Summer's Temptation

by Ashley Lynn Willis

  Whatever I’ve made him feel, it’s definitely not anger. He seems to deflate like a foil balloon leaking helium. “Perhaps this is not the best time for us to talk.”

  I nod and stare at the door, feeling a little bad for hurting his feelings. “Perhaps not.” Yet again, all I want is to escape, but this time it has nothing to do with finding him tempting. I turn and step toward the door.

  Mr. Westbrook’s hand wraps around my arm, startling me. Where his touch used to send a thrilling jolt through my skin, now it’s just pissed me off. I stop and glare at him.

  His impossibly green eyes look a little sad. “For what it’s worth, you have a nice singing voice.”

  “I don’t think the boys were noticing my ability to carry a tune.”

  His lashes flutter for a second, long enough to show his surprise. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the rude boys, or maybe he thought I hadn’t. “No, they weren’t, and I apologize for that. Let’s ensure you’re not late again.”

  If I am, I’ll take the hit to my grade with an absence. “No, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.” I glare down at where his hand is still wrapped around my arm. “For someone who abhors tardiness, you sure have no problem making me late to work.”

  His grip tightens. “You should be respectful of a teacher who’s providing opportunities you wouldn’t otherwise have.”

  By the tone in his voice, I think I’ve finally pissed him off. Good. Now his day can be ruined just like mine. I’m a straight-A student, not a slacker, and I’m not noisy or obnoxious during class like some of his other students. I pay attention. I take detailed notes, and I always turn my assignments in on time. Would it have killed him to be lenient?

  “You should try being respectful of a good student who happens to be five minutes late to class one day!”

  “Cassie, I’m sorr—”

  “Get you hand off me before I report you for harassment.”

  His eyes drop to my arm. He inhales sharply then releases me. Someone clears their throat, and we both snap our attention to the door. An older man stands in the entrance, watching us.

  “Dr. Benson,” Mr. Westbrook says nervously.

  “Is there a problem, Aiden?” the older man asks.

  Mr. Westbrook breathes deeply and shakes his head. “No, Dr. Benson.”

  I shake my head too and try to smile. “We were just having a heated debate about a case study for a book Mr. Westbrook is co-writing.” That isn’t a total lie. It’s what started our discussion… er, fight? I sling my book bag higher on my shoulder and walk toward Dr. Benson. I peer over my shoulder at Mr. Westbrook. “Thanks for your input, Mr. Westbrook. I’ll see you in class next week.”

  He picks up his papers, and I notice a tremor in his hands. His face has gone pallid. “Uh… yes… next week.”

  Dr. Benson moves aside as I walk through the door. He’s regarding me with an expression I can only call concern. I slide past him and into the hall. As I’m heading away, I hear the raised voices of a heated discussion between the two men I left. My name gets tossed around, and I’m relieved someone saw our spat. If Mr. Westbrook tries to falsely lower my grade, I’ll have proof that we have a tumultuous relationship that could affect his scoring of my work.

  I blow out a long breath and vow never to be late again.

  Chapter 15

  I tap my forehead against the cool plastic of my laptop and groan. My brain hurts after hours of research, and I’m pretty sure my eyes are permanently crossed from reading tiny print on white backgrounds.

  Tilting my head, I check the time on the computer. Fifteen minutes to midnight. Normally, I would have texted Tyler to come over by now. I’d be standing in front of my closet, deciding on which scandalous outfit to wear for his pleasure. That sounds like heaven after spending an hour making sure I didn’t use any sources I didn’t cite or cite any sources I didn’t use.

  If I didn’t have to worry about my grade taking a hit after my fight with Mr. Westbrook, I wouldn’t be working so hard to write the perfect paper. But I can’t risk losing my scholarship unless I want to be out on my ass with no degree and no place to live except my parents’ house.

  I sigh and drop my head back on my computer. I need a fix to calm the stress. Something to relax me and take my mind off this wretched day. A drug only Tyler can supply. I sigh again. In one week, I’ve become dependent on the boy. Maybe Liz is right. I’m turning into a nympho.

