Page 34 of Taming His Teacher

There’s one last thing to do. I get ready for bed, changing into soft cotton pajama pants, a well-worn Hawthorn T-shirt I’ve had since I was in high school, and a pair of fuzzy socks. When I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face, I climb under my sheets, turn on my bedside lamp and hang over the edge of the mattress to take up a book. It’s not the one I’m reading. That’s on my bedside table.

This one is for special purposes. I turn to a well-thumbed page and start to read, substituting certain words with the personal fantasy already playing in my head. When I’ve reached a particular point, I slide fingers under the blanket and up my shirt to toy with a nipple while my other hand turns pages.

The hero’s about to punish the heroine for not following his instructions, and there’s so much about this that makes me hot. Being given instructions. Having someone pay attention enough to know when I’ve disobeyed, and caring enough to discipline me, make me better. The punishment itself… I don’t relish the idea of being actuallyhurt. I don’t think pain is my thing, but if he—

He.Even when I hadn’t given up on Will yet, when I let my mind go during fantasizing or even sometimesduringthe rote sex, I’d think of Shep. Not when he was my student, no, though it hadn’t been easy to shut that down. But the wrongness would eventually win out. He wasn’t a minor, but it was the power imbalance; knowing I was technically an authority figure, though that never felt a hundred percent true even though he was always respectful. But after he was gone…

I’d fumble to make him not look like my student, picture him in street clothes instead of dress code or one of his Hawthorn uniforms, but sometimes I’d slip. Today I toe the line, thinking of him in a suit. He’d look drop-dead handsome in a suit, his broad shoulders filling out the jacket. When he’d shove his hands in the pockets of the trousers, it would pull the vent of the coat open in the back and I’d be able to see the curve of his butt.

I’d kneel at his feet, naked, while he lectured me, my eyes brimming with tears because I’d disappointed him. He’d grasp my elbow, hard enough to help me up but not hard enough to leave a bruise, and steer me to a desk, instructing me to bend over, lay my palms parallel on the fine-grained surface.

When I was in position, very conscious of being at his mercy and completely willing to take whatever punishment he’d deemed fit, he’d stroke my back. He’d also toy with the various implements in a canister on the table, their business ends sticking out above the rim.

A crop, a loopy john, a wooden spoon, a leather-covered paddle, a small cane. This time he’d opt for the worn old-school wooden ruler.

I set my book down, able to carry out the fantasy without any more help, and slip my freed hand under the waistband of my pants and into my underwear. I’m, predictably, wet. I always am when I indulge in this daydream.

He’d remind me what I was being punished for, make me repeat it back to him and then tell me my punishment. Twenty strokes, I’m to count. I picture the red welts being laid across my cheeks, my fingers curling into fists while I struggle not to reach back, trying to accept the punishment he’s deemed appropriate while my tears drip onto the desk. I’d choke out the words:One, two, three. I’d pay the price and when it’s over…

He’d stroke my heated, red behind and then tell me to spread my legs, slipping a finger through my wetness when I had. He’d make a contented, appreciative grunt as he pressed inside of me.

“You like it when I discipline you, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like being told what to do and having consequences when you don’t follow instructions. Why is that?”

“Because…” The fingers that are sliding in and out of me are making coherent thought difficult but I don’t want him to stop. “Because it makes me feel loved.”

He’d rest a hand over mine, sprawled, clutching on the desk, nest his fingers between mine and lean down to kiss the sensitive spot where jaw meets ear.

“You are, Erin. I love you. I’m going to look after you.”

Then he’d push me forward until my hips were flush against the desk and withdraw his fingers, a smack landing hard on my flank when I cried out in disappointment. Soon my arms would be pinned behind my back, wrist to elbow, secured with his belt. I’d hear him unzip his pants. He’d press against me, making me wriggle to get closer to him.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to make you better.”

With that promise, he’d slam into me and the pressure from the smooth wood surface on my mound would be enough contact to get me off.

My fingers are moving faster, rubbing my clit in what used to be circles. It’s not until he comes inside me in my fantasy, gripping my shoulders hard for the last brutal thrusts, that I come in reality. My muscles clench tight around nothing and a low-level tone hums in my ear while I press my fingers against my clit a few more times, wringing every last bit out of this orgasm.

I slump, letting go of all the tension. It’s with images of Shep unbinding my arms, carrying me to bed and holding me tight, telling me over and over he loves me, that I finally fall asleep.

Chapter 11

Shep

Iknew I’d see her.

If not now, then when I hope I’ll be arriving on campus in the summer. It’s inevitable. A small campus, a small community—everyone will know I’m here within a matter of minutes. If she wanted to find me, it wouldn’t be hard. But I was hoping, really hoping, it wouldn’t be yet. I made the arrangements last minute in a move that fought every impulse I have so there’d be the possibility I wouldn’t have to see her yet. And if I don’t get the job, I don’t want to disappoint her. Would she be disappointed?

But here she is, stutter stepping down the wooden stairs that lead out of Leonard. She’s not holding the railing because her arms are full of books and notes. I have that same urge; it doesn’t even take a second.Be careful, you’re going to fall.But she doesn’t. She shifts the pile into one arm and grabs the peeling-paint-clad railing and stares, mouth open, eyes blinking as if she’s trying to figure out…

Yes, Erin, it’s me.

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