“You can stay if you want…to finish working.” His voice is low, shakier than before.
I glance over at him, trying to read his expression. I scrape my teeth along my lower lip and watch as his eyes linger on my mouth. I swallow and reply with just a hint of hesitation, “Maybe next time.”
MORGAN
No matter how hard I try, I still can’t get the girl with the feisty attitude, driven determination, and glossy cherry lips out of my goddamn head. It makes me want to cross all the lines just to feed the intense urge building up inside me. I think about her lips and how I want to press mine to hers just to see if she’d kiss me back. Every time those bright green eyes look up at me, I envision her kneeling down in front of me with her lips wrapped around my cock while looking up at me, as she tastes what she does to me.
As soon as I’d release inside those perfect swollen lips, I’d throw her on top of the bed and wrap those red heels around my shoulders as I sucked on her clit until she came screaming my name.
Yes…I’ve fantasized plenty of scenarios that all end with Aspen Evans naked in my bed.
Except, I wouldn’t be able to stop there.
But it’s more than just what she does to me…
I think about her paintings and how the world seems to melt away from her as she focuses on the assignment with intense concentration. I think about how beautiful and intelligent she is. About how humble and shy she acts whenever I compliment her talent. I think about how moving and emotional her painting pieces are and what they truly represent. I think about how we’ve both suffered losses of people we love and how differently we’ve handled it. She puts all of her feelings on paper and the emotions just spill out perfectly. I’ve never met a student like her before. Her talent is far beyond her years of schooling. But then I think about her anxiety attacks and wonder what triggers them. For someone who looks so put together, she must be hiding a much darker secret inside.
As of late, I’m finding any excuse at all to see her.
I swing by the coffee house Thursday morning after my second class of the day. Instead of ordering my usual house blend coffee, I order two lattes.
I can’t contain my smile when I walk into the art gallery and see Aspen at the information desk playing on her phone.
She looks up as soon as she hears the bell over the door. “You’re getting better at this job already.” I set the cups of coffee down in front of her.
“You’re going to need a punch card if you keep coming in here.” She gives me a sideways glance that tells me she doesn’t mind my visits.
“Well, I just came to force some caffeine on you. I don’t need you falling asleep in my class again.”
Her jaw drops. “I did not fall asleep!” She wraps her hand around the cup and takes a sip of the drink anyway.
“Don’t think I can’t see my students just because you all have easels in front of you.”
She deadpans. “I closed my eyes for twenty seconds.”
“It was two and a half minutes.”
“You know, most students would’ve filed a harassment claim by now with the amount of time you spend staring at me.”
The corners of my lips curl up in pure amusement, but the excitement in her tone tells me she likes it when I stare at her. “The only way you can know how much I’m staring at you is if you’re staring at me, too.”
“Well, I’m not. I mean, I don’t.”
“Right.” I bring the cup up to my mouth and watch as her eyes linger on my lips. “Think you can come to class early? I have a project for you.”
“Just me?”
“Well, technically, yes.”
“What do I have to do?” She narrows her eyes at me suspiciously.
“Show up and you’ll find out.”
A playful grin spreads across her face, and I know she’s thinking exactly what I’m thinking. “All right, fine, but you should know I carry pepper spray in my bag at all times.
“Duly noted.” I smirk and tap the bottom of my cup against the desktop before taking a step back. “See you in class, Aspen.” I wink, leaving her speechless as I spin around to walk back out the door.
Just as I’m reading over blog posts, Claire knocks on the door, grabbing my attention. The moment I look up, she’s once again asking me to go out with her. She seems to do this randomly and without fail trying to seduce me with her body and words.
“I actually have to pick my niece up in just a minute and drop her off at my parents before my night class. But thanks for the invite.” I give my best sincere tone and smile without coming off too rude. I don’t know how many times I have to reject her invites before she gets the hint, but apparently, she’s going to keep trying.
“Sure, no worries. Maybe another time.” I hear the hopefulness in her tone and hate that I’ll have to eventually crush her hopes if she thinks I’ll ever go out on a date with her.
“Of course,” I lie, but considering I need this job, I keep it as friendly as possible. I know how tight-knit these small schools can be. You piss off one professor, and suddenly, the dean is uninviting you to his annual summer BBQ.
I start packing up my things, hoping she gets the hint to leave. Once she finally does, I head out to my car and drive to my parent’s house.
As I arrive at the school and wait for Natalia to come out, I think about the last university I worked at out in Ohio. It wasn’t much larger than CSLA, but still heavily focused on the arts. I knew all the professors by name and we often went out on the weekends together. When I first moved to Columbus, I hadn’t known anyone. Another professor, Trent Wiser, befriended me right away and introduced me to the majority of the other professors. It was nice having people I could connect with on a professional and personal level. It took some time, but after awhile, it became home.
Since having to leave, I’ve been trying to get that feeling back. The feeling of being comfortable in your own surroundings. But as long as my past was here, mocking me every chance it could, I worried I’d never get that feeling back.
The sound of the car door opening grabs my attention to Natalia getting into the passenger side. Her face is etched in a frown, and I know before I ask that her day wasn’t good.
