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And I never allow anyone to hurt me.
* * *
Pulling out my pocket mirror,I angle it so I can see my bow. It’s silky white and goes perfectly with my white dress and matching white heels today. I’m very much a girly girl. Bows and lipsticks are kind of my thing. Okay, not kind of—very much so. I love frills and heels, pink and lace. Pearls—my God, do I love pearls. The smooth balls that perch on my neck, I love the way they feel as they roll over my skin.
I pull out my white leather journal, which I never go anywhere without. I open it to a new page. Peeking from under my lashes, I look to the front of the classroom where Mr. Boyd is teaching branches of government, I think? I’m not really sure; I’m not paying attention. I begin writing the vision down that got me off the other night, but I’m adding things like how he gives me detention. And that’s how all of it starts. It’s getting spicy so I clutch my pearls, which is a cliché, I know that. But I can’t stop as I write this fantasy in my journal. One about him. His smoky eyes flash in my mind, and I clench my thighs under my desk. His voice in the background sets fire to these fantasies.
I’m so lost, so consumed in my work—not the work I should be consumed with either—when a large shadow blocks my light, casting darkness over my dreams. I sigh, about to tell my boyfriend to move, when his hand, the strongest and my favorite shade of tan, covered with the most beautiful specks of hair, snatches my journal up.
Oh, fuck. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I compose myself, because I have to—or else I’ll lose it. He can’t see what’s in there. Ever.
My head snaps up, eyes a bit wide in shock as I watch the smoky eyes turn to ash as they read the lines on the paper. “Doesn’t really seem like the topic at hand. Does it, Miss Madison?”
Miss Madison. I wish so much he’d say it, my name. Let the syllables roll off his tongue in that enchanting, deep voice, but he never does. “Creative writing project,” I offer.
He smirks, just a tiny bit. “Very creative, and highly unlikely.” I frown at his demeaning words. It so could happen. “Maybe we should let the class decide?”
I spring from my chair, my acrylic nails snatching it back. My heart pounds, cheeks so hot I feel the burn, hoping it might turn into a tan, but knowing it won’t. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Boyd.” I go for polite, but the way he’s looking at me, eyes narrowed, it’s as if he can see the panic leaking from my pores. And maybe he can, because I’m freaking out.
“Detention.” His commanding tone makes my body want to bend to his will. I nod, because I’m in no position to argue at this point. Not only do I have three hours with this man, now I have four. And I want to be upset by that, but let’s be honest here. I’m the hunter and he’s the prey. And he just fucked up.
* * *
It’sas if his last class of the day is terrified of him. They all sit ramrod straight, eyes wide as they stare at the board. It’s a junior class, so I barely recognize any of them.
I hum a tune in my mind, head slightly bobbing as I grade class papers for him for my class. That’s all I’ve done for the last two hours. And you know what? I don’t hate it. It’s relaxing, a form of mind-numbing work one enjoys after a day of stress.
I think Jake’s only been gettingA’s since he’s on the football team. Not today, though. It’s wrong, I know he’s my boyfriend and I should just give him the A, but this is C-grade work he’s handed in according to the answer sheet. And ninety percent of the time, I try to do the right thing.
I’m not allowed to grade my own papers. Figures. It’s not like I wouldn’t give myself the grade I deserve, but Mr. Boyd doesn’t believe me.
The final bell rings just as I finish the last of the grading. I paperclip them together, grabbing a sticky note and writing the class period on it, plastering it to the stack.
Rising, I grab my things, thinking—hoping—I can sneak out of here and avoid detention. “Where are you doing, Miss Madison?”
I sigh, so long and dramatic it belongs on Broadway. “Restroom.”
“Nice try. Find a seat and sit down.”
So, I do. Taking the one directly in front of his desk. I fold my hands, resting my chin upon them as I stare him down. Getting to examine him from a much closer angle this time. I can see each individual strand of raven hair. The ashy gray around his irises that fade into a prepossessing brown. His sharp cheekbones look as if they were sculpted from glass. The stubble on his jaw, I wonder if it’s soft like his hair looks to be, or if it would cause a delicious burn on whatever I rubbed against it. I’m thinking my cheek, but what if he did that thing Jake did and rubbed it against my thighs? What if…
He clears his throat, crossing his thick arms over his strong chest. I notice how he loosened his tie, the top buttons undone to show a glimpse of golden skin and the strong column of his throat. It makes my mouth dry, my lips parched. I want to drink from his skin, drink until I’m satisfied, lick until I know every hard surface of his throat.
“Get a notebook out, and a pen.” There is so much authority in his voice I don’t even notice I’m doing it until I touch the pen to my paper, eager for his approval. “And write one hundred times,I will not write fantasies about my teacher.”
My mouth drops open a bit, not because I didn’t think he saw what was in my journal, I know he did. It’s just… I thought we’d act like it never happened. I roll my eyes as I hear his chair scrape, but I refuse to look up. I’m humiliated, and why is that making me hot? Why is my skin warming, my panties becoming uncomfortable as they stick to my folds.
I begin writingI will not write fantasies about my teacherover and over again. But then, he isn’t going to read them all, is he? No, he doesn’t have the time. So, then I write,I will write whatever the fuck I want in my own personal journal because who will stop me?
I write that over and over and over until I get to line eighty. Smirking, I switch it back to what I’m supposed to write. Ripping the pages out, I slap them on his desk loudly. He looks up from the papers on his desk, my papers to be exact, a bored, infuriatingly handsome look on his face as he says, “Let’s not waste my time like this again.”
I readjust my bow, his eyes catching the movement. “No promises, Mr. Boyd.”
I walk slowly, and okay, maybe I add an extra sway to my hips as I leave his classroom.
I’d reevaluate this later. What the fuck is wrong with me to make me want to seduce my teacher?
