I’ve done a lot of dumb things in my life, but hooking up with Jack Slater last night takes the cake.

I can’t stop thinking about him. About what we did. It was just so … dirty. So exhilarating. Who’d have guessed Slater had such a wild streak. It fit mine—along with other things—perfectly.

But we can’t do it again. We could both get in so much trouble.

Now, I’m wondering if agreeing to meet him to talk about my unit was a mistake too.

I glance around Bob’s Bagels. It’s midafternoon on game day Saturday. We should be fine. If I run into anyone I know, I’ll just play it cool and say I’m having trouble with my unit and McSlutbag—Mr. Slater—is helping me iron out the details. It’s a public place. There’s nothing wrong with talking about work stuff over a bagel and a cup of coffee.

I sink into my seat and check my watch again. He’s fifteen minutes late.

I open my folder and spread the pages over the table.

Slater did me against a basketball post last night.

Heat sears my cheeks as I remember his lips on mine and that look of pure, stormy abandon as we came and kissed and melted and breathed. I rub my finger over my bottom lip, tracing the curve, imagining it’s his tongue.

My nipples harden.

Warmth pools between my legs.

I close my eyes and see his handsome face, all growly and bossy and pissed off. It closes on me and turns seductive, possessive, like he’d battle a wombat for me. Wombats are big and scary, right?

Shit. I think I meant a wolverine.

Whichever of those hairy things is badass and alpha-y.

“Roxie?” Slater’s voice trips me, and I lurch out of my yummy daydream face first into reality with a painful punch to the lady nads.

I straighten my spine and curl my fingers around a stray bit of hair, tugging it out of my face. I have a pervasive, acute case of total and utter embarrassment for which there is no known cure. I apply a smile and hope for the best.

You will not screw him again, Roxie. You will not. Mind on business.

Jesus Murphy.

Wearing my favorite pair of jeans—the ones that are loose enough to keep my imagination active but tight enough to remind me those sweet glutes powered the cock that was inside me last night—Slater towers over the two-top table in the middle of the restaurant, staring down at me. Is he really that tall? How did I miss it before?

Self-conscious and still blushing, I motion for him to sit. “Hi, Mr. Slater. Thanks for coming.”

I wince. Gotta work on that word choice, Roxie.

As he takes a seat, the angle on his grin slides wider, signaling his acknowledgment and appreciation of the Freudian slip. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I had to get an Uber and pick up my car.”

“Oh, right,” I say, then look through the window. “It stopped raining.” Obviously. God, I can’t think straight.

He follows my glance and sighs, returning to me, staring. “Yeah. Too bad.”

It feels like he can see right through me, like he’s throwing an X-ray over all the ugly parts I’d rather keep hidden. My pulse races. I want to be with him again. I want him to throw me on this table and take me so hard and so fast, I bruise my back and strain every muscle to the breaking point. I want him starving for me like I am for him.

This is just lust. Pure and simple. Like middle school hormones.

I press my lips together and dig out a pen from my backpack pocket. “So, I have an idea about the project. I’d really like to get the kids involved and excited, and I think the best way to do that is to—”

He reaches across the table and catches my hand. His grip is firm. “We gonna pretend it didn’t happen? Is that what you want?”

His skin is warm. He’s pissed. Sparked by a rush of hunger for closeness, I flip my palm up to kiss his, lacing our fingers with a soft squeeze.

“It’s not what I want,” I breathe.

“Then tell me what you do want,” he says, his demanding green gaze tracing the lines of my face down to my mouth. A swipe of his tongue across his lips sends desire tunneling between my clamped thighs.

You and me on a deserted island with nothing but the waves and wind to see us, naked and fucking like rutting little animals 24/7.

“We really should talk about these lessons,” I blurt, my voice trembling. “My unit starts soon, and I don’t have the first thing written.”

He scowls at the scattered papers between us. “Fine. Do the video project. Teach them how to make voodoo dolls, for all I care.” He flings his body back into his chair, taking his hand with him.

I look down at my empty palm and sigh. “Clearly, it’s not what you want me to do. It’s your class. You have the final say.”

He drops his head and shakes it. “Can we put the school crap on hold for a couple minutes?”

I open the timer app on my phone and set it between us. Somebody has to be the adult here, and the irony that it’s me, as thirsty as I am for him, is not lost on me. “You have three.”

He crashes his lips together. A muscle in his cheek twitches. “You got me all wound up, Roxie. The shit that happened last night … It can’t happen again.”

Okay, good. This is very good. As much as I wish he was wrong, he’s absolutely right. We have some damage control to do.

