Falling for Mr. Slater

by Kendall Day

  We spend the next couple hours ordering more pitchers, slamming more drinks until the rest of the crowd has gone home. Before long, it’s just Roxie and me laughing about the top ten stupid kid antics of the week, guzzling ice water, and scarfing burgers to try and sober up.

  Ten minutes before closing time, I’m still buzzing.

  Roxie checks her watch. “I gotta go. The last bus runs in a few minutes. I had fun tonight. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “I’ll ride with you. Make sure you get back to your dorm safely,” I say. “There are a lot of weirdos running around town after hours on the weekends.”

  Yeah, it’s a bad call, but I’m too lit to drive.

  And I don’t want to let Roxie go yet.

  She pauses, considering. “You tryin’ to live up to your nickname?”

  “Huh?”

  “McSlutbag?”

  I barely contain the flinch lighting up my nerves. “No. My intentions are good. Why’d you call me McSlutbag when you were in middle school?”

  I shouldn’t dredge up bad memories, but I’m drunk enough to let the past go for one night.

  She sips more water through her straw. Ah, to be that straw.

  Knock it off, pervert.

  “Me and my friends made up code names for all the teachers. I came up with McSlutbag, and it stuck.”

  “Because you thought I was a slut?”

  “No, because all the girls wanted to sex you up.”

  My ears heat. “Well, that would’ve been totally inappropriate, not to mention illegal. I can honestly say I’ve never once thought about having sex with a student.” My eyes drift to her lips. At least, not while she was on my class roll.

  Roxie’s smile shifts from playful to sly. “What about a student who’s all grown up?”

  If not for the snugness of my pants, my dick would’ve brained itself thunking the underside of the table. It’s all I can do to keep my hands at my sides and not throw her over my shoulder, haul her to the bathroom, and fuck her against the stall door hard enough to break it.

  You know, if I picked up what she’s laying down, I wouldn’t technically be breaking my no-sex-with-teachers rule. Roxie isn’t a teacher yet. She’d be just another shag, no different from the rest. An object to be toyed with like she toyed with my life all those years ago. I could screw her for the duration of the semester, get off, and get revenge. Two birds, one stone. She’ll graduate and find a job in a few months and forget all about me anyway.

  “Tempting,” I say. So goddamn tempting. “But, no.”

  A hint of disappointment underscores her expression as she grabs her backpack and fishes through it. Producing a business card and some cash, she passes the former to me and lays the latter on the table for our waiter.

  With a professional smile, she says, “Thank you for the drinks and conversation, Mr. Slater. If you want to talk over the weekend about my unit, there’s my number. Otherwise, I’ll see you Monday.”

  Without giving me time to reply, she weaves around the tables, through the door, and toward the street.

  I throw a few dollars on the table and step into the alcove, watching after her through the glass door. A steady rain falls over the unusually quiet night. The cars and streetlights illuminate each droplet like crystals frozen in time for a split second.

  Roxie makes no attempt to protect herself from the incoming storm. She stands beside the bus shelter, face turned skyward as if welcoming the rain. Just like the day I almost asked if she needed a ride after school but chickened out because I couldn’t deal with the possibility that she might ask me to drop her off at Elliott’s place.

  I should call a cab.

  The bus barrels toward its final pickup for the night. Small sprays of water slosh the curb from its tires. My pulse surges into overdrive.

  I slam open the door and race across the parking lot to the street after Roxie. I charge up the steps just as she waves her bus pass in front of the reader. She turns around. Soft, slick streams of black hair frame her rain-kissed face as she smiles up at me. I imagine her looking at me like that from under my naked body, joined with hers.

  I’m about to make a huge mistake.

  Breathless from the jog, I shove two fifty into the cash slot and say, “I changed my mind.”

  She bites her lip and makes her way down the aisle to a pair of empty seats.

  The bus driver flashes me a huge grin and nods appreciatively.

  I take the spot beside Roxie. We’re the only passengers.

  Wrapping her arms around her backpack, she says, “You can escort me up to my room if you want, but I’ll warn you—I live on the fourth floor with no elevator, no air conditioning, and a communal women’s bathroom. Or you can walk me to the main door downstairs and leave it at that.”

