See Me After Class(44)

Oh God.

My stomach clenches, the thought of him peeling my clothes off is extremely tempting. What would it feel like to have his large hands roam over my body, cupping my breasts, playing with my nipples? Would his mouth be just as delicious as I expect it is? Just as demanding and rough? Would he expect me to listen to him? To his commands?

Would I?

Searching his beautiful eyes, I know I would. If, right now, he told me to take my shirt off, I’d oblige. I’d be desperate for his direction, knowing he’d be an expert at bringing me pleasure. And that’s not me. I’m confident in myself, in my brains and looks. I don’t need a man to make me feel good. And yet with this man . . . I feel desperate and needy. But why? I’ve been around handsome men before. I’ve been around demanding men before too. How is it one charmless, incisive man can untether me? He’s arrogant. Unyielding. But maybe . . .

It’s the way he carries himself, the confidence he exudes, the broody attitude with the peekaboo charm that shows itself every once in a while.

He’s devastating, and I’m very quickly realizing that.

I’m also realizing I’m starting to have this need to see him. To be near him. To gather his attention even if it’s just for a few short seconds.

I enjoy how he stops me from walking away, that those moments spur on vulnerability from him.

I enjoy how unhinged he looks when he’s near me, how his hands itch to touch me.

His fingers come to my chin and pinch it while tilting the angle of my head up a few more centimeters. A firm grip, one that has me shaking in my shoes, waiting, anticipating what he might do next.

“This can’t happen,” he says, his voice cracking.

“Why not? Admit it, Arlo, you want to fuck me.”

“Of course I want to fuck you. I’ve wanted to fuck you since your interview. Your beauty has no bounds, Greer.”

I wet my lips. “Then why won’t you? Is it against school policy?”

“No.”

“Do you already have a fuck buddy?”

He shifts. “No.”

“Are you a virgin?”

His eyes narrow.

I chuckle and smooth my hand over his chest. “Just making sure. So, what’s the hold up? Does my teaching technique really trouble you that much?”

“No.”

“Are you—”

“I have other things I need to focus on,” he says, cutting me off before I can guess again. “Important things. I can’t afford the distraction.”

“What important things?” I ask, feeling my eyebrows pull together.

“Nothing you need to know or worry about.” He lowers his hand and takes a step back.

“Okay,” I say, feeling defeated, and I really don’t understand why.

I hate the guy.

I like the guy.

He irritates me.

He digs deep into my soul.

That kind of toxic behavior should be dropped and left to die on its own. No need for it to take up space in my head, but as he backs away, a small piece of me calls out to him.

Let me help you.

Let me be a shoulder for you.

Let me be an escape . . .

He picks up his papers and puts them in a folder, then he gathers his shoulder bag and tucks the folder into it. Turning to me, he says, “I’m leaving.”

“I gathered.”

“So . . . you can leave.”

“Okay.” And as I start to turn away, I catch him give me one last look, almost as if he’s hoping I’ll say something else, that I’ll push him a little further, ask him to share with me.

But I won’t.

I won’t push it now.

But I might later . . .





“You look quite lovely today,” Kelvin says, coming up to the table Keiko, Stella, and I are all sitting at. Every Friday, we order from the Italian restaurant down the street for lunch. Today, we bought two calzones and divided them up amongst the three of us. One pepperoni and pineapple, the other sausage and spinach. Both equally fantastic, both terrible for the hips.

“Thank you for the compliment,” Keeks replies rigidly, scanning Kelvin up and down. “I’d share the same sentiment, but unfortunately an ungodly shade of mustard besmirched your tie, causing your appearance to be quite off-putting.”

“Keiko,” I say sternly under my breath as Kelvin lifts up his tie and examines it.

“What? Is it not the truth?” She gestures to poor Kelvin. “The seedy condiment splotch is arresting against the light blue of his paisley cravat.”

She’s not wrong, but, good God, does she have to point it out?

Tucking the tip of his tie through one of the spaces between buttons on his shirt, he nervously says, “I had a soft pretzel for lunch. Good thing I took off my Obi Wan Kenobi robe, or else I’d be a mustard-smothered Jedi.” He laughs. He snorts. My cheeks flame with secondary embarrassment.

“Yes, bravo, Kelvin,” Keeks says before wiping her face and standing. “Care to escort me to my classroom?”

“I’d be honored,” Kelvin says, standing taller. “Do you want me to remove my tie?”

“No, what you have done is sufficient.” Keeks nods to us and then takes off, keeping her arms crossed at her chest as Kelvin walks next to her.