“Hey, Short Stuff.”
“Hi.” She frowns.
“What number?”
“Three.”
“What happened?”
“Henry Ashby is a douche.”
My eyes narrow as I remind her, “No swearing.” The corner of my lip curls up, but I quickly look away so she doesn’t see me grinning. “Did the teacher write a note for me?”
“No. I didn’t tell anyone.”
“What’d he do?”
“It’s nothing. Just drop it.” She looks away and stares out the window.
Jesus…I wish I understood girls.
“Natalia…tell me what he did.”
“He makes fun of me, okay? He calls me Fatty Natty and then tells all of his friends to call me that, too.”
I grit my teeth as my palm tightens around the steering wheel. “I’m calling your teacher.”
She whips her head around and glares at me. “No, I said just drop it. I’ll take care of him myself. He’s such a little prick—”
“Natalia!” I cut her off. “I’m calling your teacher. End of discussion.”
She rolls her eyes and looks away again. “Whatever.”
We drive in silence halfway to the house before I speak up again. “You’re not fat, Natalia. You’re beautiful.” She ignores my compliment and keeps her gaze out the window. “You look a lot like your mom,” I say softly.
She finally turns and looks at me. “I do?”
I nod and smile. “Yes. You have the same wild and crazy curls. And you definitely have her sassy, take-no-shit attitude.”
She flashes a weak smile. “I wish I remembered her.” Her head lowers, and I can see her eyes close.
“I know, Shorty. I know. I wish you did, too.”
We arrive at
my parent’s house but stay put in the car until Natalia recovers. She wipes away the tears she’s pretending don’t exist, and I wait until she’s ready.
“Okay. Let’s go.” She whips the car door open and gets out as if nothing had happened.
I feel for her. As much as my situation sucks, hers sucks worse. She’s lost both parents before the age of twelve. She’s angry and bitter, and I wish I knew how to help her.
But I’ve been angry and bitter for five years, and I have no clue how to even help myself.
I hear the clicking of her heels before I see her. I look up and see her walking in with her bag hanging off her shoulder. She looks absolutely stunning in her black skinny jeans and a white top that hangs off her shoulder just enough to see the smooth skin underneath. I look down and smirk when I see she’s wearing bright red heels, just like in my fantasy.
I stay put behind my desk and wait for her to come to me. I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.
She tilts her head and rolls her eyes. “You’re really bad at this teacher thing, you know that?”
“I take offense to that.”
“You should.” She laughs. “Now you want to tell me why I’ve been sentenced to early class time?” I can see her mind spinning with the way she’s fidgeting with her strap, but she’s trying to put a straight face on.
It’s pretty fucking adorable how antsy and nervous she gets around me.
Which really makes me just want to do it more to see how far I can push it.
“Grab a blank canvas, easel, and three oil paint colors.”
She drops her bag on the floor and glares at me. “You’re so bossy.”
“It’s kind of my job.”
She looks up at the clock on the wall. “Technically, it’s not for another forty-five minutes.” I sit up in my chair and keep my eyes locked on hers until she budges. “Fine.” A victorious smile flashes on my face and she glares at me once again.
It only takes her a minute to set up and then she’s standing eagerly waiting.
“Paint something happy.”
Her brows furrow and her lips turn down. “What?”
“Happy…to feel delight, pleased, or glad.”
“I know what the definition of happy is.” She shakes her head at me. “Why?”
“I just want to see if you’re capable.”
“I am.”
“Prove it,” I challenge her.
She sighs. “Fine. But you can’t watch me.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“Deal? I’m basically here against my will.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“You’re lucky I love to paint.” She sneers.
I smile in return and say just above a whisper, “I know.”
She bites her lip and looks away. She dips her brush and begins making strokes against the canvas. Watching her gives me goose bumps, and I know I could watch her paint for hours.
I see her eyes look over the canvas at me every few minutes or so. She doesn’t say anything, just continues painting and checking to see if I’m still watching her. I can barely peel my eyes away from her when I check the clock on the wall to make sure we don’t run out of time.
“All right. Done.” She sets the brush down and smiles.
I’m intrigued to see what she came up with in a matter of thirty minutes. I hadn’t expected her to do a masterpiece, but I wanted to challenge her to explore a different part of her psyche.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Let’s see it.”
She spins the easel around in my direction and stands next to it as she waits for my reaction.
It’s quite simple, but so perfectly fitting. “It’s a vase of lilies,” she explains softly, all teasing aside.
The vase is tinted in a light pink color. The green from the stems pop out, bright and full of life. The lilies are left white, but only half of them have bloomed all the way.
“It’s really stunning,” I say honestly.
She shrugs. “Had I been given more time and supplies, I could’ve been more detailed.”
“As true as that may be, that wasn’t the assignment.”
The corners of her lips curl up slightly. “So, do I pass?”
I stand up and round my desk to where she’s standing. “Not quite.” She tilts her head and looks up at me. “The meaning. What’s the meaning behind a vase of lilies?”
Her head bows, and I see her throat tense. “Nothing. It’s just a vase of flowers.”
