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I shook my head, standing up and switching off my lamp.
I wanted too many things.
That was the problem. Too many goals and not enough time.
I’d been an arrogant and irresponsible twenty-year-old when Christian was born. I’d wanted what I’d wanted, and I’d blown off consequences, even after he was born. Now I knew the price of my actions, and it was a matter of having to choose. I knew I couldn’t have everything I wanted, but I still didn’t like making choices.
Leaving the room, I headed upstairs for my bedroom, but stopped, seeing the glow of a lamp coming out of Christian’s cracked door down the hall.
Walking down to his room, I pushed the door open and saw him passed out on his stomach, fully clothed on top of the covers.
I went over and gazed down at him, feeling the same tightening in my chest that I’d felt in the car.
He looked so peaceful, his chest rising and falling in calm, even breaths with his head turned to one side. The two ever-present creases between his eyes were gone, and his black hair had gotten rumpled, now covering his forehead and sitting close to his eyes. I remembered seeing him once as a baby, looking almost exactly the same.
But back then he’d smiled all the time. Now he was always angry.
I sat down on the edge of his bed, pulling a spare blanket up over him.
Staring down, I felt my shoulders relax as I rested my elbows on my knees. “I know this is awkward,” I told him, whispering. “It’s different for both of us, but I want you here.”
He shifted, twisting his head away toward the wall, still sleeping. I reached out to touch him but stopped short and got up instead, leaving the room.
I shook my head as I tore off my clothes and made my way to my bedroom.
Why was it so much easier to be with him when he didn’t know I was there?
I headed a multimillion-dollar corporation. I’d traveled in every hemisphere and climbed a volcano when I was eighteen. I had some of the most intimidating people eating out of the palm of my fucking hand, so why was I afraid of my own kid? I stepped into my bedroom, tossing my shirt and tie onto a chair and slipping off the rest of my clothes.
All of the hardwood surfaces in the room – from the floors to the furniture – shined with the soft glow of the bedside table lamp, and I walked across the ornate area rug, running my hand through my hair and trying to figure out what to do with him.
His mother, despite her animosity toward me, was a good parent, and Christian got along with her. She was strict and provided routine, and that’s what I needed to do for Christian.
And that not only included him but me as well. I needed to be home for meals. Or at least more meals. And I needed to be consistent. Checking his homework, attending his sports games, and staying on top of where he was and what he was doing.
I’d asked for this, after all. I’d fought him and his mother to keep him in the country this year.
I climbed into the shower, rolling my neck under the hot spray of the dual showerheads and letting it relax the tense muscles in my shoulders and back.
Easton.
I should Google her. She was a fucking mystery, and she was teaching my kid.
I grabbed the bar of soap and ran it over my chest and arms, thinking about how she’d behaved six months ago compared to tonight. Different but very much the same. In control, sexy, but with a distance I couldn’t put my finger on. It was almost as if she were a reflection in a mirror. There but not really real.
Almost as if she were still wearing that mask.
I should’ve kissed her that night. I should’ve looked down into those blue eyes and watched her lose control when I shut her up and made her melt like I wanted to.
What I wouldn’t give to strip off those prim clothes I’d seen tonight, pin her to the bed, and…
I sucked in a breath, slamming my hand into the marble wall to support myself.
Shit.
I swallowed, gasping for breath as I smoothed my wet hand over the top of my head.
Looking down, I saw the stretched skin of my cock, begging for release as it pulsed and throbbed.
Slamming the knob to the left, I breathed hard under the sudden rush of cold water, clenching my teeth in frustration.
Easton Bradbury was off-limits.
And don’t forget it.
FOUR
EASTON
“Okay, so…” I started, slowly stalking between the rows of desks and smiling at the printout of a Facebook post in my hand. “The question posed in the Facebook group yesterday that received the most responses was ‘Why did men ever stop wearing tights? I would’ve rocked that,’?” I read to the class.
The freshman boys broke out in snorts while the girls giggled, remembering the lengthy conversation some of them had carried on last night.
Marcus Matthews popped up and jumped onto his chair, holding his hands up in the air and smiling as he soaked in the praise and taking credit for his question last night.
I shook my head, amused. “Sit down,” I ordered, shooting my pointed finger from him to the chair. “Now.”
He laughed, but quickly jumped down and took his seat, the rest of the class still voicing their amusement behind him.
During the three weeks since school had started, we’d moved quickly through the curriculum and had been studying the independence of America, the founding fathers, and the Revolutionary War, hence the men-in-tights question.
Out of all the activities I’d planned to engage them, the social media requirements were the most successful. The parents had all received a lengthy letter after the first day, explaining the rhyme and reason to social media in the classroom. The students – per school rule – were already required to have laptops, which made it even more convenient to jump online anytime we wanted without the need for a computer lab. And it fit in perfectly with my goal of educating students to live in the digital world.
