by Wilde, Kati
Teacher’s Pet Wolf
Kati Wilde
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
TEACHER’S PET WOLF
Copyright © 2019 Kati Wilde
Cover design by Kati Wilde. Stock photos licensed from Adobe Stock. Woman on bed © razoomanetu. Full moon © ricardoreitmeyer.
All rights reserved.
First Digital Edition, July 2019
katiwilde.com
Contents
Teacher’s Pet Wolf
1. Alicia
2. Ranger
3. Alicia
4. Alicia
5. Ranger
6. Alicia
7. Ranger
8. Alicia
9. Ranger
10. Alicia
11. Epilogue
Author’s Note
Also by Kati Wilde
Newsletter
Teacher’s Pet Wolf
This sexy alpha intends to teach his mate a few lessons about local wildlife…
Alicia Simmons rarely lets anyone get too close. So crushing on a hot wildlife expert via videochats in her classroom is completely safe. The long-distance flirtation means no expectations—and no expectations means no disappointment…or hurt. And when Ranger tells her he’s visiting her neck of the woods, spending a few days—and nights—with him doesn’t sound too dangerous, either. Sure, when the fling is over, she’ll have to pick up the pieces of her heart. But at least he’ll be safe from the beast inside her.
Except Travis Ranger isn’t coming for a fling. He’s coming for Alicia. And he’s got a lot to show the shy science teacher…starting with a lesson about what happens when a wolf finally gets his claws on the woman he’s waited far too long to claim. And no matter how hard she tries to push him away, he’s never going to let her go.
Because Alicia thinks she’s a beast? His shy little teacher hasn’t seen anything yet…
1
Alicia
“Can we quit now?” Maria’s voice breaks through the quiet in my empty classroom as I’m adding up the points on a chemistry quiz. “Give me permission to quit now. Or kill me. I don’t care anymore. I just want this misery to end. Are you even listening to me, Alicia? Because you look like you’re ignoring me in this time of desperate need. Are you grading something important there? Am I messing up your count? Am I? Five, seven, eight, two, three thousand and twenty-four…”
Laughing, I write the score at the top of the sheet and glance up. Maria’s leaning back against the frame of my classroom’s open door, forking something green and leafy out of a huge Tupperware container, and looking gloriously frazzled—dress shirt untucked from her pencil skirt, curling brown tendrils falling out of her French braid, cat-eye glasses perched at the tip of her nose as if pushing them into place will take more strength than she has left.
“Only three more days,” I remind her.
“Three more days of classes,” she emphasizes. “But another week for us. So you know what unfresh hell will continue?”
“Lauren reheating fish in the microwave?”
I make it sound like a question, but it’s not a guess. Though the teacher’s lounge is on the opposite side of the building, I can smell the fish from here. And I’ve been trying to ignore it. Trying so hard, though my stomach keeps rumbling and my mouth keeps salivating. Because the smell doesn’t nauseate me. Not like it did only six months ago. Instead it just makes me hungry.
But everything makes me hungry.
“Yessss,” Maria hisses, then shoots a furtive glance around to make certain no students hear her continue, “Effing Lauren. I dashed to the fridge but my shirt still picked up that stink. Which means the rest of my afternoon is going to be spent trying to teach seventh grade boys who think they’re real damn clever with their fish jokes.”
Seventh grade girls are usually worse. More vicious. They’re just sneakier with the jokes, a little quieter. I hear them, anyway.
I shake my head in sympathy. “Effing Lauren.”
“And—and—as if that wasn’t enough bullshit today”—she takes a huge bite of salad and then chews while saying—“Ava’s mother wants to talk after school today about the grade she earned on her last essay. On the phone.”
“Which Ava?”
“Chase-Carroll,” she says without missing a chew, crunching what smells like sunflower seeds and kale. “On the phone. What’s wrong with e-mail? How is anyone of our generation choosing a phone call over e-mail? Even face-to-face is better than a phone call—and I hate people. So if I’d rather be face-to-face? You know it’s bad.”
By this time of year, every teacher I know hates people. The kids are still okay, but people? Ugh.
Except for Maria. I still like her well enough. And since she seems to be settling in to eat her lunch against my door frame, I pull a thick roast beef sandwich out of my desk drawer—forcing myself to unwrap it slowly, breathing through my mouth, already dreaming of sinking my teeth into bread and meat. “Are we the same generation as Ava’s mom?”
I’m not old enough to have a thirteen-year-old girl. Well, biologically I am. But only if I popped out a baby in middle school.
Which, knock on wood, I haven’t seen happen to any girl in this middle school. But this is only my third year of teaching, so it’s early days yet.
“I think so? If we aren’t, her mom looks real damn good for someone who’s of voluntarily-talks-on-the-phone age.” Maria scrapes up another bite and contemplates the forkful of kale, adding morosely, “This is the cruel and unusual punishment part of our job.”
“Talking on the phone or that salad?”
“Ha ha.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You probably like phone calls, considering that you’ve got a direct line to Ranger Ranger.”
