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He shook his head, lips pressed tight as if reminding me we couldn’t talk about certain shit in the open while other students trickled past.
“Oh. Yeah.” Why the fuck couldn’t I listen or even remember the smallest requests he asked of me? Rubbing a hand through my hair, I nodded, deciding to blame him and his deliciousness. “Um…see you around, Professor D’Angelo.”
Matteo dipped his head, and I sauntered off with an extra sway to my hips while pulling out my cell.
Not being allowed to even have a conversation aloud sucked even harder, but at least I had his heated gaze eating me up as I walked away.
Me: Quit staring at my ass, Teach. Someone’s gonna see how hungry you are.
Snickering at myself, I shot off a second text to tell him our plans had changed like I’d been about to in person.
Me: Gotta cancel tonight. Micah wants to talk shop with me.
It was two agonizing classes before Matteo quit testing my patience and got back to me with a sad face emoji.
Sexy Teach: Tuesday?
Someone was needy—I loved that about him too.
Me: Definitely. I’ll come prepped so you can just slide your dick straight past my ring into the heaven of my hole you were praising all weekend long.
Sexy Teach: Jesus, Sean. Your mouth…
Chuckling, my fingers flew over my screen.
Me: You love it.
Sexy Teach: I do.
I chewed on the inside of my lip, wondering exactly how much those feelings went beyond the physical for him.
For me?
There was such a thing as falling, then there was hitting the ground. But a healthy landing on two feet or my heart broken to pieces still remained to be seen.
Micah wasn’t his usual no-nonsense, confident bastard self when I let him into my condo that night. He made straight for my living room and collapsed on the couch, head tipped back.
I stared a few seconds, baffled by his unusual behavior. “Uh…drink?” I asked before sitting down.
“Fuck yes.”
Ooookay.
“Beer?”
“Vodka if you’ve got it,” he mumbled under his breath.
My guts clenched, and I bit my tongue, holding off on conversation until I could sit down with him. We didn’t do hard liquor too often thanks to Pop’s drinking issues, so something was seriously wrong.
I pulled a bottle of Grey Goose from the freezer and splashed generous portions in two tumblers filled with ice. Fuck knew I was gonna need that shit if Micah’s strangeness was any indication of what was to come.
“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the cold glass and downing half of the drink in one go.
“Jesus, Micah.” I perched on the edge of my recliner that was in a hell of a lot better shape than his piece of shit at his mansion and waited.
He eyed the ice, swirling the clear liquid around a few times before speaking. “I’m scared shitless.”
“Ab-bout what?” I stammered, sudden nausea suggesting I run to the nearest can and empty the cold pizza I’d had for dinner from my stomach. Had more shit come of the pictures? Had the anchor spilled the story regardless of how Micah had managed to entice him to drop it?
