Page 39 of Manhattan Secret
And feeling entirely defenseless against a boy who has declared war on my resolve.
See you soon.
Some part of me is so freaking elated.
C H A P T E R 10
Delaney
Turns out when Lachlan said he’ll see me later he literally means later.
Just an hour in fact when he strolls casual as you like into my office where I sit in the broom closet style room grading papers for my 8thgraders.
“No, you can’t be here,” I declare, harassed that he’s doing this so soon, becoming panicked when he closes the door. I never close the door with any student, how bad will that look if a colleague has seen him coming in?
“You said if I have anything to discuss, to come to your office. Here I am, Miss Sloan.”
I sigh. “Lachlan, you are fast becoming my most problematic student.”
He grins, big and wide.
The pleasure, and yearning, and anxiety that bellows through me is way more intense than I want it to be just from seeing his long legs stretched out in front of him in my office.
He’s pushing my boundaries.
Making me feel and want and ache for things that any decent woman wouldn’t even entertain as a thought. In any other circumstance, this guy would be more than my equal. He’d be my teacher, my hedonistic leader.
But I can’t allow even a second thought to go there.
It’s made worse that I can’t breathe in the tiny broom closet office for inhaling his scent.
He hooks up the photo frame I’ve placed on my desk, studying the snap of me and the girls on our last weekend away to San Diego.
“Who are the chicks?”
“My best friends.”
“Pretty.” Both my besties are gorgeous. “You look hot though. You should wear those take-me-on the floor heels for me.”
Oh. My. God.
I snap the frame from his hand and lay it face down.
“I will, when you’re a full-grown adult.” I blurt out of nowhere and cringe to strangle the words in my bare hands.
Nothing deters Lachlan, I find. He half-smiles, folding his hands over his belly.
“I already am, Laney. I can vote, pay taxes, drive a car, I can fuck. I could get you pregnant over this desk and it’d be all legal. You’re too caught up in a number.”
My eyes bulge with his oh-so-logical list. That last one makes my thighs jello-quiver. “No, I’m caught up with being called a child molester.”
To which he throws back his head and roars laughing.
Then he’s out of the chair, coming around the desk, stalking me again. I don’t even have time to brace before he bodily lifts me from the seat as though he assumes I weigh less than a peony flower and plonks my ass on the desk on top of all my essays.
Shameful, he doesn’t have to open my legs, because those chubby bitches ping open on their own and let him stand between.
Damn, I really am a wanton slut aching for this boy who looks and acts like the biggest, bossy alpha-jerk I’ve ever come across.
