“Miss Stringer, I barely tolerate you. If you think I’ll give you special treatment…”
“You already do.” She leans forward and props herself on her elbows, pressing her tits together, and fuck, I am hard as stone. This cannot happen. I need to stand up and open the door. But I can’t risk her seeing me tenting like a schoolboy. I’m not Herring or Schwartz. I’m a goddamn teacher. “You already do, Pierce. You gave me a ride. And your phone number. And here you are, letting me stay with you after school. You’re responsible for this thing just as much as I am. Maybe even more. Because I’m just reacting. You were a willing party in all this.” She stops stroking her flesh so she can circle the room with her finger. “And now there’s no stopping it.”
The days after are much the same.
Remington Stringer comes back every day for the detention that she doesn’t have. We’re already straddling the line of appropriate student-teacher relationships, and if we keep this up—whatever this is—we’re going to jump so far over it that we can’t even remember what the line looks like. But still, I let her stay. I tell myself it has nothing to do with the way she makes my cock twitch from one look at those pouty lips and everything to do with the fact that I know she’s safer here than at home. But the truth is more complicated than that. Remington Stringer is not safe with me. She’s not even safe from herself. Remington Stringer will not be safe until she goes away. She knows it. I know it. The clock is ticking.
Tick, tick, tick.
Day after day, she comes to my class, until four thirty, under the pretense of doing her homework. Sometimes she reads. Sometimes she listens to music with her earbuds. Sometimes she bothers me with her incessant questions. But always tempting. Always pushing boundaries. Every single shift of her legs, lick of her lips, and twirl of her hair is so effortlessly seductive, so deeply ingrained in her that I’m not sure she’s aware that she’s doing it.
She’s a temptress through and through, but the bad girl act, I suspect, is just that. An act. She’s an innocent wrapped in a body made up of every sin I’ve ever wanted to commit. A good girl with bad intentions. Remington isn’t thinking about the consequences of her actions. I’m the adult—it’s my job to do the responsible thing. So, that’s precisely what I do. I provide a safe, calm environment after school, all while ignoring her brazen flirting and fighting the urge to accept what she’s offering. To take her. To use her. To claim her.
&nbs
p; This unspoken arrangement has worked out fine for us, if you don’t count my internal suffering. Until today. Today, when it’s so hot that she’s gathered that long hair into a messy ponytail on top of her head. Today, when the ivory expanse of her neck is exposed and I count the beauty marks sprinkled across it. Today, when her pen is cushioned between her ample lips as she nibbles on the tip. Today, when her long legs bounce to the beat only she can hear. Today, when she stares at me, challenging, under thick lashes. It’s as if she knows my senses seem to be heightened and I’m all too aware of her allure and my resolve could snap at any moment. Fuck today. She needs to leave.
“It’s Friday, Miss Stringer. Don’t you have anything better to do than hang out with your teacher?”
“I could ask you the same question,” she taunts. “A guy like you can’t be short on companions. And yet, here you are. With me. Why do you think that is?”
“Well, clearly, I’m a masochist,” I say dryly. Being around her is painful, but not in the way she must be thinking. She bites her lip and looks down at her desk in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I just offended her. It doesn’t make any sense that this girl, who’s tougher than most grown men I know, has her feelings hurt over a flippant remark.
Without even making a conscious effort to do so, I’m at her desk in two long strides. I’ve seen Remington Stringer take on many faces. Pissed off. Turned on. But this one is not one I want to be responsible for.
“Look at me,” I order softly.
Always the rebel, she keeps her eyes pointed down. I lift her chin with two fingers, and fuck if her sharp intake of breath and the sight of her pulse jumping in her neck don’t do something to me.
“You’re always welcome here.” And that’s as close to a compliment I can give her, because I certainly can’t tell her what’s really going through my mind. She rolls her eyes in that self-deprecating way of hers, and I squat down, now eye level with the source of my torment.
“I see you, Remington. Beneath all that bravado is a girl who is wise beyond her years. Someone who is too damn smart and too damn beautiful for her own good.” I didn’t mean to say the last part aloud, and judging by the way her lips part, letting free a small gasp, I don’t think she expected it either. Our eyes lock, both our minds working overtime trying to figure out how to navigate this uncharted territory.
Her phone rings from her desk, breaking our trance. I clear my throat and walk back toward my stack of papers. She hesitates for only a second before answering.
“Hello?” A pause. “Jesus Christ, Ryan, I’m coming. I said I’ll be right out,” she snaps, exasperated. She sweeps her belongings into her backpack and heads toward the door. She hesitates in the doorway before looking back at me from over her shoulder. She bites her bottom lip—again—and my eyes follow the movement.
“Thank you,” she says softly. And then she’s gone.
I’ve given up on fucking other women to get my mind off Remington. And since I can’t fuck her out of my system, I’m resorting to the lesser of two evils. I’m in bed at ten p.m. on a Friday night fucking my fist to thoughts of my student. Pathetic. This is becoming a nightly ritual, and every night I hate her a little more for it. For making me want her. For making me question my morals, my humanity, my general taste in women. But most of all, I hate myself for liking it. On some level, I like this game we’re playing, even though I’m the one who has everything to lose. She has no skin in the game.
I’m imagining her straddling my lap as I sit behind my desk at school. I imagine her inching up her skirt before freeing me from my pants. I imagine her sliding her panties to the side and sinking down onto my cock. I’d try to stay still. To not be an active participant—as if that absolves me of my crimes—while she uses me to get off. But I wouldn’t be able to stop my hips from thrusting upward. I wouldn’t be able to stop my hands from smoothing up her thighs to grip her ass and guide her movements. And when I feel her clenching around me, I wouldn’t be able to hold back from—
A violent buzzing from my nightstand interrupts my depravity right before I blow. I consider ignoring it and finishing what I started, but something tells me to answer. It’s a number I don’t recognize—even more reason for me to ignore it—but curiosity gets the best of me, and I pick it up.
“Hello?” A sniffle. Muffled music and yelling in the background.
“Mr. James?” Remington? “I know it’s late. I know I shouldn’t call you, but I need you and—”
I need you. Those words coming from her mouth affect me more than they should.
“Tell me where you are,” I say, cutting her off.
“I’m at my house. Ryan and his stupid friends—”
“Did anyone touch you? Are you okay?” I practically growl.
“I’m fine,” she whispers, avoiding the question. “I locked myself in the bathroom.”