Page 117 of Forbidden Lessons

Maybe because it feels more mature to be sipping wine than gulping down sparkling water.

Maybe because talking to Bastian feels like playing blackjack. Blindfolded.

Or because he’s right—it’s been a hard day, a hard week…fuck that, a hard goddamn life, and I’ve deserved some R&R. Maybe I’m just curious about what all the fuss is about. I mean, everyone else in the world seems to love alcohol. I should give it a second chance, right?

I take out the wine and set it down on the counter, going to tiptoes to reach for a glass from the cabinet.

“Need a hand?”

“God!” I barely catch the wine glass that slips out of my fingers. “It would have been your fault if that broke.”

He’d beenrightbehind me. Like, inches away.

“So we’re both just going to pretend I carded you,” Bastian says.

“I won’t have the whole bottle,” I mumble.

“I’ll allow it. But I reserve the right to cut you off when I see fit.”

“Whatever you say, Professor.” I keep my back turned as I twist off the screw-top and pour a glass.

“Hm.”

I really wish he’d stop doing that. That sound he makes is too ambiguous for me to decide if he disapproves or not. And it’s way too sexy to be any kind of proper.

Air moves behind my back, stirring the fine hairs at the nape of my neck.

Is it his breath?

But then he appears in the corner of my eye, going to stir the saucepan where his delicious concoction is brewing.

“Do you want wine? Or should I pour you bourbon?”

“It’s a little early for that.”

I nod, but fuck knows why, because if you’re going to drink, does it really matter what the hell kind of alcohol it is?

Moments like this, I feel so fucking sheltered. And not in a ‘my folks were overprotective’ kind of way, but in a ‘you don’t know what you don’t know’ kind of way.

I pour us each a glass of wine and take one to him, setting it down near him on the marble counter. As I turn to leave, he grasps my wrist.

“Two blocks of ice.”

His fingers are warm, and so much stronger than Kai’s.

“Sure thing, Professor.”

His fingers tighten ever so slightly. “Bastian.”

He releases me, and I go back to the fridge, opening the freezer compartment for some ice. I swear I can feel him looking at me, but when I turn, his attention is entirely on the pasta sauce.

I plop two cubes of ice into his glass, holding my hand over the top to minimize the splash.

“None for you?” he says as I’m about to put the ice back in the freezer.

Another test. Are you supposed to drink wine with ice? Dad stuck with cheap vodka and only had ice in his drink on special occasions…like the day after he got his disability check.

“Silly me.” I toss two cubes in my glass, hesitate, then add a third. I suppose it will water it down.

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