“Correct.”
She nods. “That’s what I thought.”
“On that note, I’m going to leave you two alone,” Arlo says.
“Don’t bother. I need a breakfast burrito. Do you want anything, Greer?” Coraline asks.
I shake my head. “I’m going to take off and get back to my place. I have frozen waffles calling my name.”
“I’m not one to get in the way of a girl and her frozen waffles.” Cora comes up to me and gives me a quick hug. “Mama needs a burrito. I’ll catch you later.” Cora turns to Arlo and points at him. “Be nice to her, understand?”
Arlo doesn’t respond, just drinks his apple juice casually.
How could he possibly look that laidback when I’m vibrating with so many emotions?
“Bye.” Cora waves behind her, grabs her keys off the entryway credenza, and takes off, the door shutting behind her.
A few seconds roll by before I turn to Arlo, whose eyes are trained on me.
The air around me shrinks as he eats me up. After I got myself off in bed, I took a quick shower, piled my hair on top of my head, and changed into the clothes I wore last night, minus the thong. That’s stuffed into my purse.
“So . . .” I say, feeling awkward and unsure of myself. “Did you . . . uh . . . did you masturbate last night?”
He sets his glass down. “What do you think?”
“I think you did.” Growing a little courage, I add, “And I think you did it with my name on the tip of your tongue.”
“Wasn’t your name on my tongue; it was the taste of your pussy on my tongue that got me off.”
Good God, I shiver in my seat, unable to control the involuntary shudder from the rumble to his voice.
I lick my lips, my heart thudding in my chest as he rounds the kitchen island. I twist in my stool so I’m facing him when he steps next to me.
He reaches up and gently draws his thumb over my cheek. Quietly, he asks, “My scruff didn’t hurt you, did it?”
He doesn’t want intimacy, but this right here, asking if he hurt me, feels more intimate than a kiss, especially the way he’s cupping my cheek.
“I’m a little sore, but in the best way possible. Every time I move, I love knowing it was you who was between my legs.”
His eyes darken and then he slowly tilts my head to the side, moving his thumb down the column of my neck, to the spot right below my ear. “I marked you,” he says, his thumb rubbing over what I’m assuming is a bite mark.
“You can see it?”
“Only if you know it’s there.” He comes back to my eyes. “I bit you hard enough to remind you who took you last night.”
“Once again, don’t need the reminder.”
His hand falls to my chin, where his thumb tugs on my bottom lip. “I fantasized about these lips sucking my cock last night. I couldn’t sleep until I got off at least twice.”
“You could have had the real thing, you know.”
“I could have, but I wasn’t the one in dire need.”
“Coming twice in order to sleep seems like a dire situation.”
His hand floats down my neck, to my collarbone. “I’ll let you know if it’s ever a dire situation for me.”
“Will you, or are you going to forget this happened come Monday?”
“Isn’t it easier that way?” he asks, his hand floating to the strap of my tank top. Slowly he pushes it off my shoulder, along with my bra strap.
“Not when you touch me the way you are. You’re going to make me want you even more.”
“You’re going to have to learn to control your urges, Miss Gibson.”
He slips the other shoulder of my top off and then flips my tank top and bra down, exposing my breasts.
Hunger fills his eyes as he scans me in broad daylight.
With any other man, I’d be self-conscious to be topless in the kitchen, the harsh morning sun exposing my bare breasts. But Arlo brings out that carnal, palpable desire that would permit him to fuck me against a window and have me not care if one of his neighbors witnessed the act.
“Your tits are exquisite.” He reaches out and squeezes one, his thumb rolling over my nipple.
“I hope you plan on finishing whatever you’re starting.”
Pausing, he looks at me and says, “You’re right. And I have no plan to finish you off.” He flips my bra and tank back up and steps away. “You have waffles waiting for you.”
When he steps away, I quickly hop off the chair and go up to him, my skin crawling, tingling, needing to feel him.
