Page 26 of Lessons with the Mothman

It's just role-play, Vic. People do it all the time. Brett thought it was tacky, but it's perfectly normal and?—

I pursed my lips and released a long breath. I had on sneakers and white knee socks. I just wasn't quite sure what to do with my hair.

Pigtails were a firm no. Two braids made me look like a child. A ponytail made a wild puff of curls behind my head. And I…I was already having a hard time wrapping my head around this. I twisted my hair back in the usual lazy way, grabbing a claw clip and fastening it in place, watching as strands worked their way free immediately, curling against the back of my neck and around my face. I looked more like a naughty librarian than a naughty schoolgirl, but I could still seemyselfin the mirror and I needed that right now.

He's not actually grading you. This won't matter, I reminded myself. And the minutes were ticking by fast.

"Can't be late to class," I murmured to my reflection, a slightly hysterical laugh rising up from my throat in answer. I shook my head, pulling the last detail of my costume out of my bag and tucking my folded clothes away, leaving them on the floor in the bathroom.

There was still no sign of Elias as I walked out into the hall, alone in the long space. The air flowing under my skirt and against my bare sex was a shock. I'd tried going without underwear a couple times with Brett when we were younger, wanting it to feel like an arousing invitation, maybe even trying to incite him into a semi-public quickie.

He'd told me it felt like an invitation to anyone, rather than just to him, and I hadn't repeated the offer.

Maybe this was too?—

No.Iwanted to try it. To see how Elias reacted. There was no real risk if he didn't like it.

I smoothed my hands over my skirt as I reached the stairs, climbing slowly, wondering anyone at bottom would've seenanything, had they been there. My face warmed, heat rising in my core.

It's cheap, Vicky.

So was role-playing as a student in need of extra credit. But apparently it also got me wet.

Elias had the doors of the rooms on the second floor closed, and I itched to open them, but I knew from the last time I'd been in his home that it would take me too long to really enjoy everything I found. And he was waiting for me.

My palms were starting to sweat. I turned to the right hall, with only two doors on the left. We were at the back corner of the house, and I wondered if there'd be a view of his backyard, what it would look like.

The door was cracked open, a sunlit wood floor my only view from the hall. I paused, listening, and heard a scratch of chalk on a chalkboard, my lips curving up. How very retro of him. I wondered how long it had been since Elias had been in a classroom. It was all smart boards or whiteboards nowadays.

I knocked with two knuckles and waited.

"Come in, Miss Dempsey."

I shivered at the new firm snap of his voice and pushed the door open, frozen in place at the sight before me.

Nine desks, spread evenly in the room. The kind with chairs attached and little cubbies for your books. InElias's house.

The windows had old vinyl pull-down shutters, and when I stepped in and glanced to the back wall, I let out a startled yip of a laugh. Inspirational posters. Thankfully, not the dangling kitten.

"Eli—"

"Miss Dempsey," he interrupted, and I startled, turning to the front once more, my mouth drying as he turned, golden wings tucking into his back.

Oh. Maybe Ididhave a bit of a kink for professors?

Elias was wearing perfectly tailored gray trousers, a brown leather belt, and a white button-down, although it was once again generously open over his chest. He was standing at the chalkboard, staring at me over a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. His gaze landed on my hand and the gift I'd been holding, and he offered me a perfectly indulgent smile.

"You brought me an apple."

I wanted to acknowledge what we were really doing—that I was playing a part, that this was theatrical. Had he always had a classroom taking up one of the rooms in his house? Or had he arranged this the same way he'd done with the staged bed downstairs for Atlas and Cyril's demonstration, forme?

"Take a seat, Miss Dempsey."

I wet my lips and then nodded, stopping briefly at the large, gently scuffed yellow oak desk. A tweed jacket with felt patched elbows was draped over the back of his chair. A jar of pencils. A few file folders. A cup of paperclips.

And a stack of little blue essay books.

There was no logical reason why my body clenched with arousal, feverish goose bumps racing over my skin, except for the sheer amount ofthoughthe'd put into this moment.

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