Page 45 of Teacher of the Year

“Oh, it’s complicated. Isabella and I are more… convoluted. We’re still friends. Illona talks to her every few days. We just, well, working together became an issue. For me, not her.”

“Oh. Is that why you sold your company?”

“Partly. I needed… a break. But we can talk about that another time. I’m enjoying myself. Let’s not ruin it.”

He reaches out and pats my foot. Even with my sock blocking direct skin-to-skin connection, I welcome the contact. Jill and I are affectionate all the time. Being friends with Olan might not be as hard as I thought.

The long week catches up to me, and much like my teenage infatuation for NSYNC, I begin to fade. Friday nights are tough, and I slowly close my eyes, relishing Olan’s hand resting on my foot. Olan grabs a blanket draped over the back of the couch and gingerly covers me. The blanket’s warmth, the crackling fire across the room, the lingering smell of pizza in the air, and Olan’s hand resting on my foot all comfort and lull me out.

My eyes struggle to open. Olan lays before me, his feet up on the chaise portion of the sofa, head tilted back, softly breathing, the right portion of his body tucked under the blanket with me. Apparently, once I dozed off, he followed suit. Netflix mocks us with the damn “are you still watching” message. Clearly, no. Peeking at my watch, I see it’s close to midnight. I should be home by now. Carefully, I attempt to get up without disturbing Olan, but he stirs, and one eye, followed by the other, cracks.

“What time is it?” he grumbles.

“Late. Stay put. I’m going to head home. I had a nice time tonight.” I swing my legs off the couch and prepare to stand.

“Stay. We have two guest rooms. Seriously, it’s late.”

“No, I should go.”

Do I want to walk home? Not particularly. I could call for a car. Would I rather spend the night here with him? Duh. But being Olan’s friend needs to happen in baby steps. Hanging out tonight has been lovely, and though I’ve enjoyed myself, I need to limit my exposure to him because, friend zone or not, chemistry gurgles under the surface.

“At least let me call you a car.”

“You’re sweet, but it’s not necessary.”

“Just stay, please.”

His voice shakes when he says “please,” and he moves closer and under the blanket’s cover, gingerly resting his hand on that spot between my thigh and knee he seems so fond of. A jolt of electricity rushes up to my chest, and I worry we’re teetering into dangerous waters. Doesn’t he know the thigh area lies in the erogenous zone? Friends aren’t allowed to put their hands on their friend’s thigh area when said friends are trying to remain in the friend zone.

He’s peering at me now, and I swear, by all that’s good and mighty, I know I’m rusty, and maybe I’m reading him wrong, but I swear there’s an eagerness and urgency, and um, I’m fairly certain he’s eye fucking me. His fingers crawl up my leg, and he takes my hand. The feel of his warm skin on mine leaves me paralyzed with uncertainty. My head tells me to stop. I’m frozen in motion. My heart tells me to carry on.

“I thought we were slowing things down?” I ask.

“Slowing down, yes. Stopping, no.” Have I missed a step? “Marvin, I want to kiss you so fucking bad.”

Apparently, I’ve missed more than a step. I’ve missed an entire flight of stairs. My breath catches, but I manage to murmur, “Oh. Um, okay.”

“Come here,” he says, his voice low and raspy, and I eagerly scoot over.

And his soft lips are on my face. On my cheek, yes, but so close to my mouth. A question, an invitation. At this juncture, I have a choice to make. Push him away and bolt home or succumb. I give a little sigh. If I died tonight, what a shame it would be to abandon this opportunity.

“Are you sure?”

He nods twice and mumbles, “Uh, huh.”

With permission granted, I adjust my face a few inches, and our lips connect, and though we’ve done this a few times now, the fire between us still makes my stomach do an entire gymnastics floor routine. We’re talking flips and somersaults and long sparkly ribbons waving in the air. A perfect ten. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this aroused from simply kissing someone. With Adam, there were sparks but no sizzle. His bravado always left me feeling inadequate, like I wasn’t quite enough. Olan makes me feel like I’m the entire universe waiting to be discovered, explored, and adored.

Being this close to him urges my soul to crawl out of its hiding place. Olan makes me feel protected from all my worries and fears. The act of kissing does something to him, too, clearly. His tongue dances with mine, and he slowly begins to push me down, my back to the sofa, and crawls on top of me.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

Okay? I give you the understatement of the year, and Olan asking me, wanting consent turns me on even more, which I didn’t think possible.

“Omigod, fuck yes. Come here.”

I put my arms around his torso, drawing him to me, urging his lips to stop speaking and get back to kissing. His tongue brushes my teeth, exploring my mouth. He shifts to my ear again, and there’s no hiding how much he excites me. Having Olan on me, all his weight, the pressure of his body, my dick comes to life, blood rushing to it, aching as he gently thrusts against me. I know I shouldn’t push him off me, but – overwhelmed by the sensations, the emotions, and the moment – I do. Shoving him up, he’s now between my legs, on his knees, staring at me. My spit dotting the corners of his lips, he gives me awhat now?look.

“Is something wrong?” he asks. The concern in his voice warms my chest.

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