Author: Parker, Tamsen
Date: 2019-08-12

Taming His Teacher

Tamsen Parker

About This Book

Erin

I’m back at Hawthorn Hill, the only place I’ve ever really called home. Is it weird that it’s an all-boys boarding school and I’m only four years older than some of my students? Yes. And what makes it worse is Zach Shepherd. He’s my student, but he’s also my biggest crush. To let anything happen with him would be career suicide but to stay away from him might shatter my heart.

Shep

Three years after I graduated, I’m back on the Hill, this time as a member of the faculty. Some things have changed but I still think Erin Brewster is the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. I want to be with her more than anything, and I’ve picked up a trick or two while I’ve been gone. Maybe with my new skills, I’ll have Erin begging to be held after class...

Copyright © 2016 by Tamsen Parker

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Design by Lori Jackson (https://www.lorijacksondesign.com/)

All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.

Created with Vellum

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Alpha in the Sheets

Thank You!

Also by Tamsen Parker

About the Author

Acknowledgments

A Hawthorn Hill Christmas

Chapter 1

Erin

Whatever you do, do not think of them naked.

It’s my first day at my new job. My heart is beating hard and my palms are sweating. Don’t. Panic. Fainting is not the way to show them you’re in control.

The second hand on the clock ticks to seven-forty and I take a deep breath. Here we go.

“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Brewster. Miss Brewster to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.”

My eyes skim over my audience as I make my speech, telling them my rules for homework and tests, my expectations for making up work and seeking notes when they’re ill.

Teenage boys. Why did I think this was a good idea? They’re regarding me in polite silence, although if I could crystal-ball gaze into their adolescent skulls, I bet I’d see myself in revealing lingerie if anything at all, spread open in some pinup-worthy pose. I’m going to have to earn every inch from these boys.

When they’d filed in, I’d noticed all of them are taller than I am. To be expected since I’m five feet tall and they’re seniors, but I hope I’ll have a few inches on some of my freshmen. Please?

They’re a well-groomed crew on the whole: to-dress-code blazers clean and button-down shirts crisp. Whether because they want to make a good impression or because they haven’t had a chance to spill anything on themselves, I’m not sure. Most of them have the careless posture of kids who feel entitled to be here, a few the eager forward-leaning of perennial teachers’ pets, and one—whose intense gaze nearly sends me tripping over my wastebasket—sits ramrod straight. Dark blue eyes under heavy slanted brows and long lashes any cover girl would murder for observe me with a detached, cautious stare from the back row. He’s undecided about this new girl, but he doesn’t seem to be undressing me with his eyes.

Jesus, Erin, get a grip. You’re twenty-two, not sixteen, and you shouldn’t be thinking of anything other than how to get these kids through their AP exam. That’s right. Kids. You are an adult. The line here is firm.

I recognize most of the boys from going through the face book. It’s an old-school paper version the school gives out to faculty and staff to help us get to know the students before they arrive on campus. We’re to guard them with our lives. I can imagine the unsavory things that have been done with those booklets during the years they were passed out to students.

Taking roll call, I confirm my guesses about the identities of my students. The boys raise hands to help me find them in the small sea of ironic thrift shop silk ties and athletic duffel bags slung around the classroom. When I call the last student’s name, Zachary Shepherd, it’s blue eyes who raises a hand in acknowledgement, expression still impassive. Mr. Shepherd, then.

After introductions, I barrel straight into the textbook, drawing the graph of a simple parabola to illustrate the concepts of domain and range. Some of the boys exchange glances. They’re surprised our first class won’t consist entirely of inane pleasantries. Oh no, gentlemen, you’ve met your match in me. You’re all going to get fours or fives on the AP test if it kills me. It might.

The bells sound off in the distance and I wrap up my thought before sending them on their way to second period. They punch each other on the shoulders on the way out, fists landing against flesh hard enough to make me wince, but they smile.

The rest of the day is uneventful. My youngest kids, second period algebra, are sweet and as nervous as I am. I take it easier on them than first period, but not too easy. They may be fourteen, most scrawny, a few with bad skin, but they’re still teenagers. I need to establish my dominance in the classroom early and often. On one panicked night a few weeks ago, I’d watched a few episodes of Nanny 911 and Dog Whisperer for notes.

Working at a boys’ boarding school probably isn’t everyone’s idea of a dream job. But my grandfather spent his whole career at the Hawthorn Hill School; teaching, coaching, being a dorm parent. My whole life I’ve wanted to follow in his footsteps more than anything else. To be honest, it’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted. My father booked it away from the Hill as fast as his feet could take him, wanting to escape to something bigger, less insular, somewhere he wasn’t Kent Brewster’s son. I don’t blame him. It’s a lot to live up to.

* * *

Shep

“Hey, Shep, wait up!”

I glance over my shoulder but don’t stop. Lucky’s always late, and he’s not going to hold me back. He sprints to catch up and falls in beside me, his messenger bag bumping against his side.

“How was your summer, man?”

“Fine.”

“Were you at home?”

Yeah, I’d been at home. Working my ass off holding down three jobs, getting yelled at by my mom for not being around to watch my little brother, and taking crap from my father because I’d gotten “too big for my britches.” But Lucky doesn’t give a shit about all that and I have no interest in spilling my guts.

“Yeah. You?”

“Nah. My parents made me go on this crap-ass immersion in Italy. The classes were a bitch, but Italian girls… Man, they are—”

I block out his rambling about Italian tits and snatch. I like girls as much as the next guy, but he sounds ridiculous, and most of his bragging is bluster. I’d be surprised if he’d done more than get his hand smacked away when he tried to sneak it up some Catholic girl’s skirt. Not that I should talk. I was too busy to think about girls this summer, never mind hook up with anyone.

