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Chapter 1
LUNA
I sit, both anxious and nervous, as Mr. Monroe hands out our graded essays. I worked hard all week on that paper and feel it could be my best work yet.
English is one of my favorite subjects. Writing, in any form, is my passion. Has been since I was a child. Every day before I go to bed, I write in a journal about my day. When I’m bored at home or have time to spare, I write short stories. For years, I’ve carried around a small notebook in my purse for when inspiration hits.
Mr. Monroe approaches my desk, and I drop my eyes away from him. As much as I love looking at my teacher, I also hate doing so, because he makes my body feel things. Things I shouldn’t feel for a man his age, especially my English teacher.
On the back of his left ring finger is a tattoo, which I find very interesting. He has the sleeves of his white, button-up shirt rolled haphazardly to his elbows, revealing a few tattoos, and the first button is undone. There’s still a couple hours of school left, but he’s already loosened his tie. And his hair, a little longer on the top than it is on the sides, has that crazy good look men have sometimes where it appears as if they’ve just run their fingers through it.
As unfortunate as my attraction is to the man, he obviously hates me. Within five minutes of walking into his classroom on my first day a couple of months ago, Mr. Monroe took a disliking to me. I mean, I don’t know for sure if he doesn’t like me, but if the constant scowl on his face anytime he looks at me is any indication, then he for sure doesn’t care for me.
I just don’t know why. I’m nice, I’m quiet, my grades are excellent, and I’m a good girl. What did I do to put myself on his bad side? I don’t see him giving any of the other students the evil eye, so it’s plainly just me.
“See me after school, Miss Hendrix,” he says in a low voice and the same glowering look in his eye that almost has me shrinking in my seat.
Why does he want to see me after school? Is it about my paper? Did I do that terrible?
Forcing myself to not back down from his intense stare, I slowly nod my head.
As he walks away, I purposely drop my eyes to my paper. It’s not wise to watch your teacher’s butt as he walks away.
I’m confused for a moment as I look over my written assignment. It doesn’t look like the paper I submitted, and there’s no grade. There is, however, a comment written in red ink at the top.
I find it very interesting you would submit this for your assignment.
Horror fills me when I read the first sentence.
I want my teacher to teach me dirty things.
Oh no, no no! my mind screams at me.
I quickly scan down the rest of the paper.
This can not be happening to me!
This was supposed to be my thoughts and opinion of the book A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman. What this is, is definitely not that.
I started reading romance novels when I was fifteen. At first I was shocked at the descriptive ways authors described sexual encounters between the main characters. It didn’t take long for the surprise to wear off, and I became intrigued. I started writing sexy scenes in my own stories, because I liked the way they made me feel.
One day last week, I woke in the middle of the night from a dream I had of Mr. Monroe. My body was covered in sweat, and I had a terribly delicious ache between my legs. I wanted to get the dream down so I could analyze it later and maybe use it in one of my stories. I ended up writing three full pages and added more to the dream. You know how you always wake up from a dream right when it gets to the good part? Yep, you guessed it. That’s what happened to me. I couldn’t leave it unfulfilled. I finished the story to the very end. And boy did it end good.
Heat floods my face, and I want to sink through the floor and never resurface.
I obviously picked up the wrong paper from my desk when I was running late for school yesterday morning.
I close my eyes and pray, no I beg, God to please let this be some terrible mistake.
Please, please don’t tell me I submitted my dirty little dream-slash-completed fantasy to my teacher. Not just my teacher, but my too-hot-to-be-a-teacher teacher.
God must ignore my plea because when I open my eyes and they meet Mr. Monroe’s at the front of the room, his face tells me I did, in fact, do exactly that.
His gaze flickers away from me a second later and he addresses the room.
“Most of you passed with flying colors. Anyone with a ninety-two and above can skip the next assignment.” A round of hoots and cat calls shout throughout the room. He waits for everyone to quiet down to continue. “Those with grades lower than that,” his eyes skitter to me again for a fraction of a second before he moves them away, “obviously need more incentive. I want you to write a five-page essay on what you want to do with your life after you graduate high school and how you can accomplish reaching that goal. You have until next Friday to hand it in.”
Now it’s groans and whining complaints that fill the room. I’m still mortified by what I’ve done to pay anyone any attention.