“Aspen…” I say roughly, and she looks back up at me. “What’s it mean?”
She inhales slowly and lowers her eyes to the floor. “It reminds me of my sister.”
“The one who passed away?” I probe.
“Yes.”
“She passed six years ago, right?”
“You remembered?” I see the mood shift in her immediately.
“Yes, of course. That must’ve been hard. Losing someone you loved so much at such a young age.”
“It was.” She inhales deeply. “It is.”
“I’m sorry. I know how it feels to lose a sibling.”
Her head pops up, and I see the interest in her eyes. “I’m sorry. It sucks.” She gives me a sympathetic glance.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She purses her lips. “I hate talking about it.”
“Is that why you paint her so much?”
She sighs, a relieved breath escaping her lips. “Yes. It’s my way of coping, I guess. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. I don’t think I want to get over it because then that means I’m accepting it, and no matter how much time passes, I don’t want to accept it.”
“That’s the most honest answer I’ve ever heard.” I want to wrap my arms around her and squeeze all her pain away. “I haven’t accepted my brother’s death, either.”
“When did he pass away?”
I take a step back and hesitate before responding. “Six months ago.”
Her eyes widen and her lips part. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry, Professor Hampton. Honestly, I feel like such an ass right now.”
My eyes widen in shock. “What? Why would you say that?”
“Because I’ve basically been crying over my dead sister for six years when your brother died just months ago.”
“Everyone grieves differently and there’s definitely no timetable.” I give her a sincere look. “You either heal and move on, or you learn how to hide it better as time wears on.”
“I’m really not that good at hiding it. If I didn’t get to paint, I-I don’t know. I’d be a mess.”
I take a step closer, much too close, closer than I should, but I can’t help myself. I bring a hand to her cheek and rub the pad of my thumb softly over her smooth skin. “We can be a mess together if that helps.”
My eyes are drawn to her mouth as she pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth. I want to pin her up against the wall and kiss those feisty cherry lips until they bruise. I want those smooth, long legs wrapped tightly around me while she’s wearing those bright red incredible fuck-me heels. I want to feel her nails dig into my back as her moans release into my mouth. And I want her to not be my student so I can do all of those things to her...
She covers my hand with hers, and for a moment, I’m afraid she’s going to pull it off, but she doesn’t. She pushes deeper into my hand and closes her eyes. “I miss her. Every day.” She inhales slowly, keeping her eyes shut. “Every damn day I feel broken and that I’ll never feel whole again.”
I can hear the pain in her voice, and it nearly breaks me.
How can someone so beautiful and so gifted bear so much pain? She’s an oddity in my eyes, and every part of her pain has obviously contributed to how she expresses it on paper.
“I’d like to say I don’t understand, but I understand too well.” She releases my hand and it falls back to my side, feeling cold the moment it loses contact with hers.
“Were you two close?” sh
e asks, and I hear the genuine interest in her voice, but my jaw ticks at the thought of how I have to answer that.
“When we grew up, we were really close. But we weren’t for a really long time.” Saying it aloud hurts more than I had anticipated. She looks at me with sincerity, and for some reason makes me feel safe in telling her. “We hadn’t talked in a really long time.”
“Five years?” she asks.
My brows knit together in question. “Yeah,” I breathe out. “How’d you know?”
She shrugs. “Lucky guess.” She lets out a low, sweet chuckle. “Ms. Jones mentioned you hadn’t been home in five years.”
“Ah, yeah. I’d forgotten about that.”
“So what happened?” She clears her throat. “Sorry, I shouldn’t ask that.”
“No, it’s fine.” I’m quick to brush her concerns off. I take a deep breath and push the emotions back. “I found him in bed with my fiancée. He had lost his wife a few years prior to that and it changed him.”
“Oh my God…” Her eyes widen in shock as a hand covers her mouth. “God, I’m sorry.” Her hand drops and my eyes narrow in on her mouth, so full and…off-limits.
I purse my lips and lower my eyes. If she only knew just how sorry I was.
I lift my eyes and meet hers. “I haven’t forgiven myself for not coming back before it was too late. I left and hadn’t come home. I’ll never get those years back.” The words come much too easy, but her silky voice filled with agony and understanding makes it feel natural to talk to her.
“It’s a double-edged sword, huh?” Her voice is soft with a tinge of agony. “Understanding the pain and living with the pain.”
“I recognized it the moment I saw your portfolio.”
She tilts her head and stares at me, but doesn’t say anything. She sets the painting of the vase of lilies down against the easel and walks to the drying rack where she’s kept the portrait of her sister that she did weeks ago.
“This one speaks to me the most.” She sets it down and stares at it.
“I can see that. I can see a lot of you in this.” I take a step so I’m standing directly next to her. I point a finger at the contrast of her painting. “The dark shading and light elements represent a battle. The battle of feeling happy and guilty that you want to be happy.” She looks at me with a frozen expression. “You live through the pain every day, but it’s dual. The pain of what happened to you and the pain of feeling guilty for wanting to move on.”
Pushing the Limits: A Student/Teacher Romance Page 10