  My cell is lying a few inches from my mouse, and for the past twenty minutes, my eyes have been flitting toward it. All I have to do is text him. As long as he’s not with someone else, he’ll be over in a heartbeat.

  I reach for the phone but pull back. I squeeze my hand into a tight fist. One night. I’ve lived twenty years without him; I can make it one night. Can’t I? I groan, not sure if I can. I’m not addicted. I’m just edgy from the fight with Mr. Westbrook. The tension’s stringing me tighter than a high note on a Steinway, and the anxiety’s feeding my need for Tyler. It’s nothing more. Right?

  Taking a deep breath, I try to push aside thoughts of a naked Tyler in my bed. No one should look that good sans clothes, nor should they be so talented with their hands, tongue, and cock. If I’m turning into a nympho, it’s his damn fault.

  I’m in the middle of playing the blame game when my phone chimes with a text from the object of my sexual obsession. Am I coming over?

  I groan, but force myself to type, No.

  Why?

  Busy

  My phone rings, and I reluctantly answer.

  “Busy doing what?” Tyler asks.

  I sigh and hang my head. “A paper.”

  “You sound tense.”

  “I am.”

  “I’ll be over at one to relax you.”

  Refusing him is physically painful, but I tamp down my need. “Not tonight, Tyler.”

  After a moment, he says, “I’m taking a free pass.”

  I rub my temple, wanting so badly to agree. “Not tonight.”

  “What good is a free pass if I can’t use it?”

  “We’ve been together every night for the last week. It’s time for a break.”

  “I’ll leave by two.”

  He’s wearing me down, but I manage to utter, “No.”

  “One thirty?”

  “You sound desperate. Not a good tone for you.”

  “I am desperate. I’m craving sweets, and I want a cupcake.”

  I roll my eyes, surprised Tyler Mason would use such a lame come-on. “That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard. You’re such a dork.”

  “Asshole, actually.”

  No, actually he hasn’t been an asshole since we started hooking up. His niceness is messing with my perception of him. I don’t want to think Tyler can be tamed and turned into boyfriend material, or I might try so that I can have sex with him for the rest of my life. “From now on, once a week.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll see you at one.”

  “The back door won’t be open!” I yell, but he’s already hung up.

  I text him my last words, and he texts back, leave your window unlocked.

  A thrill shoots straight down my spine to my crotch, where it vibrates ceaselessly. The thought of Tyler Mason sneaking in my window to pleasure me makes my heart jump with anticipation. I blow up my cheeks like a balloon and let the air escape slowly, annoyed by how easily he sways me.

  My phone chimes again. Bonus points for being naked under your sheets.

  My breath hitches. Bonus points means a back massage, and he knows I’m a sucker for his hands kneading the knots from my muscles. Talk about tempting me beyond what I can handle. I close my laptop. Obviously, I won’t get anything else done tonight. If Mr. Westbrook wants to punish me, I’ll appeal to the Dean. My work stands on its own. I don’t need to rewrite every paragraph.

  Yes or no, he texts.

  I send one letter. Y.

  A little after one in the morning, Tyler slides in bed next to me. He’s as naked as I am, and th
e warmth of his bare skin stirs me awake like an alarm blaring, Hot boy in your bed! Get the hell up! I moan contentedly and, without bothering to open my eyes, press against him.

  “Sleepy head,” he whispers, slipping an arm around my waist, “you snore.”

  “Do not,” I say in voice croaky from sleep.

  He nibbles my earlobe. “It’s cute.”

  “Middle-aged, overweight men snore. That’s not cute.”

  He strokes my hip. “Everything you do’s cute.”

  I love it when he talks like this. It means he has a softer, sweeter side. I hate it for the exact same reason. His long fingers move over my skin, rubbing soothing circles below my shoulder blades. His touch is heavenly, better than any masseuse.

  I relax into a boneless puddle. “That feels so good.”

  He draws me close so I’m perfectly curved into his body, but he somehow leaves enough space to caress my tired muscles. “We don’t have to do anything. I can just rub your back until you fall asleep.”