Even though he’s much stronger than I am, I push him against the wall and press one hand to his chest, warning him not to move, and because he’s the teasing bastard he is, he smirks, as if my sheer force is comical to him.
With my other hand, I cup him through his jeans, feeling how hard he is, just from those little touches.
“Who are you kidding, Arlo? You want this just as bad as I do. Why are you denying yourself?”
“I’m not denying myself,” he says, reaching down and pulling my hand away. A wave of embarrassment washes over me, but it doesn’t stay for long, because he unzips his jeans and presses my hand against his length, the only barrier being his black boxer briefs. “I’m prolonging the inevitable.”
He strokes my hand up and down his length, his head falling to the wall, his teeth pulling on his bottom lip.
“Why prolong it when you can have it now?” I ask, my thumb hitting his tip.
He sucks in a sharp breath. “Because the inevitable can still evolve.”
“That’s a contradiction.”
“Not in my book.” He removes my hand and buckles back up. Gripping my chin, he tilts my head back and says, “Get out of here, before I make you regret overstaying your welcome.”
“How could you possibly make me regret that?”
“Bringing you to the point of orgasm, but denying your release. That’s how.”
“You would never.”
“How you underestimate me, Miss Gibson. I was able to avoid your offer last night, even though my cock was aching for your lips. There’s no doubt I could edge you out, despite wanting to feel you come on my tongue again.”
God, he’s so dirty.
Stepping away, he turns me around and brings me against his chest, his hand splayed over my stomach, his mouth dropping to my ear, a feeling I’m starting to become addicted to. I’m not particularly short, but Arlo is the perfect height—his whole body encompasses mine. His delicious scent, the weight of his strong arms, the strength of his chest surrounding my back . . . I want him. More than—oh . . . that feels good.
His hand travels down my stomach and rests just above my pubic bone. “Now, be a good girl and leave my house. If you listen, you might be rewarded later, when you’re least expecting it.” He bites down on my earlobe, causing me to gasp.
“Arlo,” I say, hearing how breathless I am from his proximity. “What . . . what are you doing to me?”
“It’s called karma, and it’s coming back with a vengeance.”
“Karma from the pranks?”
He nods against me. “I told you not to fuck with me. Now, I’m going to fuck with you, on my clock, not yours.” He brings his hand to my breast and gives it a squeeze before stepping away. “Have a good day . . . Greer.”
Moving back around the island, he snags a banana from the kitchen counter and heads to his backyard. I watch him get comfortable in a lounger and, God, what I wouldn’t give to crawl into that lounger next to him, or maybe on top of him, anything to feel his touch one more time.
But if I’ve learned anything in the last twenty-four hours, it’s that Arlo means what he says. If I don’t listen to him, I have a feeling I’m not going to like the consequences. So, reluctantly, I gather my things and head out the front door. I hop into my car and lower my head to the steering wheel.
I’ve read so many books where the heroine describes this feeling of being . . . controlled, and I’ve always rolled
my eyes and thought they were contrived only through authors’ boundless imaginations. Where the hero is like a conqueror of lands, where he hegemonizes and controls the heroine’s thoughts and actions. And I, of course, have likened myself to Lizzie Bennet—determined to stay my course, be comfortable in my skin—and yet, one alluring man has somehow pushed me beyond my boundaries. And I’ve let him.
“I told you not to fuck with me. Now, I’m going to fuck with you, on my clock, not yours.”
And I crave it.
What the hell is happening to me?
* * *
Greer: Why do I feel like I’m in trouble? Am I in trouble?
Stella: How the hell do I know? Principal Dewitt never calls me into her office.
Greer: My pits are sweating.
Stella: Mine are sweating for you.
Greer: Okay, I’ll text you when I’m done.
I pocket my phone and take a deep breath as I round the corner to the main office. When Principal Dewitt said she wanted to see me during lunch, I was instantly nervous that she somehow, by an act of God, found out about Arlo and me having sexual relations on Arlo’s kitchen counter.