“It was a spontaneous … thing, Mr. Slater. We gave in to some impulses. I can’t let Elliott find out about this. Let’s just forget it happened.” Even as I say the words, the simmer low in my belly threatens to erupt into a full boil at the memory of his furious lips and teeth grazing my neck, the rain streaming over and between us on the court, the jerk of his hips when he came.

He’s gotta turn down the hotness. I’m getting third-degree burns over here.

“Jack,” he mumbles, raking a hand through his hair.

“What?” I say, not sure I heard him right.

“Call me Jack,” he says testily. “If you keep looking at me like that and call me Mr. Slater again, I’ll—” He shakes his head and turns away, working his jaw into a tizzy. “Never mind.”

I inhale a big breath and let it out slowly. Calling him Jack would take this—whatever it is—to a much more personal level, and I’m not sure I can do that. “I think it’s best we keep this professional, Mr. Slater. Maybe we can come to a compromise on the unit. Could we give the kids some choices for a book project? A menu of options?”

A day’s worth of stubble darkens his cheeks and chin. His mussed hair flops to the side. I want to be the reason his hair is fucked up like that. And his eyes … they’re twin emeralds drilling holes into my soul, probing for vulnerabilities. I’m riddled with them, so he shouldn’t have far to go.

“No more choices, Roxie,” he says. “No more freedom. I told you, I know what’s best.”

Is he talking about what’s best for our students or me? Because I get the distinct impression this is about me.

Here we go, back to eighth grade when Dictator McSlutbag ruled with an iron fist—flunking me in language arts because it was “best for me.” He wanted to teach me a lesson for daring to be square in a sea of round pegs. He wanted to demonstrate how much power he held over my life by robbing me of my one chance of success. No pass, no play. Poor little Roxie. Try again next time.

Nothing’s changed, has it? He still thinks he can bulldoze his way over everything I try to accomplish because I’m too stupid and naïve to know better.

I hate him for how he makes me doubt myself. I hate him for the guilt I feel about Elliott, even though we’re taking a break. I hate him for being so goddamn tempting and making me want to sin with him again and again and again.

“Asshole,” I murmur.

His penetrating eyes narrow to slits. “Bitch.”

My timer goes off. When I slap it silent, he dives across the table and destroys my resolve with a bomb of a kiss that’s been ticking quietly on the fringes, counting down to this moment when it knocks me senseless.

The restaurant melts into oblivion, and there’s only him, me, and our mouths jockeying for control over each other.

You don’t know what’s best for me, I project with a playful bite to his lower lip.

I know better than anyone, he seems to reply with a swipe of tongue across mine.

The conversation gets lost in translation after that.

“Number 69,” a guy behind the counter shouts and dings a bell, destroying my concentration. The world shimmers back into focus, and I open my eyes. In my peripheral vision, a couple people nearby watch us. I quickly break the kiss, but Slater holds my elbows in place on the table, keeping our mouths inches apart.

His panty-melting stare reflects insatiable, roaring hunger, identical to mine.

The gravity between us grows stronger with each second. I feel myself being pulled deeper into his orbit. I’m paralyzed, unable to stop him from coming at me, even though he hasn’t moved an inch.

I want him coming at me.

In me.

All over me.

His pupils flare. He breaks the trance, whips out his phone, and furiously texts something.

“What are you doing?” I stammer.

“You’re coming home with me. Now.”

He doesn’t ask. He tells.

Torn between wanting to do exactly what he ordered and wanting to graduate, I gesture to the papers. “I can’t just drop everything. My diploma’s on the line.”

“I appreciate that, Roxie.” He nods, annoyed, and lowers his voice to a distant, gravelly thunder I can’t ignore. “But if you don’t get your ass in my car right now, I won’t be at school on Monday due to a harrowing case of blue balls brought on by unrequited student teacher lust.”

I melt into my chair like a wet noodle.

Sploosh.

His phone chimes with a text. He reads it, then stands up, gathering my stuff and sweeping it furiously in my backpack.

Flustered and turned on all at once, I find the strength to put my foot down. Sort of. “Okay, I’ll go. But on one condition: we have to spend at least two hours on my unit. And you have to promise to be open to my ideas. What happens after that is up for discussion.”

He huffs. “Fine. Two hours. Get your ass in the car, Roxie.” Towering over me, he wears intensity like designer cologne. Like a man who always gets what he wants. Like a man who’s gonna take what he wants.

Holy fuckballs, I want to give it to him too. Because right now, my loins are quivering with the ferocity of a woman mad with need and denied her due too long.

