It beats like it’s trying to break my ribcage as I stare at the future mother of my children.
She’s mine.
My first urge is to grab her and tackle her into the lecture hall, as though time has reversed thousands of years and I can just claim her here, now, take what’s rightfully mine, and thrust my seed into her aching womb.
She’s at least a head and a half shorter than me with big brown eyes and hair the color of oak, her hair wavy and messy around her shoulders, pulled back behind her ears as though in a hurry. Her lips are unsure, cute, and goddamn downright endearing. She wears jeans that hug tightly to her curvaceous hips, the sort of hips a man can bury his hands in, the sort of hips made for bringing life into this world. Her T-shirt is pink and baggy and yet it outlines the voluptuous grab-me-now majesty of her breasts all too clearly.
My manhood gives a thrum and I find myself biting down, as though that way I can withhold this cacophony of need roaring through me.
What the fuck is happening to me?
For an absurd, insane moment I think she’s cast a spell on me, the effect is so overpowering.
“I’m sorry,” this angel says. “I didn’t mean to spy.”
A shield of irony.
That’s my only hope of holding myself back from doing what every fiber in me is roaring at me to do.
Take her, own her, fuck her, impregnate her.
I smirk like I don’t give a damn, when really – suddenly – I give all the damns in the world.
“Then why were you spying?” I banter.
Her cheeks redden and she opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it … She glares and then deflates. The whole thing acts like a strange hypnosis on me.
I feel taut like I could snap, and I’m paying more attention to her than I normally pay to anything, gazing into her chocolate colored eyes, reading the glinting light there, sassiness warring with nervousness.
“Okay, so I can’t think of a good lie,” she says. “I guess you could say I’m not used to seeing men in expensive suits doing push-ups … yeah, let’s go with that.”
I make my smirk wider, trying to project that I don’t care, not one bit.
But somehow I already care too fucking much.
“It’s a good thing you’re here, then, because lying is one of the greatest skills a writer can possess.”
I’m speaking from very recent experience, because if I didn’t lie to this woman, I’d tell her right now that she belongs naked in my bed, lying on her back with those bouncy breasts bare for me, her sex wet and ready for the burning heat of my manhood.
“You are here for the creative writing class?” I say. Please say no. “Or do you just make a habit of sneaking around community college hallways, seeing who you can spy on?”
“No, no,” she says hurriedly, cheeks flaming even redder, some of the hue even spreading to her neck, a vivid color that makes me want to follow it down under her T-shirt. “I mean, yes. I’m here for the class. I’m early. The buses, you know.”
I came here by motorcycle, but I’m hardly about to brag about that.
Having been born dirt-poor, I know how much that can sting.
“I’ll never punish anyone for being early,” I tell her. “What’s your name?”
“Tess White,” she says. “I wrote—”
“—‘Portraits of the Dead’,” I finish. “I remember it. It was spooky.”
“Spooky-good or spooky-bad?”
“Spooky-good,” I assure her. “Please, feel free to get yourself comfortable in the lecture hall. I just need to go and handle a few things.”
“Um, okay.”
I walk past her before the conversation can go on any longer before she can look down and see how rock-fucking-solid my manhood has become already.
If she wasn’t my student, I’d have her bent over the desk, her jeans pulled down just enough to give me animalistic access to her greedy heat.
But I’m her teacher.
Can I fight this?Chapter ThreeTessWhen class starts I find a seat right at the back, praying that Tanner doesn’t notice me as the other students file in.
He sits behind the desk, staring down at his notepad, his pen lying untouched next to it.
I stare at him, heart beating a mad contralto in my chest, wondering if this is why he hasn’t published a book in over a year. The way he’s looking at that notepad, it’s like there’s rage spinning a maelstrom through his body, his jaw tight.
I wish I’d stop tingling.
Tingling is a childish way to put it, perhaps, but it’s what I feel as I sit here, my sex consumed with maddening sensations every time my gaze moves over him.
Clad in his silver suit, his hair peppered with the same shade – swept to the side, wild and yet severe and manly at the same time – he looks like a muscular behemoth barely constrained in a suit of armor. As he toys with his pen but notably doesn’t pick it up, it looks just like that in his hands.