  I’d follow her to the top of Mt. Everest at this stage, but the prospect of visiting her in an all-women’s dorm late at night feels a little creepy. Okay, a lot creepy.

  “Or,” she says with a glint of devilment lighting her amber eyes, “if you’re feeling adventurous, I have another idea.”

  I cock my head, eager to hear it.

  She starts to answer, but then seems to think the better of it. “I’ll surprise you.”

  I smile. “I love surprises.”

  The journey to her dorm is a short one, but Roxie makes no move to get off the bus when we approach that side of campus. “Just a couple more stops,” she assures me.

  When we reach the large round dome a few streets over, she stands and slings her backpack over her shoulder.

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “Come on.” She nods toward the exit, then says to the driver, “Good night, Antwon.”

  “’Night, Roxie.” The man grins and waves as we exit the bus into the rain.

  The staccato taps of the fat droplets have grown in volume. Roxie grabs my hand and guides me around the side of the deserted athletic building. By the time we round the corner to the outdoor basketball courts, we’re both drenched.

  “What are we doing here?” I say, battling the rain’s volume.

  “What do you think?” Laughing, she shoves her hair out of her face and drags her backpack under an awning. She opens it and produces a ball, which she spins on her index finger and tosses to me. I catch it.

  Splat.

  “Good thing I opted for the waterproof bag,” she says, zipping it up. She leaves the backpack under the covering and steps into the rain, flinging her toned arms out to her sides. “Why don’t you show me what you got, McSlutbag?”

  A slow grin falls over my lips, and I dribble the ball to an easy rhythm, mimicking the rain. Water drips into my eyes, under my collar, soaking through my pants. Roxie’s thin shirt hugs her curves, the wetness highlighting her hard nipples.

  I make a break for the goal, but she’s on me in an instant, preventing an attempt to shoot with a jump that drops her breasts right in my face. Unsurprisingly, I flub the ball, and she snatches it away. Her spin slings water off her—hair, clothes, shoes—like a spinning sprinkler. Damn, she’s fast.

  I rush to defend the goal, sticking to her back as she dribbles closer. “Do you love Elliott, Roxie?” I ask, half trying to bewilder her, and half curious about the answer.

  The sound of rain is the only reply for several seconds. She shoots and misses.

  I grin and snatch the rebound. She wastes no time flinging her wet body into my airspace, scrambling my brain with breasts-to-chest contact as she swings her arms around me to prevent an attempt at the basket. I sneak one over her shoulder and get lucky. The ball circles the rim and tips in.

  She retrieves it and dribbles toward me, apparently uninterested in the wide open net begging to be stripped behind her. “I don’t love him,” she says. “I wanted sex. He wouldn’t give it to me.”

  I arch a brow and lick the droplets cascading over my lips. Well, this is an interesting turn of events.

  “What kind of man refuses to have sex with his fiancée? That’s a d
ouble dribble, by the way.” I nod to the ball in her hands.

  Standing still with rain coursing down her, she looks at the ball. “He has religious reasons.”

  Y’all, that’s code for one of three things: (a) He’s gay, (b) he’s cheating, or (c) all of the above.

  “If you don’t love him and he wasn’t giving it up, why’d you accept his proposal?” I press.

  “I didn’t want to marry the guy. I just wanted to feel like I belonged.” Her chest rises with a little hitch, and desperation fills in the shadows of her face.

  A pang of sadness hits me in the gut. Exposed and vulnerable, Roxie just put her soul—her dreams, her insecurities, her deepest secrets—on display. For me.

  I lunge for her, and she tosses the ball over her head without looking, straight through the net with a whoosh.

  I crush her spine to the pole, sweeping every bit of her into me with a kiss that makes me forget how to count. My hands roughly grasp her waist, and hers fall against my shoulders as our lips tangle under rain that promises to wash away our sins.

  “You belong,” I murmur between kisses, mad with the taste of her, the closeness, the raging lust she evokes in me. “To me. Right here, right now.”

