Page 4 of Teaching Ms. Tingle

In a white cotton dress and sneakers, she could easily pass as one of us. Dark hair pulled atop her head bounced as she nodded her head. It took me a minute to figure out she was not listening to music—she was enjoying the musical sounds of the fountain.

Before I could go find out who she was, I watched Mr. Sands greet her. My physics teacher. I was confused until I heard him say her name.Ms. Tingle—our newest English professor and the talk of the entire campus.

For weeks after, I saw her all over. That might be because I was sure to wander past that fountain more than usual. Or because I made any excuse to meet up with someone I knew who took her class. Each time I saw her, it got worse.

My obsession with her kept me up at night. I could think of nothing else but her. Her bright eyes, her dazzling lopsided smile, and her sinful body. Kinsley draped her curves in dark stockings, tiny skirts, and tattered horror shirts. Nothing about her gave a hint of how brilliant of a professor she was.

“You got it bad, dude,” Connor Mitchell, my QB taunted just last week as he fell into a seat beside me in Ms. Tingle’s class.

Connor was right. I have itso badfor Kinsley Tingle. Knowing the star quarterback is in her class gives me an excuse to sneak whenever I want to see her. If that didn’t prove how bad I had it, the red haze of jealousy I felt watching some jerkoff flirt with her sure did.

“It doesn’t matter. Don’t give me a hard time about her,” I pleaded with a sad sigh, watching Ms. Tingle dismiss the flirting jerk.

That buddy of mine spent an entire study session giving me averyhard time about my fixation with Ms. Tingle. Reminders of how wrong it was to lust after a professor, about my coming graduation, and bullet points on our vast differences was almost too much.

“Is…is Ms. Tingle qualified to tutor me, sir?” It is a stupid, rude, desperate attempt to get out of this.

I cannot spend one-on-one time with Ms. Tingle. There is no way I would be able to hide what I feel about her. No way I could keep a safe distance. If I had her all to myself…I would be reckless with her.

My scholarship, my degree, even her role as a professor would not matter to me.

“I believe so, Mr. Hilton. Why don’t you go meet with her this afternoon? I’ve briefed her. She should have a schedule prepared soon.”

Clearing my throat as it goes dry, I nod. I excuse myself, pretending I am unbothered by having to face her so soon. Ignoring how my heart races in my chest, faster and harder than when I am on the field.

Facing down a two-hundred-pound linebacker is easier than this.

Twenty minutes later, I circled her building five times. Most of the campus is cleared of students this close to a new semester starting. I stayed on campus during the semester break to stay out of trouble. Trouble I was causing just to buck that campus hero bullshit I hate.

Since last spring I have been on my best behavior. I gave up pushing boundaries. To be honest, that all started when I turned my attention to Ms. Tingle. Not that she has any idea I have turned over a new leaf. Or that I believe she is responsible for it.

“Get any idea that this is going to be some porno setup out of your head, Hilton,” I tell myself as I pace the hallway outside her door. “She is a professor. Off limits. Just another student to her. It doesn’t matter who people let you think you are. Nothing is going to happen with your tutor.”

Letting out a deep breath, I nod. I am not convinced, but here I am at her door. Running a hand through my hair, I will my racing heart to calm down. Shaking out my hands, I blow out another shaky breath and then knock on her door.

When her door opens just a little, I feel my heart stutter. I see her feet first. Bare, tiny, the toenails painted black. Just as I would have expected. They are so cute, and I have a flash of me painting those nails for her, kissing the tiny toes before I rub her feet after a long day leading her class.

“H-hello Mr. Hilton. How...how can I... ahem, can I help you?”

Hearing her call me by name makes my gut twist. I hate it. It is too formal. I want her to call me Kane. I want her to hear the soft lilt of her voice, with its slightly southern cadence, saying my name.

Thrown for a moment, I stutter something about getting out of being tutored by her. It sounded like a good idea when I thought of it on my way over here. Now that I am face to face with her, I decide it is an awful idea. Iwanther to be my tutor.

I want that one-on-one time I was so afraid of.

Thankfully, she dismisses my attempts to get out of this whole thing. When she invites me in, I am too eager. I move too close too fast. I can feel her bare thighs brush against my jeans, my dick jerking behind my zipper.

I start to apologize until I chance a look at her. Her creamy skin is pink. Pinker than usual. She is…she is flustered. Because of me? Because of that brief brush of our bodies against one another? The idea excites me, palm pushing down on my hard-on as I take a seat.

The low hum I heard before I knocked turns out not to be music or her talking to someone. I am a little ashamed I hesitated, trying to eavesdrop. It is a podcast. One I know well because it is one of my personal favorites.

“Shredded Stories?” I mention the podcast, smirking as I watch her beautiful face flush again. God, she issocute.

“Yes, I listen to it when I am working. I know it is a bit dark,” Ms. Tingle murmurs, pink lips curving in a half smile. Lifting a hand, she brushes a lock of glossy black hair behind her ear. I want to reach out to find out how soft her raven hair is, my fingers flexing on my lap with the urge.

I take a moment to savor being so close to her. It is the closest I have allowed myself to get. I cansmellher. Fall. She smells like fall. Fresh air, cinnamon, crisp apples. Delicious. I mutter something about making the best of this ordeal, knowing she has no idea what I mean.

I knew it would take getting close to her once for me to be done for. And I was right. Sitting here with her is the first time I have felt so calm,so right, in so long. I could care less about passing English.

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