Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“Are you quite finished?” Fox said flatly. “I’ll see your text once I’ve charged my phone. That should be quite enough. And if you text me at three in the morning, I should hope it is actually important.”
“Wanting to talk to you isn’t important enough?” Summer asked, a husky little hitch in the words, and Fox let out an exasperated sound, thrusting his hand out and pointing firmly at the door.
“Get out.”
Summer just burst out laughing, a raspy-sweet sound with a touch of shivering depth to it.
Before he gathered up the papers once more, stacking his phone atop them and turning to stroll out, somehow once again managing to do exactly what he was told while still being entirely intolerable about it.
“Have a good night, Professor,” sailed back over his shoulder, before he hooked the door with his foot and pulled it to in his wake.
Fox just glared after him, sinking down deeper into his chair with a grumble.
What an odd, odd young man.
It was quite annoying, how Fox couldn’t ignore him.
And quite annoying how, the following morning, Summer was practically vibrating during office hours, restless and clumsy and dropping his pen, his near-empty cup of coffee, the textbook he was referencing to double-check Fox’s lesson plan for the day. Always the constant glances from under his lashes, the blushing, the way he caught his lower lip in just one canine tooth so that it drew in on one side and only turned more lush, plush, reddened and enticing on the other.
Fox absolutely refused to look.
Just as he absolutely refused to look at the way, when he concentrated, Summer would catch the tip of his pen between his lips and chew at it delicately, his mouth working over it in soft caresses and the pen indenting his mouth in yielding, pillowy curves, the pressure and friction turning it redder and redder.
Fox wasn’t watching.
He was grading an essay, damn it all to hell. He wasn’t—
“Stop that,” he hissed, and snapped a hand across the desk to pull the pen from between Summer’s fingers, his lips, his teeth. “You’ll damage your teeth.”
Summer froze, fingers still poised in the shape of the pen, wide eyes flicking from the textbook to Fox. His button-down shirt was pale blue today, the perfect color against suntanned skin, and he was far too casual with the sleeves cuffed to his elbows to bare toned forearms, his collarbones stark ridges past the open V of the neck.
Honestly, had no one spoken to him about the dress code?
“Um,” Summer said, eyes still a little too wide. “Sorry?”
“Simply don’t do it again.” Fox set the pen down very firmly between the open pages of the textbook. “It’s quite distracting.”
Summer winced, averting his eyes. “Sorry,” he repeated. “I—”
He was cut off by a knock on the door. Summer glanced over his shoulder, while Fox lifted his head; through the frosted glass window inset in the door, he could just make out the shape of a student, marked by the typical navy blue of the uniform blazer.
“Enter,” he said, schooling his face to impassivity.
The door creaked open tentatively. “Professor Iseya...?” a cracking voice asked—either nervousness or puberty, he could never tell.
The boy who peeked around the door was tall, gangly, still growing into his limbs, still growing out of his pimples, his shock of reddish-brown hair always a mess; Fox recognized him as Craig Rockwell, from block two class period. He held his Principles of Modern Psychology textbook clutched tight against his chest, several pieces of bent and creased note paper crammed in between the pages.
Craig started to open his mouth—then stopped, staring at Summer. “Oh, um...if you’re busy, I’ll come back later.”
“Have you forgotten already that Mr. Hemlock is my assistant, and here to assist you as well?” Fox bit off. Honestly, if he couldn’t even pay attention to that... He arched a brow, toying his pen between his fingers. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rockwell?”
Craig cringed, going visibly pale, straightening his shoulders as if he’d been called to attention. “Um!” He cleared his throat, looking somewhere over Fox’s head. “I...um, there’s a part in the homework, in the chapter on developmental child psychology...um, they talk about toddlers, but like, there’s variable age ranges? On Google? I’m not sure what the right age range is and that seems like it kinda matters to answer the question?”
Fox started to open his mouth—but Summer got there first, perking and twisting in his chair. “That’s actually—”
He froze. So did Craig.
And both slid their eyes toward Fox, watching him with a sort of wary trepidation, before Summer broke into a sheepish smile, ducking his head.
Interesting.
Summer had utterly frozen in front of an entire class full of students, but faced with only one...
He’d immediately jumped to respond, confident enough in his answer to not even check with Fox first.