See Me After Class(66)

“Do you forgive me?”

“Wh-what?” I ask, my chest heaving, my legs shaking.

“For what happened in Nyema’s office—do you forgive me?”

“That’s unfair,” I say.

“It’s not. I’m apologizing, I’ll finish you off if you forgive me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you want to come.” He presses his fingers upward and my head falls back.

“Oh . . . fuck.”

“God, you’re sexy.” He leans down and presses kisses along my inner thighs. “Doing this in the light, where I can fully see you, it has me so fucking hard.”

“Arlo, please,” I beg, my clit throbbing, my mind crazy with need.

“Forgive me, and I’ll make you come harder than the other night.”

“Not possible.”

“Try me,” he says, his eyes determined when I look at him.

“Fine, I forgive you.”

“Good.”

He lowers his mouth to my clit and presses a few soft kisses before he flattens his tongue and moves long strokes along my slit. It’s not what I want; it’s just teasing me, dangling me off the edge but never letting me fall over.

“You’re . . . oh God, you’re frustrating me.”

“Then I’m doing it right,” he says, right before flicking his tongue lightly against my clit.

Over and over and over . . .

The pleasure builds.

It wraps around me, warming my body.

Igniting an inferno in the pit of my stomach.

“Yes . . . yes,” I breathe heavily. “Yes, Arlo.”

I clench his hair. My legs cling to him, pulling him closer, and then . . . I come.

A cry falls past my lips as my hips jackknife against his face, my body racing with such euphoria that a wave of tears hits the backs of my eyes.

“Oh my God, yes, Arlo,” I say, riding out his tongue, dragging out every ounce of pleasure until I have nothing left to give and collapse on the desk, looking at the ceiling of my classroom.

I drape my arm over my eyes as I attempt to catch my breath. I cannot believe he just did that. The rule follower. The cardigan wearer. The it’s-my-way-or-the-highway man.

What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?

And how?

Arlo lifts up, pushes my skirt down, and then helps me into a sitting position. Cupping my cheek, he looks into my eyes and says, “Have a good rest of the day, Miss Gibson.”

“Wait,” I say, still trying to recover. “You can’t just leave like that.”

“I can.”

“But . . . what about . . .” I look down at his crotch, where I catch his bulge.

“Not your concern.”

“So, that’s it? You’re going to make me come and then leave?”

“I don’t see why this is an issue. You got what you needed, correct?”

“Yes.” I press my hand against my hair, making sure it’s flattened. “But what about what you need?”

He glances at my crotch and then licks his lips. “I got mine, don’t worry about me.”

And then he’s walking out of my classroom, making me question the last ten minutes. Because what man, who showed fierce dislike for me and made derogatory remark after derogatory remark, suddenly deems it his purpose to make me feel sated? Yet deny himself. It doesn’t make sense.

I’m physically sated, yet does that mean I forgive him for acting in ways that were truly cruel and manipulative?

Should I?





Chapter Fourteen





ARLO





To: Faculty_All

From: Dewitt, Nyema

Subject: Promiscuous Students

Dear Faculty,

As some of you might have heard, there was a neon-pink thong found just outside the English department wing. Our goal as a faculty is to make sure within the walls of our school, we keep it to education. Given the raging hormones we’re dealing with, we’re bound to run into something like this. But we have a no-tolerance policy, which requires you to report any information you might have acquired through gossiping students. Feel free to stop by my office with any leads.

Our school holds the lowest teenage pregnancy ratio in the country and I plan on keeping it that way.

Thank you, and keep educating.

Nyema





The door to my classroom slams, and I look up casually to find Greer standing by the door, a horrified look on her face, a printed piece of paper in hand.

I don’t need X-ray vision to know what’s on that paper.

“Have you seen this?”

Returning to my computer, I continue to enter grades. “I did.”

“Uh . . . don’t you have anything to say?”

Eyes trained on my computer, I say, “You apparently wear the same kind of underwear a high schooler would wear.”

“Arlo,” she practically yells, coming toward me and slamming the paper on my desk. “What if my initials were on that underwear?”

“Do you usually have your initials on your underwear, as if you’re going to summer camp and don’t want to lose them?”

“No, but . . . it could have been a possibility.”