Far-fetched, I know, but still, it was the first thing that popped into my head.
“Did you get called in too?”
That voice.
Oh God.
I look to the right, where Arlo is sitting in one of the chairs just outside of Principal Dewitt’s office. I haven’t seen him in two days, and I started to worry that maybe he was regretting what happened Friday night or technically Saturday morning, but before I can second-guess that assumption, he smirks at me, easing my mind.
“I did.” I press my hand over my stomach, watching how inconspicuously Arlo takes in my dress, his eyes eating me up like a rabid beast. “Do you know what this is about?”
He stands and says, “Probably about what happened between us this weekend.”
“What?” I shout-whisper. “But how? I didn’t say anything. Did you?”
He chuckles, the sound so alluring and comforting that I want to snuggle into his side and ask him if I can stay there while Principal Dewitt speaks to us.
The door opens to the principal’s office and Nyema Dewitt steps out. “Arlo, Greer, thank you for stopping by during lunch. Come, have a seat.” She directs us to the chairs in front of her desk. Arlo and I both take a seat, but while he leans back and crosses one leg over his knee, I fidget in place and try not to throw up.
“I don’t want to keep you from your lunch break, but I wanted to get this settled so I can move on to other things.”
Settled?
Oh God.
Does this have to do with the dress-up day?
Arlo did say he’d report me to Nyema if he needed to. Did he report me, then go and butter me up over the weekend so I wouldn’t hate him for getting me fired?
I think he’s conniving enough to do something like that.
“I do have a salad waiting for me in the fridge,” Arlo says with charm.
Charm.
The man has charm that doesn’t entail ripping your panties off to appease his demands. Who knew?
“Steak with gorgonzola?” Nyema asks.
“Always.” He winks, and I nearly throw up right there on the spot.
Suck ass much, Arlo?
Good God, man.
“Well, I won’t keep your salad waiting. I wanted to talk to you about the homecoming dance.”
Homecoming?
“We’re short two chaperones, and I was hoping you could fill in.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Arlo grip the armrest tightly, but that’s the only evidence of his displeasure. “Of course, I can be there.”
“Wonderful.” Nyema turns to me and says, “Newbie is always the first to be thrown to the wolves. Are you available, Greer?”
“Of course. Haven’t really established a life outside of school just yet, so I’m your girl. Plus, I’m super great at making sure students stay in line while also having fun. Because you know, high school has to be full of fun. So much fun . . . and rules. There must be rules, too.” God, stop rambling, Gibson. “But, yes, no social life, so I’m here for anything you need.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Arlo says, picking a piece of lint off his pants, a diabolical pull to his lips. “My sister was telling me all about your Ladies in Heat Book Club.”
Oh.
My.
God.
My face burns with embarrassment as Nyema raises her brow in my direction.
Uhh . . . things I don’t want my boss knowing about me—not when I’m trying to impress her, solidify a job here.
Awkwardly chuckling, I say, “Um, yeah . . .” I swallow. “I do have that.”
“Ladies in Heat?”
I thumb toward Arlo. “His sister’s idea.”
“Ahh, but you voted on it. Keiko Seymour offered the Austen Empowerment Collaborative, which I thought was more fitting. More respectful.”
What the hell is he doing?
Asking to be murdered?
Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen when we leave this office. I don’t care if he made me come harder than any other man.
Murder . . . total murder.
“Well”—Nyema uncomfortably shuffles some papers on her desk—“seems like a fascinating club.”
I lean forward and place my hand on Nyema’s desk. “I feel like I need to clarify that we’re not really in heat.”
“Could have fooled me,” Arlo says on a chuckle. “With all that talk about arousal and the reptile brain.”
“Would you look at that,” I say, standing from the chair. “Time to go eat that salad of yours.” I grab Arlo by the arm and try to lift him out of his chair, but he doesn’t budge. “Arlo . . . salad.”
