Eighteen (18)(14)

“Weekends?”

He looks up at me, those green eyes burning. He’s pissed about something, I realize. “We did agree on every day?”

“But you never said anything about the weekends.”

“We can meet at my house on the weekends.”

“What?”

“My house, Shannon. Do you prefer mornings or mornings?”

I don’t know what to say. This guy, he’s like a bulldozer who runs me over. “I don’t think I can do weekends.”

“You can,” he says, nodding. “Now sit down and tell me what you know about integers.” His legs stretch out under the table. They scissor between mine. My eyes dart up to look at him. “Problem?” he asks.

I blink.

“No? Then read the first paragraph on page eight and tell me what you think it means.”

I look down at my book.

His legs move against mine. Rubbing back and forth. What the f*ck?

“Read it, Shannon.”

I swallow and begin. I read for whole minutes about numbers on a number line. Shit any second grader should know, but authors feel compelled to repeat at the beginning of each textbook. I stop at the end of the page and look up.

He smiles. “Keep going.”

“This is dumb.”

“How so?”

“The other class I’m taking just lets me take tests. Can’t I just take tests?”

“The other teacher in that other class doesn’t give a shit about you.”

“And you do?”

“I’m here, right?”

“He’s there, right?”

“He didn’t give you a jacket to wear in the rain last night. He didn’t pick you up, take you somewhere dry, and buy you a cab ride home.”

“No, but that’s not how most teachers behave, Mr.—”

“Mateo.”

I just stare at him. What the f*ck is his game?

“Say it,” he says. “Say my name.”

I swallow down the confusion. “Mateo?”

He sighs, letting out a long breath of air. And then he leans over the table, grabs my face, and kisses me.

I am so stunned, I don’t move. But his mouth demands something. Cooperation, or interaction, or submission, I’m not sure.

But I do kiss him back, I’m very sure of that.

He fists my hair, making me stand up, and then his lips break free as he walks around the table, keeping hold of my hair while he does it.

I look over my shoulder, my heart beating fast and my breathing coming out in small gasps. “The door is open,” I whisper, almost in a panic.

He ignores me, just grabs my breast, pulls me towards him, threads his fingers up my scalp so he can fist my hair again, and takes what he wants. My mouth.

I give in. I feel helpless. Weightless. Powerless.

When he breaks the kiss, I feel like I might pass out.

“Where were you last night?”

“What?” I ask, taken by surprise.

“Where were you last night, Shannon? I know you weren’t home.”

“How do you know that?”

He leans down to kiss me again, but this time his teeth nip the sensitive skin.

I let out a small whimper. “The door,” I say, trying to pull away. “Someone will see us!”

“Everyone leaves at five.” He kisses me again and then pulls back, staring down at me like I’ve done something wrong. “Where were you last night?”

“At a friend’s house.”

He pushes me backwards, trying to make me lie back on the desk. It’s slow and not at all harsh. But he makes it clear that I will be bending backwards for him. I give in and let my back rest on the table.

He unbuckles his belt.

“What are you doing?” I ask, really in a panic.

“Fucking you,” he says. And in my head I imagine that he says it mean, or rude, or condescending. But he doesn’t. He says it like it’s already happened.

“You can’t f*ck me.”

“I can if you don’t stop me.” He grabs my hand and places it over the hard bulge under his jeans, rubbing, moving my fingers back and forth along his shaft. His eyes narrow with pleasure and then he lets go, but I continue.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, his attention back to the task of setting himself free. And a moment later his cock springs out. Long and thick, the head swollen and the tip ready. He pulls a condom out of his back pocket and rolls it down his shaft.

I gulp air.

“Unbutton your jeans, Shannon.”

I do. I unbutton them. I unzip them before he even asks. And then I lift my hips up so he can drag them down my thighs. He leaves them on, bunched up at my knees, and then he lifts my legs up towards my shoulders, dips his head under and licks my *.

I almost come immediately.

“Are you a virgin?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Good,” he whispers back. “Because I don’t have the patience for that.”

He sucks on me, teasing my clit, swirling it around in little circles. It’s so intense my hand flies down to his head, almost ready to push him off me.

But he stops for a moment, and says, “Be still. And don’t come yet.”

I moan. I don’t know if I can control it. I’ve never had a problem achieving an orgasm, but I swear, I don’t ever remember being so turned on before. It’s the door, I think. The open door. I imagine myself walking by, getting a glimpse of his muscled body taking me this way on a makeshift desk in the middle of a classroom.