Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
He smiles, just a little.
“Class dismissed,” he says, but neither of us moves.
I sit there, heart pounding, waiting to see if he’ll ask me to stay after. If he’ll call me back.
His eyes are on my knees, my thighs, and then, finally, on my face.
He says, “I expect better next time, Miss Vreeland. Don’t disappoint me. Take some time to think about where you’ve erred, and then come back at noon.”
I nod, and get up, and walk—no, float—back to my room, every step charged with the possibility of being called back, of being stopped, of being taken in hand and made to pay.
He doesn’t call me back. Not yet.
But I know, the next time, he will.
The next “class” comes faster than I expect. It’s almost noon and already I’m vibrating with nervous energy, making fake outlines on my laptop and googling “How to be an honors student in a plaid skirt.” I run through this morning’s role play in my head on a loop—his words, his gaze, the hot promise in his breath. I tell myself this is just acting, but I know I’m hoping for more. My skin is electric, my thighs slick from the anticipation alone.
I fix my hair, reapply a hint of lip gloss, and for a crazy second consider drawing a tiny heart on my ankle, just to see if he’ll notice. Isn’t that what naughty girls do? But then, I think better of it and tiptoe down the stairs again, my heart racing at a hundred miles an hour.
The room is darker now, the blinds half-closed against the winter sun. Talon’s behind the desk again, hair slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled. The notepad is out, pen at the ready. He’s reading over something and doesn’t look up as I enter, forcing me to clear my throat to get his attention.
He glances up, glasses perched perfectly, and says, “Miss Vreeland. I was about to mark you absent.”
“I’m early,” I say.
He doesn’t acknowledge it. “Sit.” He gestures to the same chair as before. “We’ll go over your latest submission.”
I sit. The desk is bare except for a pad and a single red pen. My knees knock together; I can’t tell if I’m cold or just losing my mind.
He slides a sheet of paper across the desk. It’s covered in red, every margin bleeding with his corrections. “Your argument is still underdeveloped,” he says, voice level. “Your opening is weak. Your supporting evidence is anecdotal at best. You cite no sources, and your conclusion is pure conjecture.”
What? Where did he even get this essay? But I see it’s just a print-out of something random, and nod, face on fire. This is embarrassing. This is perfect.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
Talon nods.
“But,” he says, and his eyes bore into mine, “your grammar has improved.”
“Thank you,” I say, and the words come out strangled.
He sits back, folding his arms, and regards me for a long moment. “Why do you want to pass this class?” he asks.
I blink. “I need the credit,” I say, because that’s what any desperate student would say.
“That’s not an answer,” he says. “Why do you want to pass my class?”
I can’t look at him. I stare at my knees. “Because you’re a good teacher,” I say, voice tiny. “And I want you to think well of me.”
He leans in, close enough that I can see the flecks of gray in his beard. “You want me to think you’re special.”
I don’t answer.
He lets the silence throb. “Stand up,” he says, finally.
I stand, legs unsteady, heart galloping.
“Face the blackboard,” he says, indicating the far wall where a small chalkboard has been propped on an easel.
I walk to it, every step an event. I stand in front of it, hands at my sides.
“Pick up the eraser,” he says.
I do. The eraser is heavier than it looks, covered in chalk dust.
“Now bend,” he says, “and wipe the board clean.”
My skirt barely covers my ass as I bend at the waist. I do as told, heart pounding so hard I’m afraid it’ll be audible. I swipe the board slowly, waiting, hoping, terrified and yet full of anticipation of what comes next.
When I look over my shoulder, Talon’s still seated, pen in hand, but his eyes are molten blue.
“You forgot something important,” he says, voice cool but jagged at the edges.
“Sorry, Professor,” I say.
He stands, comes around the desk, and walks up behind me. I can feel the heat from his body, the magnetism of him. His hand comes down on my lower back, not hard, but enough to make me gasp.
He leans in. “Why aren’t you wearing panties, Miss Vreeland?”
I’m so wet I think he can probably smell my sweet nectar. My voice shakes. “I thought it would please you, Professor.”
He laughs, low and savage. “You’re smarter than you let on.”
He steps closer, his hand splaying across my ass, then slipping up the hem of my skirt. His fingers brush my bare flesh, then part my thighs. I almost fall forward, my knees are so weak.