Back at school where I’m not allowed to have more than a ten-hour-a-week campus job shelving books in the library, my mind isn’t too full of dangerous machinery, orders being shouted, and invoices to fill to find a stray thought during the day. I’ve recovered enough in the week I’ve been back that my head doesn’t go dark as soon as it hits the pillow. No. Now I’ve got room for thoughts of something other than what’s happening this very second and it’s been to one thing they’ve been wandering.

The new math teacher. Miss Brewster. Erin. I hadn’t been so sure about her when Headmaster Wilson introduced her at opening convocation. She’s pretty. Not in a flashy way. In a girl-next-door kind of way. Except I’ve never lived next door to a girl who looked like that. I got stuck with the Donnelly brothers, all five of whom thought it was fun to pick on my brother and therefore all five of whom I’ve had to apologize to after punching. Nope, I’d trade their flaming red heads for Erin’s shiny brown any day.

She’d been flustered and blushed like crazy when the Headmaster introduced her. I’d cringed, thinking some of the guys were going to have a field day with her. They could have her in tears by the end of the first class. I’d gotten this weird tightening in my stomach at the idea of her flushed with tears rolling down her face, but the idea of anyone hurting her feelings snapped it with rage.

But she surprised me. She took control early on and didn’t demand respect, but let us know she wasn’t going to be a pushover. She didn’t seem in a hurry to befriend us like some of the fellows do. Maybe because she’s not technically a fellow? Even though she just graduated college, they hired her outright. It gets awkward with the fellows sometimes because they’re so much closer in age to us than most of the faculty. Some of them try to make up for it by being super-strict overlords, but she wasn’t standoffish either.

I don’t know why, but I’d felt somehow, I dunno, proud of her? She’s little and soft and to stand up in front of a bunch of dudes who are trying to picture you naked… That takes some grit. The guys won’t fuck with her too much in class. We all know who her grandfather was and there’ll be hell to pay from Headmaster Wilson if anyone messes with her. But that’s only when grown-ups are around. It’s open season when it’s just the guys, but I’ll try to keep a lid on the smack talk about her. And just in time…

“Did you see the ass on Miss Brewster? She’s a little on the chubby side for me, but I wouldn’t say no to—”

I almost clothesline the guy with an arm extended across his chest. He bounces off and struggles to keep his balance so he doesn’t fall on his ass.

“Off-limits, man. Don’t be a dick.”

“Sure, Shep. Whatever.” Lucky eyes me, but shakes his head of any suspicions he might have. It’s not the first time I’ve called an end to that shit, and I hope he can’t tell it’s personal. Maybe.

“Miss Davis is more my type anyway—”

I roll my eyes but let him go on making crude groping gestures in the air. If he could ever talk a girl into getting into her pants, I doubt it would last long. I punch him on the arm to shut him up a dozen yards away from the history building. I’ve got Jeffries for Contemporary Issues in the Middle East and I’ve got to get my head in the game. Guy’s an asshole and it wouldn’t surprise me if he sprung a pop quiz on our summer reading. I studied last night, but when I’d shut off my desk lamp and fallen asleep to the sounds of Die Hard coming through the wall from the triple next door, my thoughts hadn’t been about Palestinians and Israelis but about Erin Brewster.

* * *

Erin

I survived.

It’s Friday evening after the first week of classes and I’m on my feet. It’s a small victory maybe, but a victory nonetheless. At this point, I’ll take anything I can get. I’m standing awkwardly by a wingback chair in Uncle Rett and Aunt Tilly—or should I say Headmaster and Mrs. Wilson’s—living room, a glass of red in one hand and a plate full of mini-quiches and shrimp cocktail in the other. I’m dying to devour it all, but I can’t because I don’t have enough hands and I don’t want to spill on this dress. It’s one of the few I have that makes me feel pretty: knee-length and navy with a cream lace overlay. It manages to make me look at least a little sophisticated. Usually when I dress up I look like I snuck into my mother’s closet and no one noticed before I left the house.

I’m about to give in to my natural urges and sit with the plate balanced on my knees while I hork my food down, but I’m surprised to see Will Chase coming toward me. I met Will during my orientation a few weeks ago. He’d been friendly and charming and I’d excused myself before I had a chance to look silly. He’s been here a few years and seems like a lifer. He looks the part: handsome in a bookish way, sandy hair thinning on the crown of his head. Though he’s a bit young for that, it doesn’t detract from his charms. Possibly adds to his paternalistic, professorial appeal. That and the tweed jacket with the elbow patches. I know I’m a dork, but, swoon.

Looking around, there’s no one else he could be coming to see and my cheeks preemptively pink.

“Good evening, Miss Brewster.”

“Mr. Chase.”

“Please, call me Will when the kids aren’t around. I’ve had enough ‘Mr. Chases’ to last a lifetime.”

I flush further, hoping he doesn’t notice. Knowing I redden like a tomato, it’s unlikely. “Will.”

My voice comes out breathy and weird. I’d pinch myself if I had an extra hand. I’ve always been shy with men because though I’m inclined to think they’re flirting with me, it’s not true. They have a passing interest, a brief consideration, before deciding I’m too…something. But the brilliant, toothy smile I get back when I say his name is encouraging.

“That’s better. How was your first week of class? Hope the boys aren’t being too rough with you. Sometimes they get it into their heads that it’s a good idea to haze new faculty members.”

“No, they’ve been fine. I’ve been trying my best to seem…formidable.” He laughs and I flinch, mumbling the rest of my thought. “But it doesn’t come naturally. I’m exhausted.”

Not just from teaching, although that’s the lion share of it. The sheer number of people I’ve met over the past couple of weeks and the pressure for chatter is overwhelming. I’m glad I know half the faculty from when my grandfather taught here. I’d never survive otherwise.

“I’m sure you’re doing great. You’re brave for standing up in front of a room full of teenage boys. They’re a tough audience. Although rumor has it they’re easier on pretty girls.”