  I dive in for more, and she exhales heavily against my cheek, twisting her lips, opening them, licking. Her urgency slows to something that burns hotter. An ankle wraps around my leg, and she punches her pelvis to my rock-hard erection. Her eyes open, glittering with a quiet flash of lightning, and she pulls back, smiling. Fingers trace the outline of my cock, sopping wet and screaming for escape.

  Rubbing her cheek against mine, she breathes in my ear, “Are we gonna do this, Mr. Slater?”

  “If you mean fuck on the basketball court in the throes of an early autumn storm, then yes,” I say, trying to keep up with my own pulse as I unbutton my pants and lower the zipper.

  She hijacks my cock through the flap in my briefs and pumps it with a series of expert twists of her wrist. Her eyes sparkle like champagne-colored diamonds, and the rain picks up speed as if sensing our urgency and mirroring it.

  Using my body, I thrust her harder into the pole. I lean close, an inch from her mouth, and say, “Is that okay with you, Roxie-with-an-ie?”

  She answers with a lift of her skirt and slides her underwear aside without taking it off. Salivating at the sight of her, I retrieve a condom from my wallet and hastily sheath my junk. Using a little spit for lube, I coat the head and aim blindly under the sopping skirt clinging to my hands. If anyone sees us, at least we’ll be mostly covered. She cups my balls, coaxing my cock home with an excruciatingly hot stab into her.

  Her head flies back, crashing into the pole. Water flings off her face and hair. Her chest rises and falls quickly, hungrily. She tips her chin forward to tag me with a soul-deep stare as her hips rock slowly, laying down the beat for my melody to follow.

  I push into her with lazy, tempting leisure despite my desire to fuck her into oblivion. This might be my only chance with Roxie. I’m gonna take it slow and make it last.

  “It’s been a long time since I had a cock in me,” she says, throaty and breathless, “and yours fits perfectly. Do you feel that, Slater? I’m so tight, and you’re stretching me just right.”

  She whimpers as I plunge into her harder.

  “You gotta stop talking like that,” I say, grabbing two handfuls of tit and squeezing. She gasps, and her eyes roll back. I ram her with a series of quick, deep thrusts.

  “Oh God,” she murmurs. Her eyes are closed. Her hands climb above her head, clinging to the slick pole. The muscles in her arms shine as rain streaks down their brown slopes. Her breasts bounce through the drenched shirt. I bury my face between them, biting at the fabric as I dive again and again into her.

  I’m fucking Roxie Rambling.

  Against a pole.

  In the rain.

  And I like it.

  “Make me come, Slater,” she begs.

  Jesus, something about the way she moans the words tips off a primal trigger deep inside my brain, sparking a fresh wave of unquenchable need. I hit her between the legs harder, faster, deeper. She curls around me. My cock lifts her feet up from the puddle pooling around us with a lunge that buries me to the root.

  She cries out sharply. “Yes, like that. Just like that.”

  My teeth fall to her neck. Her hurried breaths tickle my ear. I graze her skin, drink in the madness it serves up like a drug as I heft her thighs around my hips, using the pole to brace her backside. The tension in my balls reaches the breaking point. I want to fill her, to possess her, to devour her.

  “Roxie, Roxie, Roxie …” I grunt against her neck, accenting the first syllables in time with my thrusts, lost in a myriad of thoughts, all of them pertaining to her, yet none of them decipherable through the haze of lust.

  Her eyes snap open and latch onto mine with fierce possession. “Come with me, Mr. Slater. Right now.”

  Her body goes rigid as she surges down and clenches her legs around my hips so hard, I can’t breathe. Her walls constrict, choking me just the right way. I pour everything into her.

  Intense pleasure barrels into me as I shiver through the waves threatening to drown me. I latch onto her lips to ride out the climax. Her hands curl softly around my neck, and she fiddles with my wet hair as the quiet smacks of our kisses put the finishing touches on our very public and very forbidden mutual orgasm.

  I hold her in place for a few moments, staring at her sated, beautiful face. She smiles up at me and tags me with another kiss, this one slower, softer.

  Her lips. I love them.