My chest hollows out as my heart swoops into my throat, because simply hearing Ranger’s name creates the most wonderful, painful, achingly sweet combination of emotions inside me. “Those are video calls. Not phone calls.”
“Same difference.”
“It’s face-to-face.” When it wasn’t face-to-classroom, with Ranger giving lessons to my biology students from his remote location in the Arctic Circle. “You said yourself it’s different.”
She waves that off. “Is he calling in today?—it’s always Friday, right? Or did you guys already wrap up for the summer?”
My stomach tightens. “Today’s the last day.”
“Aw. Well, I’ll tell you what you should do as soon as vacation starts: fly up to Alaska, hike to whatever mountain he’s on, and then be all, ‘Oh, Ranger Ranger!’” she exclaims in a breathy voice, fluttering her lashes. “‘I’m so lost, and my vagina’s so rusty. Can you save me?’”
“Rusty? I really hope that’s a reference to my hair color.” Not that calling the auburn curls down there ‘rusty’ is much better, but still. My vagina’s not rusty.
It’s just…shy. But it has friends. Who cares if those friends run on batteries? They get the job done.
Maria arches her brows and glances toward that area of my anatomy. “I’m just saying that it might do you some good to spend a week in the wilderness with a big, strong forest ranger who’s been isolated out in the mountains and hasn’t seen another woman for the better part of two years.”
Like a week in Aspen might have done me some good,
six months ago. Instead it did me some bad.
So I’m not going anywhere. “My only plan this summer is to lie on the couch in my pajamas and binge-watch everything on Netflix.”
“Oh my god, that sounds like heaven.” Her expression becomes pained. “Did I tell you what Dan and the kids are already planning for our vacation? Camping, camping, and more camping. The only break I’m getting this summer is the time I’ll spend hiding in an outhouse. And even then, one of the boys will probably barge in. Can I come live with you? Please?”
“I offered to share my couch with you last year,” I remind her. “You said no, that you were looking forward to spending time with your family.”
“I was a silly fool, with a head full of girlish dreams.”
I shrug. “No second chances. Sorry.”
“Fine.” She stabs into her salad. “But don’t expect an invite to our Fourth of July barbecue.”
“So you’re just going to hang out with your family and all the other teachers you invite? You gonna spend some quality time with effing Lauren? I hope you buy a lot of booze.”
She gives a little mock sob. “You’re so mean. Okay, you can come. But only if you bring Sergeant Sam, because I actually like her.”
My sister, Samantha. “You just want someone from the sheriff’s department there as a guest in case of noise complaints.”
“That’s only partially true. Because those damn Carlisles complain every year. But no way in hell am I inviting those assholes over. Oh, but wait.” She grimaces. “Maybe we don’t want Sam there. Dan’s already gone up to Washington and bought fireworks.”
The kind of big, rocket-style fireworks that are illegal here in Oregon. But that’s no surprise. Driving across the state line to buy fireworks is a yearly pilgrimage for half the county. “Yeah, Dan and everyone else in town. I doubt Sam will go rummaging through his stash. The city will probably ban all fireworks again by then, anyway.”
“You think that stopped most of my neighborhood last year?” With a roll of her eyes, she pushes away from the door frame. “Who cares if we’re toasted by wildfires, am I right? Gotta get that Independence Day celebration on.”
“Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum aren’t enough for some people, I guess.”
“Don’t forget Bill Pullman. That is a speech for the ages. No joke, I use that clip as my intro to Dylan Thomas.”
“I’m not sure if that’s awesome or scary.”
“It’s awesome. Alien invasions are scary. So…I’ll leave you to set up for Ranger Ranger.” She grins slyly. “And maybe you start thinking about that plane ticket to Anchorage.”
“Fairbanks is closer to him.”
“So you’ve already thought about it.” Slowly Maria walks past the door, and just before she vanishes from sight, tips back her head back for a parting, “Do not go gentle into that good night, my dear. Rage, rage against the rusting of the vagina.”
“It’s just shy,” I mutter into my sandwich before ripping out a bite.
But she’s right. I’ve thought about it. I think about it all the time. “Thinking about it” is as far as I get, though. Even before Aspen, that was only as far as I got—crushing on Ranger from afar, with no intention of making it into something real.
Ask my sister, Sam—I never ask her, but she’s always happy to give her opinion anyway—and she’d say the only reason I started crushing in the first place is because Ranger is safe to crush on. He’s big and growly and smart, which hits all of my buttons, but he’s also stationed in a remote Alaskan wilderness three thousand miles away. So every week, we exchange a few texts and emails, mostly about upcoming lessons, then have a flirty little chat during the video setup and before the students start filing into class. Well, I have a flirty chat. Ranger mostly just grunts his responses and watches me onscreen with a fierce intensity that I feel all the way down to my toes. But that’s all there is between us. And I know that’s all it’ll ever be. So according to my sister, there’s no expectations and no chance of getting hurt, and that’s why I’m so crazy about him.
