Page 110 of Forbidden Lessons

I head into the bathroom and take a few sips of water from the faucet before emptying my bladder—another reason I was pulled from sleep.

When I go to wash my hands, I spot my sundress on the railing where I left it to dry yesterday. My underwear is on the floor. I stare at it so long I have an afterimage, but then I see the rumpled towel on the rail.

Bastian must have dried himself off and tucked the towel in there without realizing he’d dislodged my underwear.

I force myself to snap out of the mental image of Professor Rooke drying off after a shower.

That’s going to live rent free in my head for days to come.

I lean on my palms so I can get closer to the mirror.

It still looks like I barely survived a date with Patrick Bateman.

My hair looks like shit. There are dark smudges under my eyes. But whatever Professor Rooke put on my neck has drastically improved the marks on my throat. And those painkillers he gave me were the stuff of dreams. I mean, I feel nothing.

Nothing.

Okay, I feel a little sexy, my bare legs rubbing together under this soft hoodie that smells like my professor? Who the fuck wouldn’t?

A massive shift to how I felt yesterday when I stopped at Lookout Point. When I was still tender, stinging, aching, and so fucking stuck in my head, I didn’t know if I was coming or going.

feels good when I hurt you like this, doesn’t it?

Fuck, I wish I was normal and sane, but I guess I’m not. Because it did feel good. His hand wrapped around my throat made me want to leave my body…and that was before he added his fingers to the mix.

When I step back and lift my hands to do something about my hair, I notice white streaks on my palms.

I hadn’t seen the ghostly traces of powder on the white granite countertop.

Baby powder?

Dried shaving cream?

…coke?

I quickly wash my hands and then scrub them with a towel. I probably can’t get a contact high from just touching it, but still. I need a clear head if I’m going to remember where the hell I parked my car so I can get out of here.

Bastian’s hoodie is so warm and cozy I have to work up the motivation to change back into my sundress, but I can’t exactly leave with his clothes, either. I’m many things, but I’m not a thief.

That’s when I notice the stack of clothes beside the vanity. There’s a note on top of them.

These should fit better.

The pile yields a black t-shirt, so washed out that whatever had been screen printed on it is illegible. A pair of sweatpants, just as worn. These feel like something you dig out of the attic,but they smell freshly laundered. Not a moth-eaten hole or rip in sight.

They’re a hell of a lot better than my sundress, so I slip into them and try to ignore the way Bastian’s laundry detergent smells on me.

There’s another note on the kitchen counter, on top of a few pages of stapled papers.

Hope you slept well.

Make yourself comfortable + help yourself to anything you desire.

I’m sure you’ll find this week’s study material most fitting.

Everything about it feels polite and professional…but my eyes keep darting back to one phrase.

anything you desire

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