He winks and I almost drop my wineglass. Will thinks I’m pretty?

“How would you know?” I don’t mean my question to sound petulant, but it comes out that way. His eyes widen before they slide over to where Lana Davis, his colleague in the English department who could be a supermodel, is talking to a small cadre of male faculty members. She’s been here maybe a year less than Will. I wonder if there’s history there, or maybe a rejection on her part. Will’s handsome, but Lana is flat-out hot with her jet-black hair flowing halfway down her back. I’m not as pretty as she is, but I don’t relish being someone’s consolation prize. “Excuse me.”

I turn to leave, and Will stops me with hands on my biceps. My bare biceps.

“Come on, Erin. Don’t be like that. I was trying to flirt with you. You must be familiar with that, right?” The stomach-clenching smile is back, and I soften at the insinuation that of course men flirt with me all the time. It’s possible I’m overreacting. I wish people would walk around with tickers hanging on their chests that telegraphed their real thoughts. Maybe then social interaction wouldn’t leave me so baffled. “Hey, what do you say we get out of here, just the two of us, go for a walk? I’ve heard all the war stories half a dozen times and I’m sure you’re sick of everyone talking about your grandfather.”

I’m not, actually. I could listen to them all night. They make me feel like he’s not really gone. Like if I stay here, he’ll be with me forever because the memory of him is woven into the tapestry of this place. Even people who never worked with him refer to him as a legend, and his photo is on a plaque by the classroom some grateful students endowed in his name. Another reason I came here. To be under his wing again.

On the other hand, the promise of getting some one-on-one time with Will is appealing. He’s cute, and above all, age-appropriate. I can hear the war stories whenever. Tomorrow night, in fact. I’m supposed to have dinner with Uncle Rett and Aunt Tilly. I’ve been proud not to slip, referring to them as Everett and Tilly like anyone else, but I’ll be glad when it’s the three of us sitting in their wood-paneled dining room and I can let my guard down and be myself. At least as much as I’m myself around anyone.

I agree with a nod and set my dishes down where one of the circulating caterers will be sure to pick it up. Will makes a move toward the front door, but that way’s littered with blazers, beards, and canapés. Made bold by the glass of wine in my stomach with no food to soak it up, I grab his arm, getting a handful of elbow-patch suede.

“Come on; this way. I know this house like the back of my hand.”

I tug him toward the back of the house, making our way through the kitchen, where a harried cater-waiter is loading up yet another tray. Yanking at the polyester bow tie at his neck, he complains to a colleague, “These academics talk a good game, but they stuff their faces as much as Pats fans at a Super Bowl party.”

They hush when they see us and nod as we pass, embarrassed. I don’t care. It’s true some of my fellow teachers are blowhards and faculty members are renowned for their fondness for free food. We’re as bad as college freshmen offered pizza and beer.

Will and I sneak our way down the back stairwell and out into the sunken garden where I played hide-and-seek over the summers. It’s different now, of course. The plantings have changed and the lawn furniture’s been replaced, but it retains that fairy-hiding-place magic I remember.

I don’t linger, knowing someone could see us. Keeping ahold of Will’s elbow, I steer us along the wall to stone steps leading out of the garden and toward the east side of campus. When we’re away from the house, I drop my handful of his coat.

“So you having grown up here wasn’t an exaggeration.”

“I wouldn’t say I grew up here. I spent most of my childhood traveling for my dad’s work. But summers and Christmas I was on the Hill.” I don’t say it because it would sound crazy to him, but the Hill’s been the only real home I’ve ever known.

My dad’s business took us all over the world. We didn’t stay in one place for more than a few months at a time. He loved the nomadic lifestyle; exploring new cities, trying strange foods, picking up bits of the local language and local women wherever we went. But I’m the opposite of itinerant. I don’t have his facility with languages or companionship. Moving around all the time wasn’t exciting. It was unnerving.

Over time, I developed my own ways to deal with it. In every hotel room, every apartment, I’d set up my room in the same way: same quilt at the foot of my bed; same scarlet and royal blue Hawthorn Hill pennant gracing the wall; same family photo of me, my dad and my grandfather on my nightstand; and the calendar the admissions office puts out every year tacked above my desk, red Xs crossing off the days until I got to come back to the Hill again.

“I’m surprised you came back.”

I shrug, not wanting to explain how precious this place is to me. If they hadn’t hired me as a teacher, I would’ve applied for an administrative job. Maybe even the cleaning staff. My whole life I’ve been working my way back here. I’m not leaving, ever.

A bolt of surprise shoots up my arm when Will threads his fingers through mine. My breath quickens and I consider pulling away, but I like my hand being held. My father was not, is not, an affectionate man. When I got to college, I was both shy of and desperate for human touch. Still am, I guess. Even though I don’t know what Will’s intentions are, I let myself revel in the human contact, his elegant fingers twining between mine.

The boys are all at the athletic complex being entertained with movies, pizza, and games by a skeleton staff on the other side of campus so I only look over my shoulder occasionally as we meander toward Turner. It’s an older building, set away from much of the school. When we reach it, instead of strolling by, Will tugs on my hand.

“You have a key, right?”

“I do.” I pulled study hall hours for first semester and my assignment is to monitor the boys who have art projects to work on. I take the key from my pocket and slide it into the ancient lock, metal sliding against metal, worn smooth and accepting from being fit together so many times. Will drops my hand and I freeze when his hands slide into my pockets, his fingers gripping my hipbones through the thin layer of fabric as he lowers his lips to my ear.

“Pockets. Clever. Sexy.”

The lock unhitches and I push in the door, letting Will steer me by my hips into the building. Once inside, he drags me back, nearly tripping me when he closes the door by backing up against it and pulling me tight against him, my back to his front.

The hardness of his erection presses into the base of my spine and I squeak. Is “taking a walk” some kind of new euphemism I didn’t get the memo about?

“Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall…down.” His whispered rhyme in my ear makes me shiver and he takes it as an invitation to kiss my neck. The heat that flushes through my system is equal parts wine and arousal but it’s doused when he licks from the neckline of my dress up to my ear and starts to suck at my earlobe.

The heavy breathing and the sloppiness of his tongue kill some of the buzz I’ve got going, but when his fingertips curl hard around my hipbones, digging into my flesh, my engine revs. He could do anything in conjunction with that and I’d melt.

I’ve always wanted a lover who was a bit…forceful. Rough. Controlling. Like those dominants I read about in the romance novels I plow through in my spare time. Those are the kind of men I favor in my fantasies, the type of scenarios that feature heavily in my dreams. Not that I’ve sought it out in real life. It seems dangerous, like something I should keep confined to the page. But maybe, if I’ve stumbled into the chance…

I don’t get to speculate further because Will spins me around and backs me up against a wall. He runs his hand down my hip to my thigh, his fingers hook behind my knee to hitch my leg up and he settles his slim hips between my legs.

Rocking against me, he moans and I squeal. He doesn’t bother trying to hide the hardness of his…his…penis as his tongue mirrors the motion in my mouth. If I knew him better, this could be very, very hot, but as it is, his forwardness is shocking. It’s making me uncomfortable. He’s pushing me too hard, and isn’t taking any of my cues to stop: attempts to nudge his tongue from between my teeth, wedging my hands between us to make space between our chests.

Yes, I daydream about high-handed men who will fulfill my every wish of being ravished, but in reality, I know Will can’t read my mind. Not only has he not asked for my consent, but he’s not paying attention to me, not noticing I’ve gone from willing participant to freaked. I have to get less subtle and push back on him, hard, making him drop my knee in surprise.

“Will…” My heart is racing and it makes my words come out breathy and weak. “Too much, too fast.”

His face goes blank, as if he’s been woken up from a dream. Then he smiles that dazzling white smile. “I’m sorry, I got carried away. You look… This dress. And I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you.”

“Really?” Oh, god, Erin, could you be less cool?

“Really.” The backs of his cool knuckles being dragged across my cheek highlight the heat that’s risen in my face. He smiles at me like he knows what I’m thinking and it’s exactly what he wants me to be thinking. Resist, Erin, resist. You’re not allowed to be the kind of girl who makes out with near strangers. You’re not allowed to be reckless or irresponsible. Maybe, now that I’m here I could let go a little. But not that much.

“I should get back.”

“Back to where?”

“To my apartment. I have to revise my lesson plans for next week and grade the boys’ homework. I promised I’d have it back to them on Monday but I forgot about summer brain. The ones I’ve looked at so far aren’t promising.”

All that is true, but it feels like an excuse and it is. I don’t want to discourage him entirely, but this needs to slow down. Way down. I need some space.

“Yeah, of course. See you around, Erin.”

I was hoping for some conversation, but he smiles sheepishly, rubs the front of his pants a couple of times before heading out, not bothering to offer to walk me home.

* * *

Shep

When I get back to my dorm, the green light is blinking on my phone. Voice mail. I’m one of half a dozen kids on campus who doesn’t have a cell phone. I don’t ask my parents for much because they’re strapped for cash as it is, but this is one of those things I can’t shrug away. It’s really noticeable. Even though I’d said I’d pay for it myself, my dad said no. I’d gone so far as to ask more than once.

“What, your pansy-ass friends upset they can’t get ahold of you at all hours to shine their shoes or suck them off or whatever it is you do for them to kiss your broke ass the way they do?”

Most parents would be proud if their kid managed to score a scholarship to the best boys’ school in the country. Most of them would be thrilled when that kid made the Headmaster’s List every semester, started on the varsity soccer and lacrosse teams, and moved up to varsity hockey their sophomore year after never having played before they set foot on campus. Most of them would be happy that their kid managed to fit in as well as I have. My mom is. My dad thinks I’m an asshole.

I stare at the blinking light. Is it going to be my mom calling to see if I can send some money because Caleb outgrew his shoes and my old ones are too worn out to last long and my dad wants him to suck it up and deal? My dad almost never calls, so I doubt it’s him. It’s not one of the guys; I just left them.

I have a fleeting wish that when I put in my password, it’ll be Erin Brewster’s voice on the other end, giving some silly excuse about having forgotten to give us part of our homework. I’d keep that voice mail for the rest of the year, play it over and over to listen to her soft, bright voice saying numbers in my ear. Watching her write numbers on the board does something to my insides. It’s not the act of watching her write, although I enjoy the view. No, because there is something distinctly wrong with me, even her handwriting sparks something in my gut.

It’s so…round. And neat. And cute. What the fuck is wrong with me? What kind of teenage boy gets off on his teacher’s penmanship? But I swear, if she were writing dirty words instead of graphing velocities, I would totally get a hard-on. I’m starting to, thinking about it.

Before any more of these sick, sick thoughts can invade my head, I grab the phone and punch in the code to get my message.

Dropping into my desk chair, I grab a pencil and thwack it against the side of my desk. It’s an annoying habit, but I’ve got a single this year so there’s no one to tick off. Not like when I roomed with Caldwell. He’d throw a paperback dictionary at my head when I’d piss him off.

“Hey, Zach. It’s your brother. Caleb.” Hearing my kid brother’s voice makes me smile. His iffy telephone skills aside—a) I’d know his voice anywhere; b) I’ve only got one brother—the kid’s pretty great. I miss him when I’m at school. I’d pack him in my duffel and keep him in my closet if I could. “You left your old soccer T-shirt here. Can I borrow it?”

I left it on purpose. My mom might be proud of me, but the way Caleb steals my Hawthorn gear whenever he gets the chance, you’d think I played Major League Baseball instead of going to prep school. He’ll talk anyone’s ear off about it. I guess the odds of either one of those happening for someone from our piece-of-shit, rundown coal town are about even.

