My writer’s mind spirals and then suddenly I’m bent over, sticking my ass out, and he’s behind me with his belt wrapped around his fist. Shirtless, sweat trickling down between his pectorals and over his abs, and with his free hand he grabs my ass cheeks, massaging them, toying with them.
“You’ll do what I say when I tell you to,” he snarls, unspooling the belt ready to spank me.
“Why?” I whisper, tugging my mind back to the present.
A look comes into his eyes, a flicker of light as if he’s going to say something significant. But then the look fades and his smirk touches his lips instead.
“Because you’re being damned rude, that’s why,” he says. “Are you really about to just storm out of here without inviting me up for a drink?”
“Do you want to come up for a drink?” I counter.
What sort of game is he playing?
“I’ll see how I feel when you make the offer,” he banters.
I find myself mock glaring, almost as though we’re flirting, almost as though the author of my favorite novel is playing games with me. I want to sink into the moment and flirt back, but there’s always this niggling feeling that he’s laughing at me.
Maybe this is research for his book, a bitter voice hisses inside of me. He’s writing a dorky, curvy character and so he wants to see one up close. That makes more sense than … than what, you silly girl, than him being attracted to you? Are you freaking insane? You think Tanner Telford could be attracted to someone like you?
“I’m waiting,” he grins wolfishly.
“Are you going to fail me if I don’t invite you up, hmm?” I can’t help but sass, even as my instincts roar at me to be quiet.
“I guess you’ll just have to take your chances,” he says, clearly enjoying this.
“Fine,” I huff.
Don’t invite him up. He’s laughing at you.
“Mr—”
“Tanner, Tess,” he whispers, a ferocity beneath the words that makes no sense to me. “Call me Tanner.”
“Tanner, then,” I say, lips dry, wishing he’d kiss away the dryness. “Would you like to come up to my cruddy apartment to have a drink of water because we’re all out of soda?”
“Tess,” he says, leaning close.
His smell wafts over me, musky and enveloping, seeming to drift inside of me and trigger something, something deep, something I’ve never felt before. It’s like there’s this presence in my body, screaming out for him to get closer, an animal attraction I only thought existed in books and movies and make-believe.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
He climbs from the car and starts striding toward my apartment building.
A moment later, I cradle Gizmo to my chest and do the same, wondering if I’ve slipped into a storybook.Chapter EightTannerWhat the fuck are you doing?
I walk slightly behind Tess, every urge inside of me roaring to grab those swaying hips and pull her close to me, to feel the voluptuousness of that ass pressed against my groin. My manhood stiffens even more, something that should be impossible with how rock-fucking-solid it already was.
All through the car ride, I tried to beat down this rising hunger inside of me, but any time I even glance at Tess, all thoughts of self-restraint are blotted.
I’m her teacher.
I try to hold onto that fact as if it’ll save me, but I already know I’m too far gone.
This woman is going to be the mother of my children.
This woman is who I’ve been waiting for my whole damn life, with her childbearing hips and her take-me-hard tits and hair that deserves to be tugged on carnally and playfully as I hammer her from behind.
Fuck, just to think of her bent over, that juicy meaty ass bare for me, the glistening wetness of her pussy winking pinky …
“Home sweet home,” she says, turning to me with Gizmo in her arms.
I swallow, staring at her, mentally tasting her nipples in my mouth. I’d suck on them softly at first, feeling her excitement moving through her, the little breaths and huffs she’d make. And then I’d get harder as her nipples pricked and grew solid and needy in my mouth.
I’d bite her, suck, possess.
You belong to me, you sexy curvy goddess.
“After you,” I say, keeping my voice as level as I can.
I’m pretty sure she was dropping hints in the car, bringing up the fact that I’m her teacher, a subtle signal that she knows this is inappropriate.
But her scent can’t lie, as insane as that notion is.
I can smell the lust rising from her body, see it in the widening of her eyes, the way she bites her lips, the flush of her cheeks.
Maybe she’s just nervous.
Maybe—but she’s not.
Or, if she is, there’s a whole lot more than nerves going on here.
She leads us into her apartment, a small two bedroom with an adjoined kitchen-living area. I feel something in my belly drop at the sight of the small place.