Page 82 of Forbidden Lessons

Rooke isn’t just late, he doesn’t show up for class at all. I didn’t expect my foray into teaching to end on such a weird climax, so I tell Rooke’s students to read from their textbooks while I go outside to make a call.

But the call’s bullshit. I just need to clear my head.

Ha. I’m dealing with an infestation, not some cobwebs. I need a fucking weed whacker to get rid of Haven.

I don’t plan on going back to the lecture hall, so I trot down the stairs and out through the cafeteria, walking around the back of the enormous campus building until I’m in the area beside the library windows.

The two enormous oak trees shading the grass look like bookends to a densely wooded area that stretches a few hundred yards from the campus. Those wild trees are a stark contrast to the manicured lawn and rectangular hedges that run along the length of the library garden.

Fresh air is what I need. Reminders of Haven sucking me off under the library table, however, not so much. But this is the furthest I can get from student activity without actually leaving campus grounds.

I turn to look for a spot to sit. The concrete benches are too hard. Maybe I’ll sit under the furthest oak tree.

A student rounds the corner where I’d just been walking. I pay them no mind until I see brown hair fluttering.

Haven speed walks toward me.

“The fuck are you doing here?” I call out. “You’re supposed to be in class.”

She just keeps coming.

“Or in your car,” I add, laughing.

Christ, it’s disturbing how single-minded she looks right now in her cute, thrifted sundress and flip-flops. Thought she learned her lesson about wearing those to class, but I guess I was wrong.

She’s a few feet away when she tugs on the handle of her tote bag, shortening the linen strap.

That should have been my first clue.

The snarl that jumps onto her mouth should have been my second.

But it seems I still have this bad habit of underestimating little Miss H, because I’m standing there smirking at her like an idiot when she swings her tote bag and catches me full on the side of her head.

“Jesus!” I yell as I fall to the grass. “You got a fucking brick in there?”

She stomps down on my stomach, kicks off her flip-flop when it gets tangled in her toes, then does it again.

My washboard abs barely feel it, but I’m kinda too scared to get up in case she slams me with her fucking tote bag again.

“Haven!”

“Fuck you, you piece of shit!” She tries to kick my head, but I get my arms up in time to deflect.

Then she’s on her knees, her sundress’s skirt taut as she straddles me.

Punching, slapping, clawing.

“Christ, what the fuck?” I yell, trying to grab her wrists, but always a millisecond too slow.

Idiot, because you’re reacting, not attacking.

She squeals in surprise when I grab her hips and keep her pinned on top of me as I roll over.

Now she’s under me, and the second she realizes that, fury washes over her. Her knees crash into my back as she kicks and struggles, but all it takes is grabbing her shoulders, then sliding my hands down to her elbows, then finally her wrists.

Pinning them between her hips and my thighs.

Her frustrated growl makes my cock thicken inside my Fendi joggers, but I ignore it. Just because she had her lips wrapped around it a few days ago doesn’t mean this is a replay.

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