“Don’t call too late, but if you get this—”

“Caleb! Who’re you calling?” Shit, my dad.

“Gotta go.”

“I hope that’s not Zach—”

The message cuts out. Right, it’s Saturday. My family calls once a week on Sunday nights, for ten minutes, because according to my dad, “Phone calls aren’t free. Nothing about that goddamn school of yours is free, Zach.”

It’s damn close. But whatever. When Caleb gets his two minutes on Sunday, I’ll tell him he can keep the shirt, and to check the bottom drawer for the too-short track pants I left in there. He’ll have to roll them up four times, but he’ll wear them anyway. I hope he won’t trip over them. He’d never forgive himself if they ripped.

I delete the message, not wanting to hear my dad’s voice again, and flip open my planner. It’s late, but I’m not tired. I’ve got some Latin translations to do, an AP Physics lab that’ll take most of the day tomorrow and a bunch of reading for Contemporary Issues in the Middle East I started on the bus to the game today. I should finish, but instead I start the problem set Erin, Miss Brewster, gave us. I’ll hear her voice and see her writing the answers out on the board, a preview of Monday’s coming attractions. It’ll bury that pissed-off edge to my dad’s voice until my mom makes him say hello tomorrow. Why does she bother?

Chapter 2

Erin

It’s a few weeks into the semester and everyone’s settled into the day-in and day-out rhythms of school. It’s comforting that every waking moment of my day is accounted for. I’d been the only kid I knew at Brown who had more structure at college instead of less. I grew up with nannies and then tutors, none of whom lasted long because they either slept with my father or didn’t. My formal education was spotty at best. But I’d tested well and instead of flailing in a more rigid environment like my father warned me I would, I’d flourished.

He’d tried to convince me not to go at all. Told me I didn’t need a degree. I could work for him; we’d be a great team. The thought of wandering around the earth for the rest of my life had curdled my stomach. Though my inclination is usually to go along—what does it matter? It’s too hard to push back and not worth the trouble—that I had fought for. A socially sanctioned brand of security that wouldn’t seem too odd, the comfort of routine and expectations, not having to look outside the window to know where I was.

Back on the Hill, that’s turned out to be truer than I could’ve hoped. From six-thirty in the morning until eleven-thirty at night, every second is spoken for. It’s a nice balance for how stressful I find teaching.

It’ll get easier. I won’t always be the new girl. But in this place that’s wall-to-wall testosterone, I’ll always have to prove myself. The boys have been respectful, though, even if I look like a deer in headlights sometimes. For some reason, I get the idea it’s due in part to Zach Shepherd. Or, as the boys call him, Shep.

Most of the boys aren’t hard to read, but I can’t get a handle on the guy behind those dark blue eyes. I can’t bring myself to think of him as a boy, either, convenient as that might be. There are boys who look as old as he does—they won’t stick out as obvious freshmen when they head to college next fall—but none of them share the same maturity or…gravity that Shep does.

Gravity is a good word for it. There’s a density to him; the stoicism, the intelligence. These are the things on my mind as I walk across campus to Turner for study hall duty.

Turns out dark room duty is a sweet gig. The artsy kids are easy, not getting too rowdy. Plus they have better music than the jocks. Give me the nerd emo, the ironic eighties and the occasional Korean or Icelandic pop over hardcore rap or death metal any day.

I wander since no one else is on duty here. There’s no need for them to be. The only things of interest or value are down in the photography and clay studios, which are side by side, a quirk of the topography. I hang out here during sports period for the kids who’ve got their off-season and want to catch up on their work or are doing an independent study, and after dinner, I supervise study hours. All the boys have a note, usually a semester-long pass that allows them to come down here, whereas the other kids have to stay in their dorms, the lounges, or the library for study hours.

My fondness for dark room duty has nothing, nothing to do with the presence of a certain senior who has a penchant for pencil sketching. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I wander into the second-floor studio where Shep keeps his things at an easel in the back. He’s wearing a beat-to-shreds T-shirt he must’ve gotten his freshman year because it’s too small. Mostly he wears a paint-splashed button-down over a T-shirt because Turner is notorious for its screwed-up HVAC system. But not tonight. Tonight, the fine lines of him are revealed by the thin cotton.

Shep always shows up here around nine and stays until I lock up for the night at eleven. He must do his other homework before and save his drawing for last. I used to do that in college, save the best for last.

He’s working on a still life tonight, a set of glass bottles set up on boxes. Not knowing much about drawing, it looks pretty hard to me. So many different curves and angles, the light reflecting off multiple surfaces. While he doesn’t have to deal with color, it being greyscale, he does have to show the differences in shade. The whole thing makes my brain go staticky.

I walk up behind him, shuffling my feet so I don’t startle him. He doesn’t turn, but sits up straighter and I smile. He knows I’m coming.

“You’ve made a lot of progress since last night, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Yeah. We had time to work on it in class. Mrs. Germaine had some suggestions on that angle I was having so much trouble with.”

“She’s a good teacher. She taught me how to draw in three dimensions when I was a kid.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. You know my grandfather was a teacher here, right?” He nods. Of course he knows. Everyone knows. I like the mantle of Kent Brewster’s granddaughter, but I’m grateful we’ll never be compared by the same students. It’s bad enough to be stacked up against the impossible yardstick by the faculty and staff. “You would’ve just missed him, but I used to spend summers here. A lot of the faculty have known me since I was a baby.”

“That must be awkward.”

“Sometimes. Like when Mrs. Hawley brings up how I dyed her dog pink during a curriculum meeting.”

Shep laughs and it kindles something in me. He doesn’t laugh a lot, not real laughs. I don’t know how he gets away with being so serious and still being so well liked by his peers.

“Mostly, I like it. I like it here.”

“Me, too.”

