See Me After Class(49)

“I’m aware you can still finger yourself, but you and I both know it won’t be nearly as satisfying, especially when you know my fingers could do a better job.”

“I don’t know that,” she says with defiance.

That defiance is going to be the death of her.

Leaning over the bed again, one hand next to her head, I lower the other between her legs and drag my finger over the silk of her pajama bottoms. Her eyes nearly roll to the back of her head as I find her slit and feel how wet she is through the silk. I slowly slide my finger over her arousal as she lightly moans and arches her back. God, her scent. I want to bend down and taste her. Devour her pussy until she’s screaming my name and coating my tongue with her release. Fuck. I need to get laid.

I make one more pass before pulling back, snapping my hand away.

Looking her in the eyes, I say, “Now you know.” Lifting up, I take off toward her door, and I don’t look back. I leave.

Leave her in a state of need.

Leave myself in need of a cold shower.

When I reach my car, I lower my head to my steering wheel and take a deep breath.

Fuck.

I think I just ruined myself.

It was worth it, but I definitely ruined myself with that one torturous touch.





“Hey, bro,” Coraline says, walking into my classroom with a to-go bag and two drinks.

I could not be more grateful for her perfect timing.

I’m starving.

Irritated at the lack of intelligence my students possess so far today.

And even though it’s Monday, I’m still feeling a pent-up need from last Friday. My hand wasn’t nearly good enough. It got the job done but that was it. My body is craving so much more than just getting the job done.

My body is craving warmth. Challenge. Defiance.

“You look like you’re in a good mood,” Coraline says, setting the subs on my desk as I give her my chair and grab a spare one for myself.

“Rough day dealing with morons.”

She chuckles. “If only your students knew you speak about them with such high regard.”

“Maybe they should, might pull their heads out of their asses.”

She hands me my meatball parm and unravels her chicken, bacon, and ranch sub, filling the classroom with the smell of food instantaneously.

“What have you been up to today?” I ask.

This past weekend, Coraline and I hung out and had a movie marathon. We watched a range of movies from Indiana Jones to Bridget Jones. I fell asleep multiple times, and she poked me with a broom she kept next to her. We ate shit, and she wouldn’t let me work out either day, which meant this morning I drilled my body . . . only to eat a meatball parm for lunch.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she’s trying to get me to eat my feelings, feelings she doesn’t know I have.

So maybe I’m the one doing it, eating my feelings.

That’s most likely the actual scenario.

“Had a two-hour conversation on the phone with my lawyer. Can’t wait to see that bill. I cleaned the house because I’m a good sister like that, and because I might have dropped a bowl of brownie batter on the floor, scattering it all over the hardwood and kitchen counter. But don’t worry”—from her purse, she takes out a single, wrapped square of brownie—“there was enough in the bowl still to make a small loaf-pan-sized brownie.” She taps the brownie. “There are marshmallows and almonds inside, just the way you like it.”

Groaning, I say, “What are you doing to me?”

“That six-pack of yours is annoying. I want to see it gone.” She chuckles and lifts up her sandwich, taking a bite.

“Well I don’t want to see it go. So stop giving me sweets.” I grab the brownie. “But I’ll take this.”

She laughs out loud. “Sucker.” She winks and then says, “I started a book today.”

My brows raise. “Oh yeah? What did you start reading?”

“A filthy romance. Found it on your library shelf.” She taps a wondering finger and says, “Why do you have a filthy romance on your bookshelf?”

“I’m an English teacher. I need to understand all forms of literature.”

She pauses, studies me, and then says, “What a load of bullshit.” She shakes her head and laughs just as there’s a knock at my door.

I glance to the side to find Greer standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of black skinny jeans and a red blouse and her hair styled in waves around her shoulders.

Hell . . . and I thought the dresses were devastating.

“Sorry to interrupt. I was headed to the teachers’ lounge but heard your voice and wanted to say hi, Cora.”

Coraline waves her hand. “Come in, have lunch with us.”

Uh, I don’t think so.

“Oh, that’s okay, you two need your time together.” Well, at least she has a sturdy head on her shoulders.

“I hung out with him all weekend. I want some girl time. Come, sit.”

Greer’s eyes fall to mine and I know she’s not going to sit without me agreeing to it, and if I deny her a seat at our table, I’m going to have to hear about it from my badgering sister, so I stand and grab another chair.

“Sit,” I say rather gruffly.

She walks over, takes a seat, and as she sits, my hand skims her back, my ability to not touch her failing within seconds.