  The rain continues to douse us as I reluctantly pull out and set her on her feet. She smooths her skirt and glances away shyly as I strip the condom and zip up. I ball up the rubber and stick it back in its foil.

  We stare at each other for a long time with only the slanting droplets and a lot of awkwardness between us.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I needed that.”

  I can only nod as the consequences begin floating around in my periphery.

  We shouldn’t have done it, but I don’t regret it.

  She flattens her lips and retrieves her basketball, then she heads to her backpack under the awning. “I should go home.”

  I swallow the sudden glut of spit flooding my mouth.

  Does she regret it? Have I totally fucked up?

  Of course you have, idiot. Nothing will be the same now.

  This is what happens when I let my dick do the thinking. Except every other time before this moment, I’ve been able to walk away. Every other time, I’ve wanted to walk away.

  Now, I can’t walk away.

  * * *

  ASSESSMENT: Slater totally banged Rambling. DOES NOT MEET EXPECTATIONS. <-- Thank fuck for that.

  What Was I Thinking? Dick. That’s What I Was Thinking.

  [Rambling]

  * * *

  LEARNING GOAL: Roxie Rambling will draft lesson plans for her teaching unit.

  I’ve done a lot of dumb things in my life, but hooking up with Jack Slater last night takes the cake.

  I can’t stop thinking about him. About what we did. It was just so … dirty. So exhilarating. Who’d have guessed Slater had such a wild streak. It fit mine—along with other things—perfectly.

  But we can’t do it again. We could both get in so much trouble.

  Now, I’m wondering if agreeing to meet him to talk about my unit was a mistake too.

  I glance around Bob’s Bagels. It’s midafternoon on game day Saturday. We should be fine. If I run into anyone I know, I’ll just play it cool and say I’m having trouble with my unit and McSlutbag—Mr. Slater—is helping me iron out the details. It’s a public place. There’s nothing wrong with talking about work stuff over a bagel and a cup of coffee.

  I sink into my seat and check my watch again. He’s fifteen minutes late.

  I open my folder and spread the pages over the table.

  Slater did me against a bas
ketball post last night.

  Heat sears my cheeks as I remember his lips on mine and that look of pure, stormy abandon as we came and kissed and melted and breathed. I rub my finger over my bottom lip, tracing the curve, imagining it’s his tongue.

  My nipples harden.

  Warmth pools between my legs.

  I close my eyes and see his handsome face, all growly and bossy and pissed off. It closes on me and turns seductive, possessive, like he’d battle a wombat for me. Wombats are big and scary, right?

  Shit. I think I meant a wolverine.

  Whichever of those hairy things is badass and alpha-y.

  “Roxie?” Slater’s voice trips me, and I lurch out of my yummy daydream face first into reality with a painful punch to the lady nads.

  I straighten my spine and curl my fingers around a stray bit of hair, tugging it out of my face. I have a pervasive, acute case of total and utter embarrassment for which there is no known cure. I apply a smile and hope for the best.

  You will not screw him again, Roxie. You will not. Mind on business.

  Jesus Murphy.

  Wearing my favorite pair of jeans—the ones that are loose enough to keep my imagination active but tight enough to remind me those sweet glutes powered the cock that was inside me last night—Slater towers over the two-top table in the middle of the restaurant, staring down at me. Is he really that tall? How did I miss it before?

  Self-conscious and still blushing, I motion for him to sit. “Hi, Mr. Slater. Thanks for coming.”

  I wince. Gotta work on that word choice, Roxie.

  As he takes a seat, the angle on his grin slides wider, signaling his acknowledgment and appreciation of the Freudian slip. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I had to get an Uber and pick up my car.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, then look through the window. “It stopped raining.” Obviously. God, I can’t think straight.

  He follows my glance and sighs, returning to me, staring. “Yeah. Too bad.”

  It feels like he can see right through me, like he’s throwing an X-ray over all the ugly parts I’d rather keep hidden. My pulse races. I want to be with him again. I want him to throw me on this table and take me so hard and so fast, I bruise my back and strain every muscle to the breaking point. I want him starving for me like I am for him.