We stand there, me with a hand in my pocket and him set on the edge of his stool. We don’t have to say anything else. Even though there’s something about him that makes me feel safe. Like I could say anything. Which is why it’s probably better if we don’t. Instead I watch him smudge in some shadows, and wonder how he knows how to do that.

After a few minutes, I figure I should continue my rounds. I leave with a nudge of my elbow to his shoulder. “See ya.”

His dark blue eyes look startled over his shoulder. I can’t believe I did that. Like he’s a college buddy I hang out with and not one of my students. Could I be any more unprofessional? But after a couple of blinks, a slow smile spreads across his face and he nods. “Yeah. Later.”

I back out, hoping not to trip over anything. When I’ve hit the threshold, I round the corner, slide down the wall and mash my hands into my forehead. “See ya?” Why don’t you ask him back to your place for some gin and juice, Erin? God.

After berating myself, I move on, making small talk with the boys. There’s a kid, Bruno, who can do some amazing stuff with clay. I watch him at the wheel for a few minutes, demurring when he offers me a shot.

“I’m not dressed for it and besides, I need to keep an eye on you boys. I know your goal is to get me elbow deep in clay and then set the place on fire.”

“Naw, we like you, Miss Brewster. If it were Mr. Jeffries? Maybe.”

I ward off my nod of sympathy. Conrad is the kind of teacher who’s difficult to appreciate in the present. When students come back, they’re able to express how much he taught them. But while it’s happening? They’d rather bludgeon him with a hockey stick. I cluck at Bruno and shake my head. “Now, now, Mr. Diaz.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who brought up arson.”

“Fair. But get back to work.”

A skinny punk kid with hair that falls over his eyes is working in the photography lab when I stop by, looking at proofs and groaning over the Sex Pistols. And not in a good way.

“What’s the matter, Monsieur Gerreaux?”

“None of them came out. None of them!” His usually light French accent is weighted with frustration, and he holds his hands like he wishes he had a cigarette in one and a glass of Burgundy in the other. Perhaps if he were at home, he would have.

“Can I look?”

He thrusts the magnifying piece at me and stalks off to grab his water bottle from another worktable. I bend over the sheets, examining the photos through the glass. He’s right, they’re mostly black. Except…

“What about this one?” I tap on the image and he strolls over, hand on his black-jeaned hip.

“What about it?”

“Could you try lightening it up? Maybe shorten the exposure when you print? You won’t get the whole image, but this shadow might brighten up and you’ll be able to see more. Maybe on these two as well,” I say, indicating the images on the next line.

“Maybe.”

“Worth a few sheets of photo paper?”

“To have something to show in class? Yeah.”

“Give it a try. I’ll be back in ten to see how it’s going.”

I wander until it’s eleven and everyone’s trickled back to their dorms except for Shep and Gerreaux. My suggestion had worked, and Jean-Philippe’s been going mad experimenting on timing to reveal fractions of the shadows in the photographs.

I persuade him to pack up his stuff, promising he can have at it again tomorrow night. When he’s done, he slings his pack over his shoulder and wishes me a good night on the landing.

I head up to the studio and Shep’s still perched in front of his bottle drawing. It’s done, and it’s beautiful. Who knew you could make a pile of glass contain that much… I don’t even know what to call it. It looks alive, despite being anything but.

“Lights are going out, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His tone is irreverent so I don’t get irritated. I correct the boys—Miss Brewster, please—because “ma’am” makes me feel ancient, but from him it feels like friendly teasing. As close as I can get to flirting without feeling like I’ve crossed a line.

* * *

Shep

I’ve been done with this drawing for twenty minutes and I’ve got a stack of flash cards to memorize for AP Physics before I go to bed, but I’ve gotten into the habit of waiting for Erin’s duty to be over to walk her across campus. Not that she’d let me if she knew that’s what I was doing. I’m hoping if I don’t make it explicit, she’ll let me get away with it. So far, so good. This is my favorite time of day.

Putting my pencil down on my easel, I wish I were wrapping up a palette full of oils, but my dad had made it clear he wasn’t going to work a minute’s worth of overtime to pay for my “prissy ass hobby. What the fuck do they put in that paint, anyway? Fucking gold dust?”

I hadn’t bothered to explain that in some cases, yeah, the stuff that goes into the paint is pretty freaking valuable. So I’d dropped Oils III and wheedled my way into Drawing IV, not having taken Drawing III. I think I’m holding my own. From the way Erin looks at my drawings, like they’re actual works of art, I don’t care.

I tug my coat on and we walk out together.

“So, tell me something.”

“About what?” Her big brown eyes look up, wide and curious. I want to say, “About you. Tell me anything about you. What’s your favorite movie? How do you make your hair smell like that? Why do you like Will Chase?” But those are questions I’m not allowed to ask. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No. Do you?”

“A brother. Caleb. He’s ten.”

“Do you guys get along?”

“Yeah.” The corner of my mouth curves up, thinking about him and his sheepdog hair and his goofy laugh. “Not always, but mostly he’s pretty cool.”

She nods, her mouth tightening up into a bow. “I used to—”

Her lips close around the word and I want to coax her open until I can reach inside and pull out whatever she was going to say. She’s always locked up so tight, like she doesn’t think anyone would want to hear what she has to say, or like she’s not allowed to say it. Those are the words of hers I want. The secret ones she’s afraid to say out loud. “You used to what?”

She shakes her head, looks down at the ground and crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to tell you. It’s embarrassing.”

It’s like she’s protecting herself, like I might turn her words back on her and hurt her with them. I wouldn’t and I want her to know.

“You know I won’t tell, Erin.” Her name’s slipped off my tongue without thinking and my face gets hot. I’ve just made it very clear I don’t always think of her as just a teacher. But she doesn’t scold me. Instead, she blushes, unless I’m imaging that by the lampposts strung along the path.

