Page 96 of Forbidden Lessons

The stack of weathered, spine-cracked books on the nightstand. A pair of reading glasses. Inside his closet, the row of suit jackets, most tweed.

And his smell.

It’s so intense inside this space, I can almost taste him on my tongue.

Pine trees. Leather. Rain-soaked soil.

I realize I’m just standing there, drinking in his smell, that he might come and check on me any minute.

Clothes.

It feels criminal going over to the stacks of folded clothes and rifling through them. And my eyes keep drifting over to the stack of vests and boxers nearby. Are those silk?—?

I grab the first thing that feels warm and thick, and thank God when it unfolds into a hoodie.

A really massive hoodie.

Professor Rooke isn’t brawny, but he sure is tall. He’s got at least a foot on me. So I guess he has to buy larger sizes.

I hold the hoodie up against me, pressing the shoulders under my neck, and folding a hand over my tummy.

It reaches almost to my knees.

Well, I already know I don’t stand a hope in hell of getting into—fitting into—his pants. This will have to do.

It’s definitely warm, and dry, and since my sundress is plastered to my frame, it’s a hell of a lot less scandalous. I hear the faint sounds of the coffee machine percolating in the kitchen, and hesitate before letting myself into his bathroom.

Fuck, it’s gorgeous. And that’s saying a lot, for a bathroom.

Slate slabs, dark gray and just rough enough to avoid slippage, but still smooth. The shower takes up the entire width of the back wall, with a small bench inside. Jets on the side, which I assume can turn it into a small steam room.

There’s a tub on one side, a double-sink vanity on the other. A small table used exclusively to store towels, it seems.

Weird that he has two sinks when he’s so obviously single.

Guess it’s just as strange that he has a king sized bed.

Okay, I need to stop fucking judging.

I gaze longingly at the shower, but I don’t have the courage to step inside and use it. Instead, I shut the door and take one of the dark gray towels from the table.

Peeling off my dress, I hesitate, and then take off my undies too.

How long was I out in the rain for?

Why are my feet so muddy?

Then my eyes slide up, up, up…

To the scratch marks on my thigh. The bruise on one hip.

Shit.

I dab myself with the towel, but when I see my muddy feet again, I stop.

My eyes move back to the shower.

Fuck propriety.

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