A toy.
And I can’t stop my mind from catapulting into the possibility that I could be a toy in his eyes. Toyed with, played with—used in any way he wants.
Uh, more tingles.
Clean shaven and with his ice blues seeming even more penetrative in real life than they do in photos, he sets my body ablaze.
But inevitably feelings of embarrassment accompany the flaming lust, my mind returning to the way he caught me gaping at him, captivated by the way his giant body moved so fluidly with each push-up, as though he’s carved of metal, a machine, and yet he’s too freaking alive to be a machine.
Heat burned from him as we stood bare inches from each other, this man I’ve admired my whole life, standing right there, so real I could reach out and touch him.
I could smooth my hands down his muscular torso and feel his rock-like abs pressing through his shirt, and then down, further, over his pants and feel the size of him, throbbing, rock hard.
But he wouldn’t be rock hard for you, would he, dork?
I wince when I realize I’ve bitten the end of my pen into oblivion, a plastic mess with flakes of black peppering my notepad like malformed autumn leaves. I wipe it clean and forcibly place my pen down, focusing on the classroom instead.
There are around thirty of us of all ages and genders and ethnic groups. One lady who sits down could be at least ninety, her hair a confident snowy white and her bearing dignified and almost haughty. She lays her cane aside and folds her hands, waiting for Tanner.
Mr. Telford, I correct myself. He’s your teacher, remember.
And now my mind is doing even more sordid backflips, imagining Tanner Telford with me bent over the desk, a ruler in his hand as he tells me I’ve been bad, so freaking bad, and the only way he can make it better is to spank me raw until I’m soaked and ready to take him, all of him, and—
“Shall we begin?” Tanner says, voice gruff.
Immediately the general chatter of the room falls quiet.
All eyes turn to Tanner, who remains seated, but watching the class quietly now like a wolf with all the time in the world.
“Most of you will know,” he says after a long pause, “that I have never taught a class before. I have no experience teaching. What I do have experience in is writing, and I know that the most important thing, in the beginning, is to have a why. This isn’t some New Age bullshit. This isn’t purely philosophical. This is the fuel that’ll keep you going on those days when the words won’t come …”
Here he pauses, rising languidly to his feet.
For a moment I almost think those glinting eyes move to the rear of the room, settling on me. His jaw tightens and his eyes blaze and I feel a spear of heat move from my clit to my belly and my nipples and then my mouth, making me bite my lip momentarily.
I stop, knowing I must look like an idiot, and avert my gaze.
“So if anyone has a why, let’s hear it. There’s no need to raise your hands.”
I’m able to recede even more into the background as the classroom lights up, most of the students eager to share their writing philosophies.
Several of them freely admit that they want to make writing a career.
“There’s no shame in that,” Tanner says. “To be a professional is a hell of a thing.”
The elderly, dignified lady wants to write for her grandchildren. I notice that Tanner’s smirk becomes less edged at that, more human, and I feel a swelling of emotion in my chest that, if I was smart, I’d kill stone-dead.
He. Will. Never. Want. You.
Maybe I should get that tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.
Three separate women, all as or nearly as gorgeous as Kaitlyn, all thin and toned and leaning forward suggestively toward Tanner, basically tell him that they want to write because he inspired them.
“You’re my hero,” a sparky red haired woman tells him, nibbling the end of her pen … far more seductively than I gnawed on mine. “I’ve always wanted to tell you that.”
I watch Tanner’s face, but I’m unable to tell how he feels about this. His expression remains neutral, almost animal-like in the way he doesn’t react.
He puts his arms behind his back and I let out a relieved breath, willing the anxious thrumming of my nerves to slow down now that I know he’s not going to ask me for my reason.
But then he pauses and glances at the back of the class.
I squirm under his gaze, feeling it drill into me, for an insane moment thinking that he knows I’ve been fantasizing about him and he’s not happy about it at all.