See Me After Class(102)

“You won’t . . . because I swallow.”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

“Not here. But if you want me that bad, you can have me.”

“I want you, this Saturday. I’d say Friday, but we have a volleyball game. This Saturday, you come to my place.”

I sit back in my chair, studying her. As my chin’s propped up by my hand, I say, “Shouldn’t you woo me if you want to take me to bed?”

“Where was the wooing when you locked us in my classroom, pulled up my skirt, and put your face between my legs?” God, I still get hot thinking about that.

“It was built up. The small touches, the looks, the promises, the threats. And it worked.”

“Ugh, still arrogant.” She folds her arms.

“How about this. Starting today, every note I write, you return with a factoid about you. Something I can hold on to, so we still do what I want to do, but you also get my dick.”

Looking me dead in the eyes, she says, “If I weren’t so horny, I’d be insulted.” She sips her drink and then sets it down. “Fine, I’ll leave you notes. You know”—she smirks—“if I knew you were going to be this high-maintenance, I would have second-guessed jumping into something with you.”

“You should have known I was high-maintenance from my cardigan collection.”

“God . . . you’re right.”





Dear Mr. Turns Me On,

You smell amazing. Just thought I’d throw that out there. Whatever cologne you wear is devastating to my brain. I tend to lose my train of thought and then end up agreeing to something like sending you love notes just so you feel comfortable taking your jeans off in front of me on Saturday.

I want to assure you that seeing your dick for the first time will bring me great joy . . . even if it doesn’t live up to expectations. (If you didn’t know, the expectations are high. Well, in your case, large.) Enough about you though. Something about me . . .

I have a fantastic collection of lingerie. I haven’t worn any of it in a long time, but I plan to change that very shortly.

Have a great rest of the day.

Greer





Dear Mr. Turns Me On,

Okay, okay, so you have a big dick. I think we cleared that up this morning. You don’t need to send me text messages while I’m trying to teach. My mistake. I’ll never question your length and girth again. Honestly, this is your fault, if you’d have let me test out the dick before I took it for a drive, we wouldn’t have this miscommunication.

But thank you for reassuring me this morning in the parking lot . . . where you waited for me, just so you could clarify in person. I noted that you’re obsessive about getting your point across.

Anyway, another fact about me . . .

I’m quite adventurous in bed. You’re already aware that I swallow, but were you aware that I’m not opposed to using toys . . . in all places?

Yup, so sit on that one for a while (no pun intended) and drum up some fun ideas.

Have a great day.

Greer





Dear Mr. Turns Me On,

Do you realize how infuriating you are? If you didn’t want sexual factoids, you should have been clear when you made the ground rules. And threatening not to come over until you received three facts about me that didn’t involve anything sexual? Not cool, man.

Not.

Cool.

But, as I’m sure you’re well aware, I’m desperate to see you tomorrow, so here are your three facts: Tacos are my favorite food. Even though those crab legs were amazing, I love a taco. But we’re not talking about fancy tacos you get from a really nice Mexican restaurant. I like straight-up beef soft tacos from Taco Bell. I know, I should be ashamed of myself. But there’s something about the unpredictability in the ratios of taco ingredients that really gets my taste buds thriving and wanting more.

I had a lisp until I was ten. I had a really hard time pronouncing Ls. So volleyball always came out va-wee-baw. It was cute for a second, and then my parents realized I needed some assistance. I spent two years with a speech therapist but finally got the hang of it. Sometimes I’ll say volleyball like I used to, just to hear it, remind myself how far I’ve come.

I used to think I was going to marry George Strait. I grew up a country-loving girl—you wouldn’t guess that now because there’s very little country or farm girl about me—but I truly thought George was going to come swooping in with his cowboy hat and guitar and whisk me off my feet. I realize now that would have been a child-bride situation, but a little girl could dream, right?

And just for an added bonus, because I’m really trying to play my cards right, the first time I saw you . . . you knocked those George Strait fantasies right out the window. You replaced a black cowboy hat with a soft-looking cardigan. And that guitar vanished right out of my head, and instead, a whiteboard marker. You’ve been a fantasy for a while, even when I wanted to stick a ruler up your ass due to your arrogance. I wanted you.

I still want you.

I want more than just your body, though. I want to date you. Hold your hand. Cuddle with you. Spoon you. Wake up in the morning and see your handsome face on the pillow next to me.

You have me, Arlo.

So come and get me.

Greer





Chapter Twenty-Three