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I move out of the doorway just as a girl steps through. Aleah, I believe her name is. She eyes me for a moment, then slides her eyes to Mr. Monroe. A knowing smirk curves her lips when she sets them back on me.
I’ve never talked to Aleah, but she’s in several of my classes and we share lunch together.
She walks off, and I follow behind her, taking my seat near the back of the room. I always choose a seat in the back. I hate being the center of attention, so I try to hide myself as much as possible.
Over the next forty minutes, Mr. Monroe has us read a short passage from Shakespeare. I try really hard to concentrate on the words I’m supposed to be reading, but I find myself looking up toward the front of the room more times than I’d like to admit. What makes it more difficult is that most times, I catch Mr. Monroe looking back at me.
I squirm in my seat, not liking, but also really freaking loving the feeling it gives me knowing he’s watching me too.
By the time the bell rings, my legs are stiff from clenching them together so much.
I start packing away my stuff, ready to get out of the room and away from Mr. Monroe’s intoxicating presence. I need a moment to just breathe and relax my body.
“Miss Hendrix?” I look up from stuffing a book in my bag. His gaze is impassive as he continues, “I need to see you after class.”
So much for getting away.
I freeze, unsure if I’m scared of why he wants to see me or excited. I look around the room, half expecting every eye to be on us, which is stupid. It’s not unheard of for a teacher to ask their student to stay after class.
This is different though. I’m not sure how it’s different, but I’m pretty sure it’s not because he wants to go over an assignment.
My fingers twist together as I stay at my desk and wait for the room to empty. Mr. Monroe follows the last student to the door. The click of the door closing has me jumping.
He stays there with his hand on the knob for a moment before he turns to face the room. Slowly, with his eyes set on me, he walks back to his desk.
“Come here, Luna,” he says in a low voice.
My legs move before I give them permission to. I come to a stop in front of him. I nervously shift from one foot to another when he doesn’t say anything and just simply stares at me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking because his expression is blank.
“Do you know what I thought about all weekend?” he asks, tone casual.
“What?” I squeak out.
His hands move to my hips and he slowly pulls me forward.
“How fucking good you tasted.”
I swallow and barely suppress a moan. I’m plastered to his chest and his hands move up my back. I rest my hands on his firm pecs and my fingers curl. I still haven’t seen what he looks like underneath his shirt, something I regret not doing Friday night.
“Every second I was in my house, you were all I thought about. How you fucking gushed all over my tongue. How your pussy felt wrapped around my fingers. How wet you got for me. Having your pussy lips clutch the head of my cock. It nearly drove me mad. You’re driving me mad. Have been from the moment you walked in my class.” He grabs a handful of my hair and pulls my head back, so I’m forced to look up at him. My mouth drops open, and I begin to pant. “Why is that, Luna? How in the hell can a teenager, my student, capture my attention so completely?”
I don’t have an answer for him. “I don’t know.”
“It’s insane, and I don’t like it.”
My stomach bottoms out. Does that mean he doesn’t want to see me again? I mean, of course he has to see me because he’s my teacher, but does he want to stop… whatever this is between us?
His grip on my hair tightens and he forces my head back further. Warm, soft lips press against my neck and a little mew slips past my lips.
“What I don’t like even more,” he murmurs against my neck, “is you covering up my mark. I want the whole world to see it.”
I want that too, but it’s stupid. We’re asking for trouble if I leave that mark uncovered. Questions could be asked, and again, I’m not a good liar. I’m lucky Dad didn’t demand to know who left it when he saw it earlier. I’m actually surprised he didn’t.
“Mr.—” I start, but I’m immediately cut off.
“I told you Friday to call me August when I have you like this.”
I stare up at the ceiling, my body aching as he continues to torment my neck.
