemed to be going great. I came in early on Monday, set up my classroom, and walked the grounds. I was excited to be back here again, not as a student but as a teacher. It was perfect.
Until the moment the fucking door opened and she walked in.
What I’d do to turn back the clock to Saturday night and not have touched—
Fuck that.
As much as this situation sucks—and Lord, does it ever—I will not regret one minute from that night. Being with Lynn, even if only for one night, was incredible. Why would I want to forget it?
My eyes catch her again from across the room. She’s gorgeous, and the crazy part is, she doesn’t even realize it. Not going there, though. Doesn’t matter how much I want to lift up that skirt and . . .
Our eyes lock.
God, what I would do to bend her over my desk and lose myself in her for the rest of the period. Hell, the hour; maybe even the day.
Fuck.
She’s my student.
With a shake of my head, I try to lure myself out of my perverse thoughts. If I’m lucky, my pants won’t tent in front of a classroom full of kids. Kids . . .
Oh shit.
How old is this girl? If it’s not bad enough I’ve fucked a student, what the hell will I do if she’s not legal? Shit. I’m going to get fired from a job I only just started. Hell, I might even be arrested. Not that it would be my first time, but still . . . This is not good. From my peripheral vision, I see that some kid in the first seat is frantically waving his hand in the air to ask a question and I can’t even calm down enough to call on him. Instead, under my desk I keep balling my fists and then unclenching them.
I need answers.
I glance up at the clock. Only fifteen more minutes until I get some.
I SHOULD BE TAKING NOTES. I should be paying attention. But all I notice are his muscles flexing as he writes on the smart board and I can’t help remembering how his arms felt when they were bracketed around me. All I can hear when he speaks is the sound of his moans in my ear as he tasted my skin, and all the sinfully delicious words he spoke when he took me on top of the blanket. My face flushes at the memory. I can’t think of him like this. No. I left for a reason and this cements my reason. It’s time I stop daydreaming about him, no matter how hard the memory is to relinquish.
“Miss Michaels?”
His voice breaks through the memory. I glance back up and see he’s staring at a girl sitting a few rows away from me. His gaze is paralyzing, his pupils flat and dull. Not at all like the Carson I knew from the beach. I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder what makes him so angry. Is it me?
“Yes,” she mumbles, flustered from her own daydream she must have been in. I would feel the same way if he had called on me, but as he refuses to even look in my direction, it doesn’t seem as though I’ll have to worry about that.
“I asked you a question,” he states in an icy-cool tone.
“You did?” she mumbles. Poor girl.
“Yes, Miss Michaels. And from the look on your face I can safely assume that you, in fact, were not paying attention.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blake.”
Hearing his last name sounds bitter in my ears. But that’s who this man is, and as much as I remember Carson, this man is not him. Even thinking his first name now feels like a dirty secret waiting to be expelled.