“Fine. Jack.” I spit his name out with a husky tone I hope makes his nads do jumping jacks.

He stiffens.

I glance to the bulge using his zipper as a punching bag. I grin. Good. I’m having an impact. Maybe he’ll actually listen to my ideas. Then I’ll decimate him in the bedroom.

“Goddamn it, woman,” he says, all husky and shit. He grabs my hand, winding our fingers into a knot, and gives it an urgent squeeze.

He stomps to the door, practically dragging me behind him as I try to keep up with his long strides.

I’m blazing with carnal hunger. Alight with desire. Fueled by passion.

Am I falling for Slater? Surely not. This is just a rebound thing after the whiplash Elliott gave me.

But can you call it rebounding if you never really loved the guy to begin with? I was only with Elliott because he was kind and treated me well. I don’t think he knows what he wants, other than to throw his parents’ domineering bullshit back in their faces.

I’m starting to wonder if our relationship and subsequent engagement was his payback for enduring a couple decades’ worth of mommy and daddy issues. Maybe Elliott isn’t as ditzy as I thought.

“Yo, what’s up, pretty lady?” a squeaky voice on the verge of changing hollers.

I freeze.

Slater freezes.

Our hands drop, and our eyes swivel in sync to the small redheaded human sitting atop a grungy bike, his arms draped loosely over the handlebars. He grins up at us.

“So, Mr. Slater, you gettin’ some today?” Attila says, blatantly scraping his gaze down me from head to toe. I can practically hear the sound of nails on a chalkboard.

I fold my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes on him. With a quick, casual chin lift, I say, “What’s up, Attila?”

Slater steps in front of me, using his body to hide me from view. It’s not like the kid’s gonna do anything, but I appreciate the gesture. My own personal caveman throwing off those protective vibes stirs the honey pot down below.

“No, I’m not ‘gettin’ some,’” Slater snipes. Is he snarling? I like it when he snarls.

I step around to Slater’s side and bend over toward Attila. “What are you doin’?”

Seething, Slater works his jaw.

Attila smiles slyly. “Oh, you know, just ridin’ around, seein’ what everyone’s up to, when lo and behol’, I come up here to find y’all walkin’ outta the bagel shop. I don’t wanna see no teachers on a Saturday, but maybe I caught somethin’ good after all.”

Shit. He saw me kiss Slater.

My blood chills.

Slater’s shoulders tense.

“We were just doin’ some planning for y’all next week. We got all sorts of fun in store.”

His grin swallows his face. “I bet you do.”

“All right, Attila,” Slater says, his voice wired and rigid, “why don’t you go on home before your dad starts wondering where you went. You shouldn’t be out here riding your bike in traffic. It’s dangerous.”

“Hell, yeah, it’s dangerous. There’s all kinds of fires startin’ at the bagel place.” Attila shakes his hand at the wrist like he’s trying to sling something off it and winks at me. “Smokin’!”

I turn to Slater, pretending to be cool while struggling to keep a telltale blush from giving me away. Attila’s a smart kid. He totally knows what’s up. “I gotta be going, Mr. Slater,” I say. “Thanks for all the help.”

Attila clears his throat loudly. “Yeah-boy. The help. Was it good for you, Mr. Slater?”

Slater’s about to blow a gasket. “See you at school on Monday, Attila,” he grits out and starts for his car. “Bye, Miss Rambling.”

I head toward the bus stop. Attila watches me like a hawk. He’s not gonna let me go with Slater. I’ll give the kid credit. He’s got stones.

He waits for Slater to drive away, waves at him while flashing a huge grin, and peddles off down the street slowly, looking back at me every few feet. “Bye, Miss Rambling,” he shouts over his shoulder mimicking the way Slater said the same words a minute ago.

And then white-boy Attila breaks into a rap.

“Miss-Miss Rambling. She be scrambling. Doin’ the jing-jing. Gamblin’ a sing-sing with Slater’s ding-a-ling. Who got the bagel? She got the bagel? ’Cause he slipped it to her sly with a flyboy finagle. Dipped his fingers into her vat. Say, how’s that pussy … cat?”

Laughter fills the space his little lyrical bomb evacuated behind him, and I curl my arms around myself.

Holy shit, if that kid keeps singin’, the death bell’s gonna be ringin’ come Monday morning when Slater and I walk into school clingin’ to our dignity while our asses be stingin’.

Something tells me Attila won’t soon forget the words to his little ditty. He’s gonna do his damnedest to make it into a platinum bestseller on Bracken Middle’s Top Forty for Shawties.

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