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I crumple the pages up in my fist, tossing them in the waste bin under my desk.
I don’t know what I was thinking, making her my TA for two periods, not to mention she was in my class the period before her TA job starts. I lost control, another thing I don’t do. That bratty mouth sent me overboard. Causing me to make a rash decision.
And then, there is her journal. The bright white leather journal filled with sex fantasies. About a teacher. And judging from her fuck-me eyes, that teacher… is me.
I rise from my desk, stretching my heavy arms over my head. My phone rings, making my eyes cast down to where it lays on my desk.
Mom.
Another thing that makes me lose control. But I’m not letting my mind slip into that.
Any of it.
* * *
I’m trying to teach.Trying to focus on my topic, but the white journal is blaring, the small giggle from its owner distracting me. That, and Jake’s hand not being where it needs to be. It’s under the table, his chair a little too close to Miss Madison’s. So when he leans in and whispers in her ear, I lose it.
“Mr. Strickland,” I snap. His head jerks to the front of the class, eyes wide as he looks at me. “Hands on the table.” My eyes meet her glacier blues, before she breaks contact quickly, looking to her journal, cheeks blossoming with heat.
I’m requesting single seater desks next year instead of the tables that sit two students. I wanted to be the laid-back teacher who lets his students pick their seats, not forcing them into those uncomfortable desks, but fuck that. Lesson learned.
I resume my lecture, forcing myself to not look at them. Not to let this over-consuming rage eat at my insides. I mean, why am I jealous? She’s a teenager. I’m an almost thirty-year-old man who has never had trouble getting a lay. Never. So why is this bratty teenager affecting me this way?
I shake it off. It’s forbidden. Unethical.
The class passes slowly, all the students working on the work page I handed out, so I didn’t have to talk anymore. Finally, the bell rings, which signals the end of my students’ torture, and a countdown until mine ends. Because I still have two more hours with her.
* * *
It’sthirty minutes until the end of my last class. The students are quiet, scared of me, really. I have a reputation for being a bit of a grump. And honestly, I couldn’t blame them. I am fucking grumpy. It’s my whole cliché personality. I fold my hands behind my head, leaning back in my seat, eyes drilling into my TA. She flicks her eyes over, swallowing as she adjusts her bow. Black to match her skirt today. She clears her throat, red pen scraping over the stack of papers as she grades them. “May I help you, Mr. Boyd?”
I grin. “So she does have manners.” She rolls her eyes, brushing my comment off. “This is a top private school. Must have a pretty important family to get in here.”
“Something like that,” she answers in a bored tone, as if I’m wasting her time and she’d rather be anywhere else but here talking to me. We both know that’s a lie.
“Who’s your dad?” I can’t pretend I’m not curious about her. I want to know everything. Torture myself with the knowledge.
“I’m not sure.” It feels like she is lying, the way her body stiffens, eyes looking toward the door for a split second.
The bell rings, saving her from my twenty-one questions. She quickly grabs her things, stuffing them into her bag. Her shaky hands reach for her journal, trembling fingers fumbling with it, knocking it to the ground. It slides to my feet, and my hands grab the cool leather, feeling as forbidden as the first time I had it in my grasp. Her heels come into my view. Slowly, so fucking slow and wrong, I trace her with my eyes. Her heels make her toned legs look endless. The way her skirt hits her upper thighs, definitely a violation of the dress code. One breeze would expose her to me. Her tight red shirt that’s tucked in, hinting at her cleavage underneath but not exposing. Her delicate neck my hands could wrap around. The curve of her jaw, cut like a diamond, sharp and beautiful. Her blonde hair that’s pulled halfway up by her bow. And fuck, that fucking silk black bow. The small curve of her nose, light dusting of freckles that dance onto her blushing cheeks. Eyes that…what the fuck am I doing?
Clearing my throat, I hand her the journal back. “Detention, tomorrow morning.”
She wrinkles her nose, eyes narrowing on me. “What for?”
I bite back a smirk. “Dress code violation.”
“No—”
I cut her off, “Go ahead and put your arms down, hands pressed against your thighs. Let me see whether that fucking skirt is fingertip length.”
She glares at me, chest rising. “Fine, Mr. Boyd. I’ll see you in the morning. Fair warning, I’m not a morning person.”
She turns, grabbing her bag aggressively. I smirk, watching her… Nope. I didn’t watch shit, because she’s my student, and it would do me fucking good to remember that.
CHAPTER FIVE
Journal entry: He looks at me as if I’m his next meal. Too bad he’s mine.
