Page 111 of Forbidden Lessons

Is this what being sexually frustrated feels like?

It’s fucking awful.

The house is so silent, it feels like it’s holding its breath as I wander into the kitchen to take a peek in Bastian’s fridge. And even though he gave me permission, it still feels all kinds of wrong to rifle through the contents, pulling out this and that.

Oat milk, cottage cheese, blueberries, free-range eggs, avocados, spinach. No wonder he’s in such good shape. The most decadent thing in here is the bottle of white wine in the door.

There’s frozen meat in the freezer compartment. Ice cubes. And a big tub of ice cream.

I fight back a squeal.

It’s rocky road.

I snatch it out and start pulling open the drawers to find a spoon. My sigh of pleasure as I plop down on a kitchen stool and crack open that ice cream is a sound I haven’t heard in a long, long time.

My eyes drift closed as I scoop a bite of ice cream into my mouth and let it dissolve on my tongue. Does this guy have any idea how lucky he is? I’d kill to live in a place like this. Ice cream in the freezer. Healthy, gorgeous looking food in the fridge.

It’s so quiet.

I take the tub with me as I go to stand by the massive sliding glass doors leading into the backyard. It’s impossibly beautiful out there, late afternoon light filtering through the leaves in slivers of gold and amber.

God, how I’d love waking up in a place like this every morning. Having a cup of coffee on the porch in one of those rocking chairs, listening to the surviving birds singing, the rustle of leaves.

My significant other busy in the kitchen, making blueberry pancakes.

Is it weird that Kai pops into my head, not Bastian? I suppose my brain is trying to keep things age-appropriate, and there’s nothing appropriate—age or otherwise—about me waking up beside Professor Rooke.

I take another few bites of ice cream as I soak in the luxurious ambience.

I’m interrupted by a very rude, but very intriguing thought.

God, how could I forget?

The spoon dangles from my mouth as I hurry over to Bastian’s bookshelf with its dark, gleaming wood. I squat so I can easier peer into the bottom row of books.

What the fuck?

Just a bunch of paperback novels down there. Where are the spiral bound notebooks I saw the last time I was here? The ones I could have sworn were Activity Logs?

He must have moved them, but why?

…because he saw me looking at them?

Nah, that’s a reach, even for my insane levels of paranoia. But now I’ve got an itch that needs to be scratched, and a tub of rocky road for a faithful sidekick, and permission to help myself to anything I desire.

Answers, Sir. I’ll have some answers, please.

One of my knees pops as I stand to look around.

The professor’s house is a large, rectangular block. The master bedroom spans the entire width of the east wing, with the living area between it and the kitchen area. There’s a wall with another inset sliding door like the bedroom has, except this one has always been closed.

Thankfully, it’s unlocked.

I assumed it was an office or a scullery.

Turns out it’s a long passage with a study at the end. Dark furniture, thick, slate gray carpets, even darker art prints. If it wasn’t for the wrap around glass windows opening to such a spectacular view of the surrounding woodland, it would be depressing as fuck in here. But this feels almost like an animal hide, a place where Professor Rooke can observe without being seen.

“Wow,” I murmur, trailing my fingers over the soft leather of a dark gray leather office chair. Everything in here looks like it costs a couple thousand dollars, even the massive glass ball with a blue butterfly trapped flawlessly inside the crystal.

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