by Kendall Day
“You’re just trying to get in my pants,” I say, deep down hoping it’s not true.
“Me wanting in your pants has nothing to do with you being different,” he says. This time, he looks at me.
I read honesty in his open expression.
My stomach flutters.
I cannot fall for Mr. Slater.
“We should stick to booty calls and not mess up a good thing.”
He adjusts in his seat, and the rigidness from earlier returns to his shoulders. “Agreed.”
“How old are you, Mr. Slater?” I say, in need of a change of topic.
“Thirty,” he says tersely, like he’s uncomfortable to admit it.
“My grandma would’ve called you a cradle robber,” I poke.
“If I remember correctly, your grandma would’ve called me a lot more than that.”
I laugh at the memory of her turning up the volume on my teachers over the years. She definitely had a way with words. Once, she met with Chokeman about me in his office and yelled at him so loud, kids at the other end of the hall heard it. They said they wouldn’t want to get in Gramamma’s way, even on a good day.
“She was … protective,” I say. “She was the one person who believed in me no matter how bad I fucked up. I didn’t deserve her.” I stare out the window, missing her fiercely, wishing she were here to offer some guidance about how to navigate the mess I’ve fallen into with Slater.
He doesn’t say anything. Probably doesn’t want to admit he made mistakes with me back in the day. That’s fine. His silence rekindles some of the fire I lost when he said I was different.
He turns down a street lined with quaint little duplexes painted in bright colors. The yards are small but well manicured. Each residence has enough parking for four cars. Someday, I want to live in a place like this. Come graduation, I don’t know what I’ll do for housing. Until I land a job, the only thing I’ll be able to afford will be Section 8. I don’t want to go back to the projects, but I’ll do what I have to.
Succeed, by any means necessary. That’s what Gramamma taught me.
Slater parks in front of a primary-blue duplex and skips around to grab my door for me. When I slide out, he palms my hips and leans down. The sensual nip of his woodsy cologne makes my toes curl. Imagine smelling him completely naked.
“Two hours,” he says, gazing into my eyes like a thirsty tiger. “You got two hours, and then the rest of your day belongs to me.”
Pushing all the inner turmoil aside, I drape my arms over his shoulders. I stand on tiptoes like I’m gonna kiss him but stop just shy of his lips. I make sure to bump them as I say, “Then we better get busy.”
He leans in with an appreciative grunt and follows through with a slow, deep kiss that sets my internal combustion engine alight. I resist the urge to grind into the stiffening cock coaxing my thighs to part.
“Getting busy currently sits at the top of my to-do list,” he mumbles.
Slater eases an arm around my shoulders and walks me to the front door, not bothering to readjust his obvious erection.
My uterus hops up and twerks. Ripples of heat and anticipation surge through me.
Let’s get it on!
I mean, let’s get on business. First. Ahem.
The inside of his place looks exactly the way you’d expect a bachelor pad to look. The living room has a big-screen TV with three-foot-tall speakers on either side and smaller ones of the surround sound variety hanging behind the well-used couch against the wall. Windows to the right. Eating area leading to an open kitchen to the left. I catch a glimpse of some dishes and beer cans piled up beside the sink as I drop my bag on the coffee table.
The short hallway set back from the couch leads to a bathroom with closed bedroom doors on either side.
“Which one’s yours?” I ask, nodding toward the rooms.
“Right,” he says.
He shows me to an eleven-by-thirteen space lined with book shelves on two walls. Judging by the book titles, he seems to have an affinity for literary fiction as well as the classics. A full-sized bed rests on the far end, set under a window with white blinds. Slater rushes over to straighten the rumpled sheets and grabs last night’s semiwet shirt, socks, underwear, and pants off the floor. He tosses them into the closet and rubs the back of his hair with a shy smile. “Sorry.”
“I’m not,” I say, raising an eyebrow. Those clothes are souvenirs documenting one hell of a good time.
