Page 62 of Broken Dream
Reality has a nasty way of crashing in. I’ve crossed a line that should not have been crossed. She’s my student, she’s younger than I am, and she expects me to guide her through her education.
Not through this.
But what’s done is done.
I can’t turn back time and undo what just happened between us. In some twisted way, I don’t want to, either. As wrong as it may have been, being with Angie felt right—so right that it scares me.
I quickly dress, finding my clothes strewn around in the kitchen.
I need to say something to her…but what?
My heart hammers as I finally muster up the courage to look at her. She meets my gaze, her eyes still shining with warmth, her cheeks flushed a rosy pink.
She’s beautiful, no doubt about it.
“Angie,” I say. “This… This was…”
Was what?
A mistake? I’m not sure if I can label it as such when every nerve ending in my body is still humming with the pleasure of our encounter.
How can I find the right words?
She shushes me, placing a finger on my lips. “Don’t,” she murmurs. “Don’t spoil it with words.”
What she says has merit. How amazing would it be to just revel in the gratification?
But we can’t ignore this either.
“No,” I say. “We need to talk about this.”
She sighs, slides off the counter, and walks over to me, her naked form illuminated by the harsh kitchen lighting.
Fuck.
Gorgeous.
Perfection.
She wraps her arms around my waist and buries her face in my chest, the warmth of her breath seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt.
“Can we not talk about it tonight?” she whispers, her voice heavy with an emotion I can’t quite place. “Just for tonight, can we pretend that there’s nothing wrong with this? That we’re not teacher and student, but just…us?”
I pull her closer and tangle my fingers in her silky hair. “All right.”
But just for tonight.
Still naked, she opens the door to a panting Tillie. Then she leads me out of the kitchen and to her bedroom. It’s decorated in a soft feminine style. On the wall are black-and-white posters of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, and Big Ben in London. My stomach twists as I realize that these probably hung in her dorm room in undergrad. At least she’s bought frames for them.
I turn my attention from the posters to her bed, which is covered in light-yellow plush pillows and blankets. The sight of it, beckoning me over, almost makes me forget about the lines I just crossed.
Almost.
She slides into the bed first, her movements as graceful as a swan. Her eyes never leave mine as I strip off my shirt and toss it on a nearby chair.
“Jason.” She pats the empty spot beside her on the bed.
I walk over and sink onto the mattress, the soft fabric molding to my body as I remove the rest of the clothes I just put back on. Angie moves closer to me, tugging at me until I’m lying down next to her. She rests her head on my bare chest and snuggles into my side. I instinctively wrap my arm around her and pull her closer.
