Fuck me, I just want to see her again. Just a glimpse before I face the emptiness of my house.
Ten minutes later, my wish materializes on the sidewalk up ahead. Even in the faint moonlight, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, and the flare of her hips are distinguishable. Erotic. So goddamn captivating.
With my car tucked behind a truck, my whole body cants against the door panel to keep her within my sight.
Her long legs carry her toward her house, slowly, leisurely, her chin held high and shoulders relaxed. She’s not afraid here, not like she is in my classroom. How ironic given the dangerous neighborhood.
In the depraved innards of my soul, I thrill at being the thing she fears. I want to claim her apprehension, dread, and uncertainty. I want to take ownership of all of her emotions and be the sole reason she trembles and cries.
In that moment, I pretend I’m not her teacher. With my hand curled around the steering wheel and my shoulder pressed against the door, I watch a beautiful woman walk toward me. She’s strikingly exotic with her enormous eyes and long dark hair, so impossibly stunning I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from approaching her. I would pause a few feet away, hold her gaze, and let the malleable silence enfold us in an intimate cocoon. I wouldn’t need words, just her awareness of my body, my intent, and my confidence to give her what she craves.
She may not know it but she needs clearly-defined boundaries, discipline, and a man she can trust to push her beyond her comfort zone. She may not yet recognize me as that man, but she will. Then what?
Parked five houses away, I can’t focus on anything but her. What happens tomorrow when I sit beside her on the piano bench, breathing in the scent of her skin? How the fuck will I focus then?
With the engine off, the lack of air is stifling. My shirt is soaked through with sweat, the tie long-ago discarded. I’m burning up, antsy, aching for her. Horny as fuck.
She stops at the front door and unlocks it with a key from her satchel. Reaching in to flick on the interior lights, she doesn’t make it over the threshold before an orange cat races out. As it prances around her feet, throwing its body against her ankles, her words come back to me.
I can’t afford running shoes or food for my cat.
A heavy pressure sinks into my muscles, urging me to storm into her life and fix her problems. I have the money, determination, and desire to improve her situation. As her teacher, she’s my responsibility. To nurture. To protect.
All of which is appropriate as long as I don’t imagine the grip of her cunt around my cock.
She scoops up the cat and nuzzles it against her neck as she carries it inside. The door closes, and the curtains fall across the window, shutting me out. Time to go.
On the drive back to the Garden District, I resolve to maintain professionalism around Miss Westbrook. If I manage to finish the year without burying myself between her legs, I might find a rather satisfying future at Le Moyne. Of course, keeping my hands off her also means my future won’t include a jail cell.
As I walk into my house, I’m greeted with stacks of packed boxes, bare walls, and a total lack of warmth despite the humidity. I moved in three months ago, but haven’t really moved in. Unpacking feels a lot like acceptance.
Acceptance of a life without Joanne.
I drift through the spacious living room, hearth room, and kitchen, every corner and archway adorned with custom moldings and deep earthy tones. Maybe tomorrow I’ll begin filling the rooms with furniture and personal belongings. But tonight, all I need is the brilliant piece of craftsmanship that sits down the hall.
I make my way there, veering into my favorite room, the reason I bought this overpriced estate. The pristine hardwoods shine beneath the chandelier, and the Gothic arched fireplace at the far end conjures images of distant lands and mystical cultures. But the room’s centerpiece demands my full attention.
Approaching my grandfather’s Fazioli concert grand piano, I run a finger along the curved body. Rare and extremely valuable, it took three years to make, crafted with superb materials, down to the gold-plated hinges and screws. The heart of the piano is carved from the same red spruce trees Stradivari used for his famous violins. But that’s not why I cherish this sexy beast.