“Fine. I used to pretend I had a brother. That he’d gone away but that he was going to come back for me. That I wasn’t alone.” Her expression’s gone from embarrassed to sad and lost. Maybe she’s still waiting. She seems to remember herself then, smoothing her hands down the sides of her pants before she picks up the pace and says in a canned light kind of way, “His name was Felix. He was quite dashing.”

I want to stop and hug her, hold her close until she’s not lonely anymore. But I can’t. I can’t. I shove my hands in my pockets so I won’t reach for her. I try to think of something to say, something that won’t make her more self-conscious but let her know I heard her, that I’ll keep my promise. My chest squeezes tight around the words. “I’m sure he was.”

* * *

Erin

It’s the mid-semester art show and study hours at the studio have been more crowded than usual. It’s meant less time spent checking in with Zach Shepherd. Shep. Not that he needs me to check in. He works independently, not bugging the boys who’re slogging away but happy to take a look at a drawing or a painting if someone is struggling.

He gazes at the oil paintings and sloppy palettes with longing. Why is he taking Drawing if he likes to paint so much? I know from faculty chatter he’s on full scholarship and most of his academic and athletic supplies get paid for through a special fund. Maybe it doesn’t cover art supplies? If you know what to look for, you can tell his family doesn’t have money, although he’s better at hiding it than most.

I traipse around Turner, holding my cup of punch. It’s Friday night. There’s a better turnout than you might expect for an art show, but the boys are generous with one another. Everyone’s clad in dress code, and some parents have shown up, a few from far away, including Gerreaux’s parents all the way from France. Speaking of…

“Miss Brewster!”

“Monsieur Gerreaux, nice work. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” He’s beaming with pride and for good reason. I’d overheard his instructor saying he should enter his project in the state competition. I bet he’ll place, too. The photographs as a set are stunning. He’s set them up so your eye is drawn to the tiniest differences in each print. As your gaze follows along, you’re left feeling like you’re being led through a dark forest at someone else’s mercy and shown precisely what they want you to see. It’s frustrating and thrilling at the same time. Or at least it is for me. I don’t know what anyone else sees. So often I’m left feeling like I don’t live in the same world as everyone else. “Miss Brewster, these are my parents.”

I’m greeted with a murmured “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” from both of them and though I extend a hand for a shake, they kiss me on the cheeks. My reply of “bonsoir” is met by a stream of rapid French. Gerreaux mercifully interrupts to explain that I don’t speak French. Much, anyway.

“Jean-Philippe has told us you gave him the inspiration for his project,” says Madame Gerreaux.

“Oh, no. Just a nudge. That’s all they need most of the time. Your son is very talented.” I chat with them for a few minutes until Jean-Philippe tugs them away to look at one of his roommate’s sculptures.

I wend my way through the crowd, stopping to look at each project. I loved coming down here when I’d visit my grandfather. It was my own personal museum. Now I’m here, pride swelling in my chest as I walk among the works they’ve put their angsty, testosterone-fueled hearts into. I’m biased, having seen how much (in some cases literal) blood, sweat and tears have been poured into these pieces, but I think they’re amazing.

I’ve saved a particular corner of the building for last, knowing what and who I’ll find there. When I’ve had my fill of the rest of the show and done my best art show chatter—The composition! The dimensionality! Reminiscent of Donatello or whatever other Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comes to mind!—I make my way to the alcove where Shep and a couple of boys from his class have hung their work. I’ve averted my eyes for the past few days though I know what’s going to be there. I’ve seen all of Shep’s drawings from class, so there won’t be any surprises, but it’ll be fun to see them on actual display.

I tease myself before turning the corner and an anticipatory smile creeps over my face. I’m such a dork. A silly, inappropriate dork to get so excited about seeing my secretly favorite student’s high school art project. Be that as it may, my breath still catches and I come up short when I swing into the nook.

* * *

Shep

I’ve been waiting for this all night. For her. For every “congratulations” I’ve received, for every hand of someone’s eager parent I’ve shook, and for every time a teacher has asked me something about one of my drawings, I’ve kept an eye out for Erin.

The show is closing in fifteen minutes. I’d almost given up but in some back corner of my brain, wildly optimistic hope held out that she’s like a kid saving the best for last, and maybe I’m her best. I’m such an arrogant douche bag. But when the purple herringboned shoe peeks around the corner, I’m on high alert. If I’d stayed in Shamokin, I don’t know that I would’ve ever learned what the fuck herringbone is, but here I’ve acquired more knowledge about preppy attire than I’ll ever need to know. Tweed, popped collars, Nantucket red. Even if I didn’t know what that pattern was called, I’d know those shoes anywhere. I stare at them at least once a week because they’re her favorites, and I stare at her feet so I won’t stare at her face. Or other things. But she’s here and I can’t wait to see the look on her face.

Her ready smile melts, her chin wrinkles and her eyebrows fall, shadowing her brilliant brown eyes. Confused is not what I was going for. She stands there looking like she might drop the cup of punch she’s holding. It’s tipping and I don’t want her to spill on her shoes and ruin them. I reach out and right the flimsy plastic, not able to help the contact with her soft skin when I do.

Her eyes fly wide to mine and her wrist that had been drooping snaps up in a reflex. The cup I’d been trying to steady gets crushed between us as she turns, spilling bright red liquid down my white dress shirt and blue-and-red-striped tie. Shit. Guess I’ll be throwing a load of wash in tonight and hoping it doesn’t stain. I have one extra shirt, and it’s nice to have a cushion in case I can’t get laundry done on a Sunday. But if this gets ruined I’m screwed.

“Oh, god, Shep. I’m so sorry!”

Shep? She’s never called me Shep before. It’s always Mr. Shepherd. I’d let her spill a rainbow of punch on me, have to do laundry every day, if I could hear her call me that again.

