Page 3 of Playing with Fyre

He walks up to me and holds out a slip of paper. There’s a telephone number on it. I know I shouldn’t take it. It’s all kinds of wrong. But I can’t stop myself. Our fingers touch, electric.

He doesn’t let go. “Call me anytime. Day or night.”

“Why-why would I need to call you?” I ask weakly as I struggle with the myriad butterflies suddenly swarming in my stomach.

“Because I’ll always be there for you.” His chest expands as he inhales, and his eyes touch my mouth. “Anytime. Anywhere.”

I tug the paper out of his grip and scurry out of his class like I’m being dragged by wild horses.

Hope. It’s something I hadn’t felt in months until last week’s assignment. My piece for that theme was a glossy-black charcoal mess, of course. But the half-hour I spent on it was one of the few times I didn’t think about killing myself.

Chapter Two

Fyre

Charlotte is special. I’ve been holding these art therapy classes for three years, and I’ve never met a student like her. Her uniqueness would explain why I’ve been following her home every day since she joined my class, why I watch her as she draws in my classroom.

I’m hoping that’s why I’m considering pulling over my truck and finally giving her a ride home. I’ve been flirting with the idea for weeks, but I’ve been holding back because I know it will change everything between us.

I’m not sure she’s ready for the next step yet.

Charlotte is on her bike a few yards ahead of me, plowing through rain puddles with grim determination, her black hair in ribbons down the side of her face. She makes no attempt to shield herself from the rain. It’s like she doesn’t even realize she’s soaked through.

It’s easy to imagine how that wet fabric will cling to her skin when she undresses at home—as reluctant to leave her body as I am to stop watching her.

I won’t lie. It’s become an obsession.

And it’s getting worse.

I’ve never given my students homework. Not once. But I saw attraction in Charlotte’s eyes today. She’s trying to fight her feelings, hell so am I, but she’ll lose the fight.

I have.

Ahead, the light at the intersection changes to amber. The universe, it seems, is tossing me a bone. I speed up before detouring to the side of the road, slowing hurriedly so I won’t spray Charlotte with the rainwater puddling by the sidewalk. I honk the horn, but she doesn’t look back. She would have been gone a second later had a car not skipped the intersection ahead and turned right in front of her, speeding so it won’t have to stop at a red light.

My heart flies to my throat, and I’m only dimly aware of rain hitting my face as I kick open the truck’s door.

“Charlotte!”

Her wet hair swings in the air as she whips her head around to stare at me. My loafers splat wetly on the sidewalk as I slow from a sprint to a jog. She gives me a double take and then shakes her head. “Professor Fyre?”

God, I love the sound of my name on her tongue. “Are you alright?”

Her lips part, and my cock hardens—just like it does in class when her mouth forms that same shape. I’ve had to come up with ingenious ways to hide my erection whenever Charlotte’s in my classroom. It’s laughable how many times it’s happened.

I’m aware that I should explain why I’m here, but instead I say, “That idiot could have hit you.”

“But he didn’t.” Her frown deepens. “What are you doing here?”

Swiping wet hair out of my face, I give her a lopsided smile. “I wasn’t following you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I tell her through a laugh.

Her lips seal into a tight little smile. She balances easily on the bike for such a slip of a girl, and from how her body moves, she looks like she wants to start pedaling again.

She scrunches up her nose. “Then what are you doing here?”

The lie comes easy. “Meeting a patient at her office. She’s a few blocks down from here.” I point at one of the tall office buildings littering this street. This isn’t the greatest neighborhood, but I’m aware that most of my students usually can’t afford better accommodation.

“I didn’t know you still practice,” she says.

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