He clears the several feet between us in two big steps, kissing me into the closet door, stealing my breath. The back of his hand brushes the underside of my breast, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t worn a bra. Any hope of denying his sexy wiles dissolves as his chest crushes mine and his mouth devours me.
Then, just as quickly as he attacked, he retreats with a sly smile. “Work first. Play later.”
I readjust the shirt riding up my stomach and clear my throat.
What I want to say is, Let’s forget about school and focus on making more memories like the ones from last night. What comes out is, “Yes. Work.”
Fanning myself, I follow him to the living room where I unload my stuff on the coffee table. He sits beside me. I turn to him and get serious. “You’ve made your feelings plain about how you want this unit to go. I’m asking you to put aside whatever you think about me as your former student and pretend I’m your colleague. Trust me as you would a professional.”
He presses his lips together.
“Mr. Slater—” I exhale and reframe my words. “Jack. Give me this one thing. Let me try it my way. Please.”
“I’ll listen, but I’m not promising anything,” he says.
That’s all I can ask for. “Thank you.”
I launch into an explanation of my idea for the unit.
He still hates it, but he doesn’t flat out say no.
A tug-of-war unfolds as we discuss the project, both of us giving and taking, strategizing, taking into account the kids’ individual needs as well as the state-mandated curriculum.
We work out interdisciplinary connections and tie in all the core subject areas. The plan grows like a sprawling civilization that started out as a couple of raggedy-ass homes on the outskirts of an urban jungle and turns into a lush tapestry of creativity and life and sparkle.
I jot down a list of tasks to complete: gather art supplies, raid the media center and put together a cart of resources, check video release forms to ensure parents have given permission for their children to be recorded, talk to the band teacher about where to secure royalty-free music.
Just as I think we’ve tapped out one idea, it sparks another. We brainstorm. We work through potential challenges. We become one giant mind with a common goal.
It feels good. Hopeful.
He keeps the negativity to a minimum, even when he decides against an idea. But the best part is that he listens to me with respect and an open mind.
Holy shit, this unit is totally gonna rock.
By the time we come up for air, it’s seven o’clock.
We’ve literally spent the whole afternoon and most of the evening organizing this project.
The spark of curiosity on Slater’s face as he pores over the notes we’ve made is new. This is a side of him I’ve never seen. All the grumpiness and gruffness is gone, replaced by a genuine interest and commitment to making something amazing happen.
And it’s going to happen. I know it. I feel it in my bones.
I’m Roxie Rambling. He’s Jack Slater. Together, we’re gonna change the world, or at least a small corner of it.
I lay a hand on his back. He’s scratching comments on my lesson plans. He glances at me. “You might have something here, Roxie. I can see where even the little shits like Attila might—”
That’s all I need to hear. I lean into his ear and whisper, “Your bed just paged. It says it’s bored and needs a change of scenery.”
He freezes. Turns to me. A switch flips behind his eyes, shutting down work mode and booting
up power-fuck mode.
I kiss the corner of his mouth and stand, offering my hand. He grabs it and drops a deep, tongue-tangoing kiss on me while pushing me backward to his bedroom like a fresh kill. As soon as he closes the door, I kick off my shoes and hike my shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor.
He stares appreciatively at the breasts spilling over the top of my bra. I wore the sexiest one I have. Black with no frills. He doesn’t seem to mind the lack of sizzle as he ogles my cleavage.
“Roxie, you’re perfect,” he says softly. He runs a knuckle up my cheek and stares into my eyes.
Nope. No gazing at me like that. Uh-uh.
I will not fall for you, Mr. Slater.
I unbutton his pants and slowly unzip to divert his attention away from my face. Curling my thumbs through his belt loops, I ease them down. His erection juts under his boxer briefs, and I mourn the sight of him all covered up. I coax his cock out from its hidey-hole and slide a thumb over the head. He seems just as eager to reacquaint corresponding body parts as I do. Ah, much better!
