Page 21 of If The Shoe Fits

Why is it happening?

And more importantly, why do I kind of want it to keep happening?

I wiggle out of his grasp like a slippery eel, stepping away and spinning around so my back is to him.

Maybe if I can’t see him, I can get my brain—and my wildly racing pulse—under control.

“Okay. Principal Tremayne,” I say firmly, determined to establish some professional distance.

“Wulfy,” he corrects, his tone soft and almost playful, like he’s trying to coax a skittish cat out of a tree.

I whip around and narrow my eyes at him, but the effect is totally wasted because he’s still grinning.

Grinning and inching closer like some cocky, predatory panther who knows his prey has nowhere to run.

“Goddess, you are something,” he says, his whiskey-colored eyes practically glowing as they sweep over me. “Look at those eyes. Dark as midnight and just as mysterious.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. I don’t like where this is going.

“And those curls,” he murmurs, his hand reaching out before I can stop him. His fingers find a lock of my hair, twirling it gently.

“It’s horribly frizzy when it rains. And it gets tangled. A lot.”

“Sweet Witch, it’s beautiful. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about seeing all this glorious hair of yours spread across my sheets like a billowing sail.”

I freeze. My brain short-circuits.

Did he really just say that? Out loud?

“Wulfy, I don’t think?—”

“You don’t think *what*?” he interrupts, his voice dropping to a rumbling purr that makes my knees go alarmingly weak. “That I’ve imagined what it’d be like to tangle my hands in this hair? To kiss you senseless? To feel you shiver against me?”

Okay, that’s it. My pulse officially breaks the sound barrier.

“You’re insane,” I manage to choke out, stepping back again, only to bump into his desk.

Fantastic.

Now I’m trapped between the mahogany monstrosity and the walking, talking daydream that is Wulfy Tremayne.

“Insane?” he repeats, his grin softening into something that looks suspiciously like genuine affection.

“Maybe. But if I am, it’s only because you drive me there.”

My mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound comes out. I feel like a fish flopping on dry land, completely out of my depth.

“Don’t fight this, Sweet Witch,” he says, his hand brushing my cheek now, his touch impossibly warm. “You feel it too, don’t you? This pull between us?”

I hate that he’s right.

I hate that my body betrays me with every shaky breath and every inch I lean closer without meaning to.

But more than anything, I hate that I’m this close to swooning.

And when he leans in, his golden eyes locked on mine, his voice a low growl as he murmurs, “Let me show you,” I know I’m in serious trouble.

Holy motherhumping hotness.

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