“Don’t be rude. We haven’t been dismissed yet.”
I narrow my eyes at him just as Nyema says, “You are excused.” She waves a pen between us. “I see why the English department is raving about the new addition to the faculty. You two sure have a spark.”
I quickly turn to Nyema, horrified. “No, we don’t. There’s no spark.”
Arlo stands. “Wouldn’t want her to think that we get along, now would you?” He adjusts the sleeves on his forest-green cardigan.
“We don’t . . . I mean, we do. I just mean, there’s nothing going on. No spark.”
“Okay.” Nyema looks at me, confused. Jesus, I’m making it worse. I can sense that’s what’s happening. I need to shut my mouth and leave. “Anyway, homecoming, sure. Whatever you need, I’m there. I have no life so I’m available. I mean, besides the book club, but that’s once a month, nothing to worry about. And you know, I wasn’t even sure I was going to participate.”
“That’s not what—”
“Your commentary isn’t welcome right now,” I say, hand up to him. Smiling maniacally, I say, “Lunch is calling, thanks for this meeting. Oh, and did I mention, that top on you is stunning?”
“Thank you, Greer,” Nyema says with a smile while looking at her pink shirt. “And great job with the volleyball team. We’ve been impressed with the progress you’ve made.”
“Thank you.”
I give her one more smile and as I walk out of her office, I hear her say to Arlo, “Go easy on her, Arlo.” They both chuckle, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight, anger boiling in the pit of my stomach.
How could he possibly talk like that in front of our boss? Embarrass me like that?
Not looking back, I charge toward my classroom. Without even turning around, I know Arlo is hot on my heels, because when I reach my classroom and try to shut the door, he stops it with his hand and squeezes inside, only to shut the door behind him and lock it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why the fuck did he do that? Making me look like a fool in front of the woman who controls my position here. Why? Pranks are one thing, but this is pushing the envelope.
Spinning on my heels, I look him in the eyes and say, “That was absolute
ly humiliating.”
“Wasn’t for me.” Zero emotion crosses his expression, and it takes everything in me not to wipe that blank look off his face.
“That’s because you weren’t the one being picked on. She’s our boss and I’m a new teacher. I don’t need her knowing about the Ladies in Heat Book Club. I need her to take me seriously. Arlo, you humiliated me.”
“She’s a person, too, you know. You walked in there with a stick up your ass. Thought I’d loosen you up.”
“I don’t need you to loosen me up.”
“Really?” he asks, taking a step forward. “Sure seems like it.”
I look him up and down as he approaches. “What are you doing?”
He moves in—silently—and I back up until I hit the edge of my desk.
“Don’t think you can touch me and I’ll forget what just happened.”
Closing the space between us, his hands land on my hips and he lifts me up on my desk.
“I’m serious, Arlo. Don’t you have a salad to eat?”
His eyes practically turn black when he says, “I’d rather eat you.”
In seconds, he’s leaning forward, and his hands are crawling up under my dress to the waistband of my thong.
“You are not about to go down on me in my classroom.”
“Are you sure about that?” he asks, slipping my thong off before I can stop him. He takes the thin fabric and stuffs it in his back pocket, then pushes me back so I’m leaning on my elbows.
“Arlo—”
He lifts my skirt up and exposes me as he squats down. Looking up at me, he says, “Tell me now, right now. Tell me you don’t want this.”
I mean . . . I am mad at him, but if he were to rub his finger between my legs right now, I know he’d be extremely happy with how turned on I am.
“That’s what I thought,” he says with such cockiness, that if his head wasn’t dipping between my legs, I’d kick him in the chest.
But damn my body and my need for this man. I let him pull me to the edge and spread my legs just before his face falls between my legs, his fingers part me, and his tongue finds my clit.
“Oh God,” I say quietly, sifting my hand through his hair. “This . . . this shouldn’t be happening.”
See Me After Class Page 19