I don’t think Sam is all wrong. But she’s not all right, either. I don’t have any expectations. Yet the pain is there, anyway. That feeling of wanting so much, it hurts. A feeling that has only deepened throughout the year.
And before Aspen—before the attack that turned me into a hungry, horrible thing who literally transforms into a monster every month—maybe that painful yearning could have pushed me out of that safe zone. Maybe I’d have bought that plane ticket.
But six months ago, everything changed. The three thousand miles between us aren’t keeping me safe.
Those miles are keeping him safe from me.
I’m gobbling down a third sandwich when a notification pops up on my laptop screen.
Ranger: You there?
I freeze mid-chew, my heart thumping. He’s early. Sort of. At the beginning of the school year, he always called at this time. This is my free period, so we’d connect almost a half hour before my biology class started. But after I was mauled during winter break…I began putting Ranger off until the last few minutes before class. Because I healed quickly from the attack and didn’t miss any days at school, yet I still felt this huge and horrible change inside me. Some of that must have shown through, because Ranger’s fierce intensity began looking more like fierce concern. I didn’t have any answers to give him, though—and I couldn’t bear lying to him and I couldn’t bear talking about it. So I just cut our conversations shorter and shorter. And it was like cutting out a part of my heart, every time.
Ranger: If you’re in a staff meeting again, tell them to fuck off. I need time to talk with you before the class starts.
Time to talk…to say goodbye for the summer?
Or to say goodbye forever?
I don’t know yet if we’re doing this again next year. A few weeks ago, I told him that I hoped we could, because my students love him. But Ranger didn’t give me much of an answer. Just that he wasn’t sure yet whether he’d still be stationed in the same district.
So if this is goodbye…I need more time, too.
Alicia: I’m here. Just finishing lunch. Give me about three minutes?
To brush off any crumbs, apply lip gloss, and fluff my hair. But Ranger doesn’t wait three minutes. He doesn’t wait three seconds. A notification for an incoming call pops up. Hurriedly, I brush and fluff, check my teeth for stray bits of lunch, then click Accept.
For a moment, only the blurry image of a short black beard, thick tanned throat, and khaki shirt collar is visible on screen. Then Ranger backs away from the camera and his face comes into focus, and it doesn’t matter that I just devoured three big sandwiches. Suddenly I’m starving all over again. Need rips through me, a full body hunger that has nothing to do with my stomach, a craving that grips my lungs and clenches deep within.
Travis Ranger isn’t a pretty man. His features are too bold, too rough. Heavy black eyebrows shadow intense dark eyes, and his face could have been carved from stout oak with a serrated blade—and all that blunt, craggy darkness makes him look a little mean. If he were ever cast in the movie, he’d be the villain.
The villain that everyone writes dirty fan fiction about.
Because he’s not handsome, but he’s sexy as hell. And despite his surly demeanor, he’s not mean to the kids. But he also doesn’t put up with any shit. A few times when they’ve been bratty, he shut them down with a single look…as if they can feel that gaze from three thousand miles away.
Just like I can feel his gaze devouring me. “Good morning, Miss Simmons.”
My breath shudders, heat flushing over my skin. God, his voice. Rough and smoky, like a campfire burning low, all crackling embers and black soot. He sounds the way I imagine a man sounds waking up late on a Sunday morning, not while standing in a field of wildflowers with Denali’s snowcapped peak behind him. A small window in the corner of the screen shows me how I look to him, so I know he can’t see my nipples poking out or the way I’m
squirming a little in my seat. But I swear, he knows anyway. Probably every woman he talks to squirms when they hear that deep, smoky voice coming out of his mouth.
“It’s too late for a good morning here, Ranger Ranger.” The time difference means we hit ‘after noon’ an hour ahead of him.
His firm lips quirk. “But was it a good one?”
“Better now,” I tell him honestly and those eyes darken.
“You having trouble, Miss Simmons?” As if he might do something about it.
“No, it’s just…the last days of school always feel like I’m teaching to a blank wall. The kids are just done.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I’m not done. I’m using every second to pound that last bit of learning into their skulls.” When he grins at that, I smile with him—then sigh. “But don’t be surprised if you can’t get them to pay attention today. You’d think that plant reproduction would be a popular subject among horny eighth graders, because there are so many opportunities to slip their little innuendos in. But their eyes glaze over in seconds.”
“Yeah, that’s their problem, then. They’ve got little innuendos?” Ranger says, shaking his head. “My innuendos are real fucking big, so I’m sure as hell not slipping them anywhere. If I want my innuendos to fit, I’ve got to ram them in.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, pursing my lips and narrowing my eyes in my best ‘prim and disapproving teacher’ look. “I’m not laughing at that,” I tell him as soon as I can.
“Yeah, you are. You like my big innuendos.”
I really do. And I like how much he’s talking today…though I suspect it’s just because we’re both putting off the goodbye part. “So what kind of big innuendos have you got for them today?”