Slater groans into my mouth with another searing kiss that lights up my scalp and sizzles a path of need through my breasts, down to my stomach, ending with an explosion of desire between my legs.
BOOM!
“I need you, Slater,” I whisper, tugging the bottom of his shirt into balls in my fists. I lift the hem up and swing it off his broad shoulders, revealing tanned skin overlaying a six-pack to quench my every thirst. “I need you to take me hard and rough.”
A fire sparks in his eyes. “Game on.”
He spins me around, groping my breasts and wrestling them free of the bra. He tugs my back to his chest. I can feel every hard inch of him as he kneads my flesh, his breath soft in my ear. His cock, still imprisoned in his underwear, grazes my ass, triggering a flood of endorphins.
He was my teacher. My supervisor. And now, he’s my delicious, dirty secret.
No one can know about us.
I widen my stance to let more of him in as he nips his way down my neck to my shoulder. There he takes a gentle bite, enough to make me shiver. He shoves the strap aside. Grinding me from behind, he pops the hooks on my bra and pinches my nipples into hard buds. I’m dizzy with heady sensation.
I reach backward and clasp my arms around his trim hips, goading him faster. Controlling the movements with my thighs and glutes like I do when I dance, I deepen the grind with exaggerated swirls, opening wider so he can probe deeper. Holy shit, his cock is jacking my body up into a frenzy.
I turn in his arms, desperate for all of him, everywhere on me.
He yanks my loosely hanging bra off and pitches it over his shoulder. He stares at my breasts long enough to take aim before he dives in for a taste, licking from the underside up in an agonizing, slow drag while thumbing the other nipple. The buds are so sensitive, I have to clench my teeth to keep from crying out. Everything he touches tingles. My body screams for release, but I don’t want to let go. It’s like a maddening, dizzying wet dream I never want to end.
While he buries his face in my cleavage, I palm his length, stroking leisurely. His hips push faster into my hand as if he can’t get friction fast enough. Then he lifts his head, his lips glossy from licking, and says, “Take those jeans off and get your ass on that bed.”
“Not until I get what I want.” I glance at his cock with a slow flap of my lashes and drop to my knees, snatching the waistband of his underwear down with a snap.
“You’re my own personal devil wearing a pair of basketball shoes,” he grits out, tipping his head backward and bracing his hands on the backs of his hips as he juts into my mouth, warm and thick and begging to be devoured.
I smile around him. I like the sound of that title.
My tongue swirls over the head, then trails down the sides, across the top, and licks up the underside of his shaft. I widen my jaw, stretching my tongue under him to make more room. Then I shove him deep into my throat, bobbing repeatedly. My gag reflex is strong, and I’m able to get all but an inch of him down.
He grabs my hair, winding it around his fist, and uses it to hold me in place while he fucks my mouth. I moan around his shaft, drunk on him, wanting more, more, more.
After a few minutes, I can tell he’s about to blow, which would be fine with me, but I’d hate to miss out on the intercourse portion of this program. I grab him around the base of his dick and squeeze hard, staring up at him as I use the side of his shaft to shine my lips with the spit accumulated there. His eyes roll back. The grip on my hair tightens again.
“Goddamn, Roxie Rambling,” he hisses.
I deep-throat him for three more thrusts and stand up. I temporarily toe off the shoes and shimmy out of my jeans and underwear. Then I shove my feet into the high-tops, leaving the laces loose. Butt-ass naked except for my Nikes, I’m ready to take him on in this pickup game of a lifetime.
He eases back to look at me, grinning, his eyes heavy with appreciation.
Grazing my taut nipples over his abs, I lean up and press a soft kiss to his lips. I need him inside me, but the anticipation is almost as good as the act itself.
“All yours, Slater.” My voice is husky.
“Say that again,” he growls, nuzzling my neck and dragging my hips to rest against his.
I stroke his back from the base of his spine upward, tracing the deep, muscled grooves. “I’m yours, Slater. Now, what are you gonna do with me?”
