Page 16 of Working for the Teacher

I lean in and kiss her, letting her taste herself on my tongue. She melts into it. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers for a second.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I tell her. “Same time. And Charlotte?”

“Yeah?”

“Leave the papers on the table again. I like the way it looks while I make you come.”

I pick up my things, give her one last look, and walk out the front door. The cool night air hits my face and does nothing to bury the ache in my cock.

But it’s okay. I have time.

And I plan to use every second of it pleasing her.

5

CHARLOTTE

I've read the same paragraph of Mason's makeup essay four times and I still couldn't tell you a single word of it.

I keep thinking about last night. I thought about it in the shower this morning. I thought about it while I poured cereal. I thought about it standing at the whiteboard in front of twenty-six sophomores, which is genuinely humiliating, because there is nothing professional about teaching students while thinking about Ryder Kane.

This is a bad idea. I know it's a bad idea the way I know not to touch a hot stove, and yet here I am, apparently scorching my hand on it anyway.

I’m a few months out of an engagement. My ex is already official with another woman, and I still haven't figured out how to be a person who isn't defined by that betrayal yet. I’m not remotely emotionally equipped to handle whatever happened last night, and I especially am not equipped to handle it with Ryder Kane, of all people.

Except it happened. And now I have to go teach eight periods pretending it didn't.

I make it through the first two periods on autopilot and decide I need caffeine before I do anything else today. I duck out to the break room, and I’m doctoring my coffee with too much sweet creamer when I feel it. That specific prickle at the back of my neck that means I'm being watched, and I already know before I turn around exactly who it's going to be.

Ryder is standing in the hall, overseeing two guys on a lift who are doing something to the ceiling tiles, and when I glance over he's already looking at me. My stomach does the thing again. The thing I've been trying to convince myself isn't happening.

I hold his gaze for exactly two seconds longer than I should. Then one of his guys says something and he has to look away, and I use the opportunity to flee toward my classroom with my coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

I make it back to my classroom and set my coffee down, some of it sloshing onto a stack of ungraded quizzes. I mop it up with a napkin and sit down at my desk, forcing myself to focus on anything other than the memory of his hands on me.

Fourth period does not help.

Mason walks in ten minutes late, no pass, headphones still around his neck, and drops into his seat.

“Mason, you're late.”

“Bathroom emergency.” He doesn't even try to make it convincing.

“Take out your textbook, please.”

He doesn't. He leans back in his chair instead, arms crossed, staring at me with an expression I've seen on him before and don't love the direction it's headed.

“Why do you even care if I’m late?” he asks. “You clearly don't even want to be here.”

A few kids laugh.

“That's not true, and it's not the topic of today's lesson. Book out, please.”

“My mom says you only came back because you got fired from your fancy gig teaching at some private school. Is that true? Did you get fired?”

The room goes quiet, and every single student is now watching to see how I handle this.

“That's not something we're discussing right now.”