And I’m happy.
But I’ll be a lot happier when I can nail her properly.
“Your ass, can I touch it?” she whispers.
I growl when my cock jerks in response to her saucy mouth. “Yeah…” is all I can manage while I’m kissing m
y way down her neck, down her breastbone. Her hands slip into the back pockets of my jeans and she squeezes.
My breath hitches. Her tits are pushed up so high by her bra that I’ve lost myself in her cleavage and I have to come up for air. I rest my head on her breastbone.
“Vince, I want to feel your beard on my boobs.”
I’ve got her leaned back against her desk. Her hands scramble at the front of her shirt. I cover her hands with one of mine and kiss her slowly, deeply, bringing out a low moan from the back of her throat.
“Slow down, Jewel. You read my mind. And I got this.”
I slide my hand up from her hip and gently tug the fabric covering her breasts. Not all the way, just down to her bra line. I kiss and tenderly play with the soft, silky skin that protrudes out of the lacy bra. Every inch of this woman is obnoxiously delightful. Obnoxious is the wrong word for her, but it fits because every delightful thing about her reminds me that this must be a dream. Or a scam. No woman in her right mind should be this open to a guy like me.
“Oh my god…I’ve never felt a beard on my boobs before. It’s really lovely. Mmm.” Her hands are all over my hair, face and beard. I might explode any minute.
“Fucking hell. Listening to you talk like that is gonna make me grow too big for my drawers.”
She sighs and runs her hands up and down my neck. “Are you gonna take me for a ride on your Nimbus, right here on my desk?”
“The fuck—”
She giggles. “Never mind.”
I have to quiet that mouth before I nut inside my jeans. Kissing her doesn’t exactly calm down my cock, but at least she’s not talking dirty at me. Her hands keep moving as our lips tango. The moment her hand drifts down my stomach and comes to rest on my aching bulge, some asshole knocks on the door.
Both of us curse repeatedly as we jerk away from each other. Well, Jewel doesn’t exactly curse. Her muttering “son of a biscuit eater” while she hikes her shirt back into place and smooths her hair doesn’t qualify as cursing, but it does qualify as totally fuckin’ adorable.
“Come over tonight. I can get a sitter for Max. I—” I am so damn angry that we’re being interrupted I have to resolve this immediately.
“It’s a Monday night, are you crazy?”
“And?”
“And I’m a teacher! All I’m going to do tonight is lesson plans and work on my GT certification,” she huffs.
I growl in frustration. “Fine. Saturday night. My place. Dinner.”
Granted, she will agree to anything to get me to leave, as the person who knocked is now trying the locked doorknob.
Turns out it’s one of the other kindergarten teachers, who has been managing a game night with the students while their parents work the bake sale. Max is with her.
He sees me and asks, “Why was the door locked? I want to go home.”
I turn and point at Jewel as Max drags me out into the hallway. “Saturday.”
Max drags me down the hall, asking me, “Why do you have glitter in your beard?”
Later that night, I look up the meaning of GT in a search engine. Evidently, Jewel is studying to receive certification for Gifted and Talented instruction.
While I’m fiddling around online—we don’t need to call it stalking—I get an email alert from Barry. The message is titled “Interesting” and it’s a follow-up to our conversation about Jewel. He’s attached a file of some kind. Within the body of the message he’s written, “You might want to read this.”
My cursor hovers over the tiny paper clip then moves over the trash icon. Which will it be?