And this guy plays by different rules, so I better start adapting, fast.
I smack a quick kiss on his cheek, but he grips my chin in place and turns to plant his lips on mine. I squeal and jerk back, but he simply laughs.
“Fuck you,” I spit. I jump off and scramble toward the front doors.
I’m almost inside when I hear him yell out, “Bummer about your alarm, Rem. You should be more careful next time!”
I never told him that my alarm didn’t go off. That motherfucker.
After I make a quick stop at the office for a late slip, I run through the hall, not even stopping at my locker. Strands of hair have come loose from the ride here, and I rub at the tears that are starting to dry on my face. I’m a mess. I skid to a stop in front of the door to Mr. James’ class and take a second to gain my composure.
Get it together. Every second you waste is another second you’re late.
I take one deep breath and open the door. Not one person looks up. No one, except Mr. James, of course. He scowls in my direction as I duck my head down and scurry to my desk.
“Miss Stringer, a word?” Fuck my life.
He’s sitting at his desk while the rest of the class flips through a packet of some sort. He’s wearing a plain baby blue dress shirt and black slacks. His hair is pushed back off his face, and his eyebrows knit together as he takes me in. His eyes seem to soften for a fraction of a second, but then the severe expression is firmly back in place so quickly that I wonder if I’m imagining it.
“I’m so sorry,” I start. “About yesterday, and being late. It won’t happen again,” I promise. He hands me a packet.
“See that it doesn’t,” he bites out. “I don’t tolerate tardiness. Now, today is a fresh start. Tell us something about yourself. You didn’t get the chance yesterday.”
Is he for real? This isn’t kindergarten. We don’t need to play ice-breaking games anymore. But the expectant look in his eyes tells me that he’s serious. And he’s waiting for an answer.
“I, uh,” I start, articulate as always. I clear my throat and try again. “I like to take pictures.” This time more firmly.
Some kid mumbles something about nude photos under his breath, but Mr. James either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore him.
“What kind of pictures?” he asks, seeming genuinely interested, and it throws me for a loop. Yesterday he was callous and aloof, and today he still seems frosty, but almost human.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Sad things. Beautiful things. Everything.”
Mr. James studies me for long seconds before he jerks his head in the direction of my desk. I take that as my cue to take my seat.
Once I’m seated, I turn my attention to the papers in my hand. It’s a syllabus. Mr. James stands and starts walking the class through the outline for the year, and I know I should be paying attention, but all I can focus on is the way his full lips move when he speaks, the perfect amount of stubble on his face, and the casual way he runs a hand through his dark hair as he leans a hip against his desk. He’s such a fucking man. And even though it’s clear that he’s got more class in his pinky finger than I have in my entire body, you can just tell that deep down, he’s a bad boy. Or maybe a reformed bad boy. But he reeks of sophistication and wealth. So, why is he a teacher? My mind works overtime trying to make sense of this dichotomy before finally settling on “does not compute”.
I wonder if he’s married. I wonder what she looks like. I hate her already. Then I imagine him and his perhaps non-existing wife rolling in bed, him eating her out while she tugs at his perfect hair, and cross my legs, squeezing the soft damp fabric between my thighs.
My eyes roam all over his body with shameless appreciation for the way his shirt hugs his chest and biceps. His sleeves are pushed up to the elbow and who knew forearms could be sexy? I’m perving on my teacher approximately two seconds after being manhandled by my pseudo stepbrother. Seems legit.
I shake those thoughts out of my head and attempt to focus on the words coming out of his mouth once more. When I look up to his eyes, they’re trained on me.
“Write down any questions and fill out the back page,” he addresses the class, but he’s still glaring in my direction. His jaw hardens, and his eyes narrow as they drift down my body. My heart races, and I feel my ears get hot under his attention. I drag my teeth across my bottom lip and cross one leg over the other. His eyes aren’t wavering from my legs, and his expression morphs into one of…anger?
I glance down and immediately know exactly what he’s looking at. Fuck. Ryan left a little present in the shape of his goddamn hand on my thigh. It’s bright red, and the four obvious finger marks leave little question as to what made them. I tug down my skirt and shift in my seat, hating that he must think I’m some sort of helpless victim.
I avoid eye contact for the rest of the period, and when the bell rings, I practically run toward the exit. But Mr. James can’t make anything easy.
“Stringer, hang back. I need a word.” There is no question in his voice. I freeze in place, not wanting to defy him, but definitely not wanting to stay behind and face him. I’m a street-smart girl. Maybe I haven’t seen it all, but I’ve seen most of it, and God knows I’ve dealt with a lot of people. Scarier people than Mr. James. But somehow, he scares me more than any of the criminals and creeps I’ve encountered over the years. It doesn’t even make any sense.
I turn on my heels and stare him straight in the eye, because even though I’m uncomfortable around him, it’s not in my nature to let this kind of thing show.
“Yes, Mr. James?” There’s a bite to my tone. I can’t hide it. I’m not sure I even want to. His hands are tucked inside the pockets of his black dress pants, he is standing at his full, impressive height, and his eyes glide up my body, from my toes to my head, halting briefly on my thighs. I suck in a breath and close my eyes. Goddammit, Ryan.
“Riddle me this.” He takes a step in my direction, rounding his desk, and my heart is in my throat. Danger rolls off of him, and I don’t know how to stop my body from responding to his. Because it’s there. The electricity. The attraction. The lust.
I can’t be the only one who feels it. It feels too big to be one-sided.