Page 79 of The Trouble with Flings

It’s killing me.

But I have to admit, holding off is hot. Not having sex magnified everything else, making me hyperaware of his restraint, every flex of his body, every place his hands landed. His grip on my ass and breasts rode the edge between pain and pleasure, short-circuiting my brain. And when he pinned me beneath him, our dry humping created friction so intense and consuming, I came hard.

Last Sunday morning, we fell to the couch in a tangle of hungry kisses, him in his boxer briefs, me in my silk cami and shorts. I was on top of him, rocking along the length of his cock, fondling his balls with one hand, his mouth on my breast through the thin fabric. The slow grind of it built until we both came. We were a sticky mess.

I shiver with the memory. Between moments like that and our goodbye kisses, when I was on the brink of saying forget your promise, dragging him inside, and chaining him to my bed, I can’t stop thinking about him.

Or the way he’d dropped to one knee the night after I told him I was pregnant.

I press my hand to my stomach and close my eyes, remembering Fitz kneeling before me, his hands on my belly, those piercing eyes as serious and loving as could be as he talked to our unborn child, his voice low and certain. I already love you. Even in memory, the honesty in his voice brings a lump to my throat. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way that moment felt. I could tell he wasn’t doing it for show, either. His unconditional and instant love for our unborn child pushed that crack in my chest open wider, and this time I don’t want to close it.

I take a deep breath and reply to his text.

Me: Fitzgerald, that’s wholly inappropriate. I’m at work.

I send an angel emoji.

Fitz: I know, wild girl.

A heart-eyed emoji pops up, followed by a flame and another devil.

“Hey, Jen, do you have a minute?”

I startle at the sound of Clare’s voice and set my phone face down on my desk, turning to wave her in. “Of course.”

Clare Lewis has been my assistant principal for three years. She’s sharp, meticulous, and thinks three moves ahead of every situation. She’s also a trusted confidant. She’s my age, with short copper-red hair, keen blue eyes behind wire-framed glasses, and a no-bullshit attitude that keeps kids on their toes.

“I just intercepted an upset parent in the lobby. You’re welcome,” she says as she settles into the chair across from my desk, pad and pen in hand. She crosses her legs, her blue polka-dot dress swishing over her knees.

“I appreciate that. Anything I should be concerned about?”

“Beyond me wanting to shake Rick? No.” Rick is one of our teachers. “She sent two emails to Rick over the past two weeks about her son and hasn’t received a response. She’s right to be annoyed, but she came in hot. I calmed her down and scheduled a meeting with Rick for next Thursday. I’ll follow up with him about why her emails went unanswered.”

“Perfect,” I say. “Were you able to get the video footage from this morning?”

“Yes, it’s ready and waiting. I wanted to update you about Kelly Johnson.”

Kelly is a junior and a strong student, but she’s been having attendance issues and acting out since mid-February, when her father remarried. Teachers kept flagging her for wearing earbuds during class, ignoring assignments, seemingly completely checked out. Then she blasted explicit music through the school cafeteria during lunch, which escalated into a blowup with other students, and finally landed her in my office. We called her parents in, and they spent the entire conference taking shots at each other. It was ugly.

Instead of suspending Kelly, we took a chance and got her into our music mentorship program. The students work with a local musician to write lyrics, record songs, and learn sound mixing and production. Kelly had skulked the first few weeks, but at least she’d shown up.

“Any improvement?” I ask.

“Thankfully, yes,” Clare says. “She’s actively taking part, and Susan said she sees hints of pride when she, or the musician, or other students compliment her work.” Susan is the music teacher who runs the program.

Relief washes over me. I’m not supposed to get involved with battling families, but I can’t help worrying about the kids. Even though divorce is commonplace nowadays, it doesn’t mean it has no negative effect on kids who are already dealing with immense peer pressure. Finding her place with a new stepparent can’t be easy, either. I’m glad Kelly is getting the encouragement she deserves.

“That’s great,” I say. “Any positive momentum in the classroom?”

“Some. She turned in all but one assignment last week, and there have been no more incidents with other students. I’d call that a win.” Her homeroom teacher had flagged two incidents in late February.

“She’s heading in the right direction. I’ll take it.”

Clare smiles. “Me too. The other thing I wanted to talk with you about is Sarah’s evaluation.” Sarah is one of our science teachers. “I observed her classroom last week, and I want to talk through my notes with you before I write them up. There are some instructional concerns that I think need to be framed carefully.”

“I’m all ears.”

After discussing the evaluation, Clare stands and says, “Thanks.” She steps toward the door but turns back, planting a hand on her hip. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Are you using a new moisturizer or gatekeeping the Fountain of Youth?”