Page 40 of Private Tutoring
The same curiosity that appeared every time I asked a student to stay after class caused several students to linger. I made it a point to ask different students to stay instead of singling Harmony out every time. It helped keep suspicion off us. I walked to the back corner of the room and began erasing the questions I’d written there for yesterday’s class.
“Professor?” Harmony followed me at a distance.
I grinned at her over my shoulder. “Congratulations.”
“On what?” She wrapped her arms around her middle.
“You aced your last test.” My grin stretched wider. “The plan to have you take them without a time limit seems to be working. How did you feel about the questions?”
Her mouth had fallen open, and it snapped shut with a click. “I aced it? Really?”
“Really.” I risked touching her cheek with my knuckle, letting the shiver pass between us.
“It’s easier for me to concentrate when I know I don’t have to keep an eye on the time.” She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and shook her head.
Thick tears sheened her eyes, and she sniffled.
“Hey, this is good news.”
“I know.” Her tears turned into a wobbly smile. She leaped toward me and threw her arms around my neck.
I caught her around the waist. “I’m so proud of you. You worked hard, and it’s working.”
Her arms tightened, her breath rushing out. “I never would have made it without your coaching and willingness to take an alternative approach.” Her lips met mine, her joy slipping between us.
I slid a hand up her spine and to the back of her neck. The room fell away. All that mattered was this moment, Harmony in my arms, her success a beacon of light.
She groaned into my mouth and tangled her hands in my hair. It was something she’d done since the beginning, and I loved it more than I thought possible. The scrape of nails over my scalp sent sparks firing off in my body.
What had been a gentle hold turned possessive. I wanted her, needed her, with such fervor there should be a sonnet written about her. Perhaps I’d write it myself and whisper it into her ears as we lay in bed together.
Her tongue met mine in a tangle of rising desire. The hand I’d placed on her back slid down to cup her ass. I turned us so the rolling whiteboard blocked us from sight to anyone walking past my door. This was dangerous. Too dangerous. I should stop. It was up to me to draw the line and move away.
She rose onto her tiptoes, and the press of her into my chest dissolved any argument I might have about getting caught. My control slipped, disappeared.
I rocked my hips into her, sipping from her lips when she gasped. “Harmony.” I groaned her name.
Wheels squeaked, and a heavy fist knocked on the door. “Professor Rossi?”
I jumped back, as did Harmony. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair mussed. I must have run my hands through it without realizing. I winked at her. “Come on in, Gerald. I’m just finishing up a tutoring session.”
Harmony flushed crimson and tugged the hem of her shirt.
We were still behind the board, and I took advantage of the space to fix her hair and my pants.
“Sure thing.” Gerald, the same janitor who had cleaned my room for years, pushed his cleaning cart deeper into the room and began picking up the random food wrappers some kids left behind no matter how many times I asked them to clean up after themselves.
“Keep up the good work, Miss Vogel.” I picked up the marker and scribbled on the board, making doodles that made no sense.
“Thank you, sir. I will.” She turned on her heel and marched out from behind the board.
I followed at a slower pace, watching as she picked up her bag and smiled warmly at Gerald on her way out of the room. She ducked her head, letting hair fall from behind her ears. Another habit of hers I’d noticed when she tried to hide.
I waited for her steps to fade. “How are you, Gerald?” I erased the board, then moved to clean up my desk, stacking papers and tapping them together. My grade book lay open on the center of the desk, and a goofy smile threatened when I saw Harmony’s name on one of the tiny lines.
Gerald—a gray-haired, slump-shouldered man at least seventy years old—squinted up at me. He shoved a handful of wrappers in the trash and grabbed his broom. “Never better. You?”
I answered with a similar response and continued straightening up. I usually ran into Gerald at the end of the day, but I only had one class today. He must have decided to get an early start.