“Give you the spanking you deserve for all the hell you put me through in middle school. I think it’s only fair.”
“I probably deserve much more than a spanking.”
His mouth launches a new attack on mine, and a hard slap stings my left butt cheek. I gasp into him, panting for breath. At first, it scares me, but as the prickle dissipates, blood rushes in behind it, bringing seductive warmth.
He smacks me again, this time on the other side. Another gasp between frantic kisses. My nipples are hard enough to drill through bedrock. White-hot liquid pools between my legs as he strikes me again and again. I’ve never had a guy spank me, but I gotta say, after the initial shock, I kinda like it.
He draws me closer, encircling my waist, and turns the intensity of the kiss down a couple notches. I silently thank him for the respite. I was straight-up about to blow.
As our tongues dance to a languorous tune only our souls can hear, he drops his hand between my legs. A soft, heady innocence fills me with the sudden change in his demeanor. Now, he’s tentative, the gentle ebbs and flows of his mouth asking permission to continue.
I yield to him, rocking against his probing fingers. Melting into his chest. Exposing myself.
For the next hour or two, he has unrestricted access to come aboard. He doesn’t need to ask.
He pulls away and draws his fingers up, sucking them while hammering holes into my soul with his stare. He moans, his eyelids drifting shut. I can smell my arousal on him. It makes me dizzy.
Jack Slater wants me.
With no warning, he barrels into me, knocking me flat on the bed and burrows between my thighs. I draw my legs up either side of his head as he laps gently, the vibrations of his hungry groans sending little shockwaves out from my epicenter. I close my eyes. Now it’s my turn to grab his hair. I hold him in place as his tongue quickens, plunging into me, swirling around the tender bud aching for release. I tremble at the intense desire swelling beyond its limits to the point of bursting the dam.
Air rushes in and out of my nose. My mind can’t catch up with my body. The pleasure mounts too fast, heading straight for the brink of no return.
“Stop,” I say, pushing him away. The word is all breath, no voice.
He looks hurt. And oh my God, his lips and chin are glistening with me. The orgasm building in the nuclear reactor between my legs threatens to launch at the sight.
“I want you to come inside me,” I blurt.
I shouldn’t have said it, especially since this is supposed to be casual, but I couldn’t help myse
lf. In this moment, I would give anything to feel his cock jerking with release. To keep some part of him deep within. It’s a primal need I don’t understand, yet I can’t deny it.
“Jesus Jehoshaphat joyriding in a jalopy.” He lifts an Are you serious? brow.
I drag his face to mine, squeezing my thighs around his hips so his cock rests against my slick, very open door. “I’m on the pill, and I’ve always practiced safe sex.”
“Me too,” he says, brows slightly pinched. “I mean, about the second part.”
I smile. He’s so cute when his domineering cover gets blown. “If you’re willing, so am I.”
Please be willing.
He rolls aside long enough to admire my body from my face down to the danger zone and seems to consider. His decision comes quick. After two seconds of contemplation, he’s on top of me, propped on his elbows, either side of mine, and pushes into me.
I inhale sharply at the sudden invasion, but my muscles quickly relax to accommodate him. He twists his hips, adjusting his angle so he’s pummeling my G-spot like a perfectly targeted basketball through my net on an endless loop. Thank God for the pillow protecting my skull from slamming into the headboard. The entire bed shakes with his wild thrusts.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this again,” I murmur.
“You’re forbidden fruit, Roxie. I can’t resist you. I wanna taste you all day, all night, all year,” he mumbles into my lips between kisses and grunts and erotically pained expressions baring clenched teeth.
I’m coming to the end of the uphill climb, and the peak of the mountain is within sight. My breasts bounce under him. He kisses the spot beneath my ear, making me dizzy. Lost in eddying currents of passion, I can’t think straight.
“This is so wrong,” I mutter as I meet his thrusts, jabbing my heels into the mattress for leverage.