  I like the sound of that until I realize what he’s offering. I stiffen in his arms. Niceness I can handle. I’m giving him lots of sex, and what guy wouldn’t be agreeable after that? I can even handle his desire to take me again and again, because he’s getting as much pleasure as he’s giving. But to forego sex to rub my back is squarely out of hug buddy territory.

  “Something wrong, cupcake?”

  “Yes, there is.” I flip on the lamp and turn around to face him. “We need to talk, Tyler.”

  The light casts a golden glow over his flawless skin. “I’m listening.”

  “I went to the chiro today. My back was out in ten different places. Even my hips were misaligned.”

  His brow furrows with concern, and he trails a finger down my cheek. “Did you get in a car wreck?”

  “Yes, I collided with a guy named Tyler Mason.”

  He chuckles and draws me in for a long, soulful kiss. His lips move languidly against mine, and the length of his arousal presses against my thigh. My head clouds from my need to have him inside of me, but I fight the lust off and pull away.

  He tucks a loose lock of hair behind my ear and sighs. “I’ll be gentle from now on.”

  My first inclination is to tell him I don’t want gentle sex. I mean, I do, because our sweet, soft sex is hot, but I don’t want to give up the rough, skin-slapping kind. Then I realize that gentle or rough has nothing to do with the conversation at hand. He’s not getting my point.

  I try again. “Liz says we’re acting like honeymooners, not hug buddies.”

  He takes my hand and strokes his thumb on my palm. “We’re acting like people with good chemistry, cupcake. That’s all.”

  I cuddle into him, pressing my body against his. “We’re spending too much time together.”

  He rubs his palm slowly down my arm, reaches my wrist and, just as slowly, works his way back up. “Our time together’s a moot point.”

  I prop my chin on his sternum and peer up at him. “How do you figure?”

  “In three weeks, rush starts. Right?”

  I nod.

  “Then school starts. You’ll be busy, and I’ll be in the lab almost every night. Then you’ll be lucky to see me once a week.”

  I jerk up and plant my hands on either side of his chest. “The lab?” What kind of major is he?

  “If I want a shot at Dr. Bell’s graduate assistant position, I have to bust my ass this year.”

  “Graduate school? Dr. Bell? Who are you?”

  One corner of his lips quirk up. “If I land the assistant position, in three years, I’ll be the next research scientist for Fisher pharmaceuticals. Dr. Bell’s the only one who can get me an interview.”

  I prop up on my elbow. Staring down at him, I try to figure out if an alien abducted my Tyler. “Aren’t you an art major?”

  He wraps his long fingers around my wrist and tugs me back down to his chest. “Biochemistry, cupcake.”

  “But all the sketches…” I rest my cheek on his warm skin.

  “I minored in art.”

  “Oh.” I can’t think of anything else to say. Tyler Mason has a brain to go with his good looks. How am I supposed to process that?

  We’re silent while I ponder this new side of Tyler. Art and biochemistry? They’re polar opposites. Right brain. Left brain. How can he draw like Michelangelo and think like Dr. Bell? It doesn’t make sense. After a couple of minutes of listening to his heart, I give up trying to figure him out and just relax.

  “Now about that backrub…” he says playfully, fingers sliding down my spine.

  I lift up and raise an eyebrow at him. “That’s the other problem. Since when are you willing to give me a backrub instead of having sex?”

  He smiles, but there’s a hint of guilt behind it. “That’s my way of getting you hot and bothered when you’d rather go back to sleep.”

  Oh, he’s a sly one. “So what you’re saying is you’re a master manipulator who can get what you want.”

  “Exactly.” His thumb caresses my nipple. “But I’ll make sure you’re begging for more by the time I’m done with you.”

  He draws me in for another soul-searing kiss. When I release a moan, he rolls me under him so skillfully, I hardly notice the shift of position. I’m made blissfully aware of my submissiveness by the blunt head of his shaft nudging against my opening.

  I tilt my hips up, feeling the tip of him push inside me. “Condom?”

  “Already on.”

  Without breaking contact, he flicks the lamp off like he does every time we’re together. The room goes dark except for the outside streetlamp’s broken beams coming through the blinds.

