Page 9

“What is wrong with my email, Miss Jardin?” I ask her again, making sure to emphasize her name.

“Come behind the desk and tell me if there’s a typo in it,” she answers.

I know that as soon as I circle said desk and come behind her, bending above her shoulder and getting as close as possible to her without touching her, she immediately regrets asking me here.

I thought her heart was beating wildly a minute ago, but I realize that was nothing.

Now, the beating is wild. So wild that I can see heat rise on her cheeks, tinting them pink.

I like the fact that my proximity is eliciting a strong reaction in her. I shouldn’t, but I don’t care. I love it.

I’m tempted to let a knuckle slide along the side of her throat just to see if she will let me do it. I don’t, though, because her heart sounds like it’s about to explode, and I’m only trying to toy with her, not to give her a heart attack.

I can see her pulse point at the bottom of her throat, and for a second my mind conjures an image I wish it didn’t. I can see my tongue sliding along the side of her throat and then kissing that pulse point

I feel my blood going straight to my cock.

Fuck.

I’m supposed to be the one teasing her. I’m not supposed to tease myself.

Discreetly, I reposition myself in my pants so when I stand up again, it’s not as obvious that I’m half hard. I don’t think she will notice. Hell, I don’t think she will even look lower than my shoulder if the blush on her cheeks—that is there only because of my close proximity and nothing else—is any indication.

After a few seconds, I finally look at her screen and the email she has there for me.

It doesn’t come as a surprise that the email she has on file is the right one. I knew it when I said I didn’t receive anything.

I did receive all the documents after all, but I couldn’t resist when she gave the option of seeing her after class.

“I don’t see a problem with my email,” I tell her, getting even closer to her. I can almost feel her hold her breath when the fabric of my shirt grazes hers.

“Oh, no, I see what happened here,” I add, as if I’m just discovering the problem. “This is my old email. I don’t use it anymore.”

This is false, completely false. It’s my usual email.

I created a new email from a different provider, just to be able to make all of this look believable.

Now I have an email box just for my French teacher. She doesn’t need to know, though.

She clicks on the digital mouse and selects my email, waiting for me to give her the right one.

She squirms in her seat, and the movement tips her head slightly more to the side, making her hair swish, and the jasmine and citrus scent I smelled an hour ago invades my senses.

I don’t know if it comes from her directly or her shampoo, but it short-circuits my brain.

“What’s the new one?” she finally asks when I take too long to talk again.

But instead of answering, I invade her space a little more, and circle my arms around her to type on the digital keyboard.

By doing that, my forearms come in contact with hers, and she freezes in my embrace.

Her heartbeat thunders, and now, instead of just hearing it, I can feel it against my skin. Each time I think her heart can’t go any faster, she surprises me.

I know human biology is different than shifter biology, but this feels slightly insane.

How can they function with a heart that sounds like it’s running wild all the time, or at the very least each time they’re slightly inconvenienced?

Could her heart go any faster?