See Me After Class(75)

“Okay, so you’ve stated the obvious. Is there a point to this conversation?”

“You don’t have to be rude.”

“Not being rude. You don’t have to be sensitive.”

“You’re so annoying,” she says, turning away from me. “I can’t believe I’m actually about to ask you this.”

“Ask me what?” I say, pushing off the desk and walking up behind her. She’s facing my window, which looks out over my front yard, and I take that moment to move my hand around her waist and press against her stomach, bringing her back against my chest. I bring my lips to her neck and kiss up the column until I reach her ear. “Nervous?”

“A little,” she answers honestly, twisting in my arms so we’re facing each other. “I don’t want you to think I’m getting all clingy, but . . .” She bites her bottom lip and blurts, “I’m looking for a relationship, not a fuck fest. I want to know what your intentions are with me.”

“Oh.” I take a step back and pull on the back of my neck while I stare down at her.

“From that one move away from me, I’m going to guess your intentions don’t involve such titles as boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Yeah, not . . . really,” I answer. Hell, where is this coming from?

She nods. “That’s what I thought you were going to say.”

“I don’t do intimate—”

“I know.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m glad I know where we stand.”

“Okay.” Feeling uncomfortable, I ask, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I am.” She smiles. “So, I guess I’ll be going.”

“Okay.”

She turns to leave but pauses and faces me again. “You realize this means I won’t keep doing this, right?”

“Doing what?” I ask.

She motions between the two of us. “This. I can’t have you touching me anymore, not if it doesn’t mean anything. I came here to start a new life, Arlo. That involves a serious relationship that leads to marriage and a family. I know that seems like a lot, but it’s my hope. My dream. If I keep fucking around with you, with no promise of going anywhere, I won’t reach my dream. I would just be putting it on hold.”

My jaw clenches, my heart rate picks up, anger starting to form at the back of my neck, spiking me into a tense ball. I have no right to be mad about her choice. She’s looking for something I don’t want to give. I can’t blame her. And yet, I don’t fucking like it.

“Do you understand?” she asks.

“Yes, I understand.”

“No more touching, Arlo. Strictly colleagues, that’s it.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“I want other things, but you’re not in a position to give them to me, so this is how things have to play out.”

I stick my hands in my jeans pockets and rock on my heels. “I get it.”

She smiles sadly. “Thank you for understanding.” She thumbs toward the door. “Guess I’ll get going.”

“Be right behind you,” I say as she walks out of the office.

I don’t follow right away. Instead, I back up to my desk, where I contemplate what just happened. Greer isn’t a girl who can keep feelings out of the mix. I was lucky I got as much out of her as I did.

The only problem is, I never got to feel her mouth on my cock, on my body . . . on my lips. I never gave myself the opportunity to strip her bare, hover over her, and then plunge myself so far deep inside of her, she’d be imprinted for life. That’s ridiculous talk, Turner. Imprint. I’m not a fucking werewolf. Well, no harm, no foul. I don’t really have time to torture—pleasure—Greer, so now’s a good time to put an end to that immature game anyway.

And that weird feeling inside me isn’t an ache for her. For her cries of ecstasy. For her cries of my name as she submits to my seduction.

No. For the first time since I met Greer Gibson, I agree with her one hundred percent. Now my life can go back to its normal rhythm and structure and order.

As it should, right?





Chapter Seventeen





GREER





“No, no, no,” Jason says, shaking his head. “You have it all wrong. Mr. Darcy wasn’t prejudiced against Lizzie. He could not care less about her rank in society.”

“Are you insane?” I ask. “Did you even read the book?”

“Uh . . . did you?” Jason Orson, the starting catcher for the Chicago Rebels, asks.

“More times than I care to admit.”

“Then you should know that he was never prejudiced. He was scared.”

“Oh Jesus.” I rub my temples. “Where in the book does it ever say he’s scared?”

“The great thing about Jane Austen is she doesn’t have to write it; she portrays it in the mood.”

“You’re giving me a headache.”

“Quit now,” Dottie, his wife, says while leaning in. “He can go all night.”

“Trust her, my stamina for Mr. Darcy is fierce.”

“Oh, I could go all night and into tomorrow,” I counter, taking a sip of my wild berry seltzer. No drinking for me tonight. No way in hell am I staying here for the night, especially with school tomorrow. I don’t need to be rolling into the parking lot with Arlo Turner driving, one eye barely open while I second-guess all my decisions from the day before.