  “One day, we’re going to have sex with the lights on,” I whisper.

  His weight balanced on his forearms, he slides into me slowly and silences all my words and thoughts. I have no idea why I’m already wet when he’s only been in my bed for a brief moment, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Hot and bothered seems to be the norm for me around Tyler, with or without foreplay.

  For a moment, he’s motionless, lips soft but unmoving against mine. My vision adjusts enough that I can see him. He stares into my eyes as he leisurely pulls out and pushes back in.

  His eyes close, and his face tightens as though he’s concentrating on not coming. “Jesus, you feel good.”

  I would tell him the same, but the words are stuck behind my pleasurable moan. Excruciatingly unhurried, he moves, and I’m lost to everything but the pleasure of him filling me.

  When I walk into class on Monday, I’m surprised to see Mr. Westbrook dressed in trendy dark-wash jeans, the expensive kind from True Religion. I know the brand well because they’re the only one Wyatt would wear. No stores in Lakewater sell them, and I have to wonder if Mr. Westbrook already owned them or if he made a special trip to Saks in Austin.

  He’s also wearing popular-flip flops from Hawaii, Oluksap, or maybe OluKai? Wyatt had a pair he lived in last summer. To top off the look, Mr. Westbrook has on a simple black polo that shows off his nicely sculpted biceps and thick forearms. I had assumed he was built like most academia men: trim but without much definition.

  Apparently I was wrong, and I hate how my stomach tightens as I stare at him. After the way he treated me last week, I shouldn’t lust after him, but that’s the annoying thing about attraction. It doesn’t always pick the sweet, endearing guy who treats you like a queen. I realize I’ve been standing in the doorway with my mouth ajar for far too long when Mr. Westbrook turns toward me.

  He slides his wire-rim glasses down his nose and peers at me over the top. “What?”

  I snap my jaw shut. “Nothing.” With my head down, I walk to my seat, feeling guiltier with each step.

  On most days, I think of myself as an insignificant drop in a bucket of students. Good teachers see us as young minds to mold and educate. Not-so-good teachers see us as a necessary evil if they’re going to get paid and further their careers. I assumed they didn’t fret much a
bout us outside of the classroom. They deal with disrespectful students all the time, and last week, I’d been just that—disrespectful. He certainly deserved it, but I hadn’t expected it to affect him enough to cause a change in his wardrobe.

  As I slide into my seat, Freddy leans close and asks, “What happened to Mr. Westbrook?”

  I called him old; that’s what happened to Mr. Westbrook. I slump low, trying not to feel guilty, but remorse weighs on my chest like an anchor. After a weekend for my emotions to cool off, I wonder if I hadn’t been a teensy bit in the wrong. Sure, he humiliated me. Sure, I wanted to kill him, but that’s no excuse for attacking his appearance.

  Freddy cocks his head and seems to study Mr. Westbrook more closely. “He looks so… so...”

  “American?”

  “Yeah. His hair’s even spiked.”

  I’ve been too busy mourning his sweater vest to notice, but sure enough, his normally tidy business cut is spiked in the front. The hat’s gone too. He resembles every other guy walking across campus, albeit hotter.

  Freddy drums his fingers on the desk, his chin cupped in his other hand. “I miss his sweater vests.”

  “Me too,” I grumble. The missing fedora makes me want to cry, but at least he’s still wearing glasses. Although he may just be waiting for contacts to come in.

  Freddy’s brow furrows, and his mouth turns down as though he’s as upset as I am over the change in clothing. That makes no sense. I’m the one who caused the abrupt switch.

  “Let’s get started,” Mr. Westbrook says when the last student filters inside the room. “Today, we’ll discuss your final presentation and paper.”

  I do my best to pay attention as he lectures, but it’s hard because I’m pondering apologizing. I’m not ready to say I’m sorry, but if I ever want to see his fedora again, I think I’ll have to. By the time Mr. Westbrook concludes the lecture, I’ve decided to wait until Wednesday to approach him. I need time to figure out how to express my apology without turning into a bumbling idiot.