Page 3 of Taming His Teacher

I agree with a nod and set my dishes down where one of the circulating caterers will be sure to pick it up. Will makes a move toward the front door, but that way’s littered with blazers, beards, and canapés. Made bold by the glass of wine in my stomach with no food to soak it up, I grab his arm, getting a handful of elbow-patch suede.

“Come on; this way. I know this house like the back of my hand.”

I tug him toward the back of the house, making our way through the kitchen, where a harried cater-waiter is loading up yet another tray. Yanking at the polyester bow tie at his neck, he complains to a colleague, “These academics talk a good game, but they stuff their faces as much as Pats fans at a Super Bowl party.”

They hush when they see us and nod as we pass, embarrassed. I don’t care. It’s true some of my fellow teachers are blowhards and faculty members are renowned for their fondness for free food. We’re as bad as college freshmen offered pizza and beer.

Will and I sneak our way down the back stairwell and out into the sunken garden where I played hide-and-seek over the summers. It’s different now, of course. The plantings have changed and the lawn furniture’s been replaced, but it retains that fairy-hiding-place magic I remember.

I don’t linger, knowing someone could see us. Keeping ahold of Will’s elbow, I steer us along the wall to stone steps leading out of the garden and toward the east side of campus. When we’re away from the house, I drop my handful of his coat.

“So you having grown up here wasn’t an exaggeration.”

“I wouldn’t say I grew up here. I spent most of my childhood traveling for my dad’s work. But summers and Christmas I was on the Hill.” I don’t say it because it would sound crazy to him, but the Hill’s been the only real home I’ve ever known.

My dad’s business took us all over the world. We didn’t stay in one place for more than a few months at a time. He loved the nomadic lifestyle; exploring new cities, trying strange foods, picking up bits of the local language and local women wherever we went. But I’m the opposite of itinerant. I don’t have his facility with languages or companionship. Moving around all the time wasn’t exciting. It was unnerving.

Over time, I developed my own ways to deal with it. In every hotel room, every apartment, I’d set up my room in the same way: same quilt at the foot of my bed; same scarlet and royal blue Hawthorn Hill pennant gracing the wall; same family photo of me, my dad and my grandfather on my nightstand; and the calendar the admissions office puts out every year tacked above my desk, red Xs crossing off the days until I got to come back to the Hill again.

“I’m surprised you came back.”

I shrug, not wanting to explain how precious this place is to me. If they hadn’t hired me as a teacher, I would’ve applied for an administrative job. Maybe even the cleaning staff. My whole life I’ve been working my way back here. I’m not leaving, ever.

A bolt of surprise shoots up my arm when Will threads his fingers through mine. My breath quickens and I consider pulling away, but I like my hand being held. My father was not,isnot, an affectionate man. When I got to college, I was both shy of and desperate for human touch. Still am, I guess. Even though I don’t know what Will’s intentions are, I let myself revel in the human contact, his elegant fingers twining between mine.

The boys are all at the athletic complex being entertained with movies, pizza, and games by a skeleton staff on the other side of campus so I only look over my shoulder occasionally as we meander toward Turner. It’s an older building, set away from much of the school. When we reach it, instead of strolling by, Will tugs on my hand.

“You have a key, right?”

“I do.” I pulled study hall hours for first semester and my assignment is to monitor the boys who have art projects to work on. I take the key from my pocket and slide it into the ancient lock, metal sliding against metal, worn smooth and accepting from being fit together so many times. Will drops my hand and I freeze when his hands slide into my pockets, his fingers gripping my hipbones through the thin layer of fabric as he lowers his lips to my ear.

“Pockets. Clever. Sexy.”

The lock unhitches and I push in the door, letting Will steer me by my hips into the building. Once inside, he drags me back, nearly tripping me when he closes the door by backing up against it and pulling me tight against him, my back to his front.

The hardness of his erection presses into the base of my spine and I squeak. Is “taking a walk” some kind of new euphemism I didn’t get the memo about?

“Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall…down.” His whispered rhyme in my ear makes me shiver and he takes it as an invitation to kiss my neck. The heat that flushes through my system is equal parts wine and arousal but it’s doused when he licks from the neckline of my dress up to my ear and starts to suck at my earlobe.

The heavy breathing and the sloppiness of his tongue kill some of the buzz I’ve got going, but when his fingertips curl hard around my hipbones, digging into my flesh, my engine revs. He could do anything in conjunction with that and I’d melt.

I’ve always wanted a lover who was a bit…forceful. Rough. Controlling. Like those dominants I read about in the romance novels I plow through in my spare time. Those are the kind of men I favor in my fantasies, the type of scenarios that feature heavily in my dreams. Not that I’ve sought it out in real life. It seems dangerous, like something I should keep confined to the page. But maybe, if I’ve stumbled into the chance…

I don’t get to speculate further because Will spins me around and backs me up against a wall. He runs his hand down my hip to my thigh, his fingers hook behind my knee to hitch my leg up and he settles his slim hips between my legs.

Rocking against me, he moans and I squeal. He doesn’t bother trying to hide the hardness of his…his…penis as his tongue mirrors the motion in my mouth. If I knew him better, this could be very, very hot, but as it is, his forwardness is shocking. It’s making me uncomfortable. He’s pushing me too hard, and isn’t taking any of my cues to stop: attempts to nudge his tongue from between my teeth, wedging my hands between us to make space between our chests.

Yes, I daydream about high-handed men who will fulfill my every wish of being ravished, but in reality, I know Will can’t read my mind. Not only has he not asked for my consent, but he’s not paying attention to me, not noticing I’ve gone from willing participant to freaked. I have to get less subtle and push back on him, hard, making him drop my knee in surprise.

“Will…” My heart is racing and it makes my words come out breathy and weak. “Too much, too fast.”

His face goes blank, as if he’s been woken up from a dream. Then he smiles that dazzling white smile. “I’m sorry, I got carried away. You look… This dress. And I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you.”

“Really?”Oh, god, Erin, could you be less cool?

“Really.” The backs of his cool knuckles being dragged across my cheek highlight the heat that’s risen in my face. He smiles at me like he knows what I’m thinking and it’s exactly what he wants me to be thinking.Resist, Erin, resist. You’re not allowed to be the kind of girl who makes out with near strangers. You’re not allowed to be reckless or irresponsible.Maybe, now that I’m here I could let go a little. But not that much.

“I should get back.”

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