Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 35946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Her face goes red as her jaw drops.
“Did I dream about you coming all over my cock? I mean, I did, after. But the first time?” I smile, leaning close.
“No, I’m pretty sure I was wide awake, Ms. Hayes.”
“Mr. Scott—”
“Ethan works,” I growl as I step right against her, making her gasp.
“Did I make this up, too?”
I pull my dress shirt away from my collarbone, revealing the bruised bite marks from her mouth as she bit down on me to stop from screaming when she came the night before. Her eyes dart over the hickeys, and her face pales as she looks unsteady on her feet.
“I’m gonna sit, Ms. Hayes. But last night happened.” I lean in close, inhaling the scent of her, and her breath catches sharply.
“And it’s gonna happen again.”
“It is not—!”
The bell rings, signaling the start of first period, and she stiffens as she glares at me.
“Sit.”
“Sure thing, teach.”
I turn and saunter away, finding an empty chair and sitting as Emily walks quickly to the front of the class. Her eyes meet mine as she gets to her podium, and I grin as I see the blush bloom over her gorgeous face before she hides it in her notes.
Oh, this is going to be interesting all right.
Last night, I fucked my teacher. Last night, I got a taste of the forbidden.
…And now, I just want more.
4
Emily
Mondays are for the lecture portion of the year’s curriculum—the history lessons and all of that rather than just hands-on art. And today, we’re picking up from last week with the French Impressionists.
But the whole lesson, I can barely make words. My face burns, my heart races. My skin tingles, and ears ring.
…My panties are soaked.
This is so fucking wrong. So unbelievably wrong. And what happened last night is as horrifying to me now as it was toe-curlingly hot thirty seconds before he walked into my fucking classroom and called me “teach.” Okay, sure, he’s legal, in the most basic understanding of the law. Thank fucking God. But what the fuck was I thinking?
He’s eight years younger than me. Later in life, that might not be much of an issue, I mean, hello Demi Moore. But right now? When he’s eighteen fucking years old?
I groan inside as I mindlessly drone on about Renoir. And I know that I’m glossing over the worst part about all of this, because it’s almost too much to think about.
…The fact that he’s my student.
It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know. It just doesn’t. This could ruin me and get me kicked out of here so fast my head will spin. And it’s not like teaching was ever my dream, but I’m pretty certain that if this ever got out, I could pretty much kiss ever teaching again goodbye.
But God he was good.
I blush, and I cringe as I think about it. Incredibly good. Like, stupidly, finding religion type good. I’ve never been fucked like that before. Not ever. Okay, it’s not like I’ve gotten around a ton, but c’mon, I’m twenty-six, and there were a few boyfriends before Jason. Zero one-night-stands before last night. But none of them were like him.
…like Ethan Scott.
Dominant, powerful. Intense. So into me that I felt like the rest of the world faded away. That and I came so hard last night on his…
I blush.
On his huge cock.
My eyes dart over him sitting there in the back row of class. I force myself with everything I have to keep scanning the room, so it looks like I’m just looking at my students, not looking at him while I daydream about the way he fucked me last night. I do it again, but this time, my eyes linger a half second too long before I look away.
God he’s gorgeous. All lean, chiseled muscles and growls and tattoo ink.
I groan inside. The best sex I’ve ever had in my life, and he’s my eighteen-year-old student.
…I’m fucked.
Somehow, I get through the lesson, because before I know it, my swirling and confusing daydreams are shattered by the ring of the bell again. The room grows loud as the whole class stands, pushing chairs back from desks and grabbing bags as they start to filter out and leave.
He lingers.
I shiver, the last of the class exits until it’s just him and I. And this time, my eyes linger right on him, with no-one else to look at to mask the fact. Last night, he was in a white t-shirt, jeans, and biker boots, looking like sex on a stick. Today, he’s wearing the Winchester school uniform. Sort of. I mean he’s got the boys warm-weather uniform of a short-sleeved white dress shirt and dark grey slacks. But he’s skipping the tie, and the short sleeves are rolled up another inch around his thick biceps. Also, I’m not really sure where full-sleeve and neck tattoos fit into the Winchester dress code.