She’s grabbed a handful of napkins from a pillar nearby and is sopping up the washed-out blood color that’s seeping through my undershirt to my skin. Jesus Christ. I’ve stopped breathing, and I’m standing stock still as that goddamn pillar. If she doesn’t stop touching me…

I grab her wrist and clear my throat. “It’s okay. Miss Brewster, it’s okay.”

Even though I’d like to shove her up against the nearest wall, drag her hands over her head and kiss her silly, another teacher, Mr. Connelly, has walked into the alcove.

“Had a collision, I see?”

“Yes. God, I’m so clumsy.”

I drop Erin’s wrist and we step back from each other. Erin backs into the pillar and almost spills what’s left of the napkins and a bowl of popcorn. She’s not usually clumsy at all, but it’s a convenient excuse.

“This building with all its nooks and crannies isn’t helping,” Mr. Connelly says. Then he launches into a lecture on how the original building was built the year the school was founded and has been added onto so many times there are at least half a dozen architectural styles incorporated into it. I bet he can name every single last one of them.

He’ll yammer on about this for another twenty minutes. I don’t want to abandon Erin to his boring spiel, which I’m sure she knows already, but, “I should rinse this out. I’ll be right back.”

I hurry to the nearest bathroom and strip to my T-shirt. If I button my jacket over it, you can barely see the red. I hold my button-down under cold water and most of the juice comes out under the stream. It might be salvageable. When I’ve done all I can do, I walk back out. Mr. Connelly’s gone but Erin’s still there, staring, no cup in her hand.

I toss my shirt under a bench and wipe my damp hands on my dress-code khakis.

“Do you like them?”

She turns to me, hugging her elbows and a sweet smile on her face. That’s better.

“I do. I’m sorry about earlier, I…I was surprised.”

I nod. I knew she would be. It’s part of why I did it. I wanted to surprise her.

The drawings I’ve tacked up are half the sketches she’s expecting: the glass still lifes, the other object studies we’ve been working on, a few perspective exercises. But the rest of them, they’re fleeting postures. A hand holding a piece of chalk, the grip of fingers surrounding a dining hall tray, the rounded brim of a baseball hat under the bright sun of a soccer game. I’d had to cull them carefully from the sketchbook I keep wedged between my mattress and the bedframe. Not that the rest are scandalous—Erin dresses conservatively and I don’t chance putting the less-chaste images of her I have in my head to paper—but someone would be able to tell it’s her.

My favorite is one of her heels lifting out of the backs of her shoes as she stretched to reach the top of the board because she’d filled up the rest of it. The definition of her calf muscles and the tiny constellation of freckles to the left of her Achilles tendon are perfection. I can’t be the only one who’s noticed, and there aren’t so many feminine ankles around here. These, though, are innocent. Could be anyone. But they’re not. She knows it and I know it.

She opens her mouth to say something, when Will Chase swings around the corner. His face lights up when he sees her.

“Miss Brewster. I wasn’t sure you’d be here. You spend all your time down here as it is. I thought you’d be bored of this stuff by now.”

The face he makes implies he’s bored already.

“I’ve seen a lot of it before, but not everything. They’ve all been working so hard. Some of them must’ve been working right up until the show, putting on finishing touches. And some of them,” she says, sneaking me a glance, “have been keeping parts of their projects tightly under wraps. Everything’s great.”

She means it, too.

Mr. Chase checks his watch and stares too long at Erin. “Mr. Shepherd, it’s getting on curfew. You should help the other boys clean up and then get back to the dorm. Don’t want to be late for check-in.”

The clock on the wall confirms. I’ve got ten minutes before I have to be up at Ford unless I want a slap on the wrist for being late. I’m tempted to stay here, though. I don’t like the way he’s looking at her. I might do my damnedest to keep my thoughts about Erin Brewster pure and chaste from afar, especially in public, but Will Chase sure as fuck doesn’t. He tears his eyes off her long enough to look down his nose at me, even though we’re about the same height. I might even have an inch on him.

“Yes, sir,” I bite off, grabbing the half-full bowl of popcorn and the napkins Erin didn’t grab in her haste off the pillar. A few steps later, Erin’s voice chimes in my ear. “Well done, Mr. Shepherd. A pleasant surprise.”

The slight emphasis on the word “pleasant” dulls the sharp stab of annoyance at Will Chase’s interruption of something I’d been looking forward to for weeks. What a crap-ass fantasy life I lead. Doesn’t he get enough of her already? He chats her up in the dining hall, walks her toward her classroom after lunch and who knows? He probably invites her to his apartment to “watch a movie” or “read some poetry.” Goddammit. Why does he have to steal one of the only times I have a legitimate excuse to talk to her? I blow a breath out my nose so I don’t sound pissed off when I say this, because I’m not. Not at her.

“Thanks, Miss Brewster. Thanks for coming. Have a good night.”

Then I’m walking away from her. Leaving her in a room full of my drawings and, because you can’t always get what you want, Will Chase instead of me.

* * *

Erin

Shep grabs his discarded shirt from under the bench and walks out, his shoulders stiff under his blazer. My eyes follow him until he turns the corner, and then he’s gone. I turn to see Will staring at me. We’ve gone out a few times, once to a pizza place in town and once he’d brought a DVD and a bottle of pinot noir over to my apartment after lights-out. I couldn’t drink since I was on duty, but I’d substituted some grape juice and we’d clinked the cheap IKEA wineglasses.

After our abortive make-out session a month ago, he didn’t talk to me for days but then he’d started flirting and I’d been pleased. Not now does not mean not ever and I’m much more comfortable with the pace things have been moving since. He’d kissed me after our movie date, pressing me against the wall and sweeping his tongue through my mouth.

There’d been no flood of desire like when he’d grabbed me hard in the art building because the gesture was lacking that hot, blatantly sexual aggression. No urge to drop to my knees because there was no rough handling that called to the submissive I suspect lurks somewhere deep inside me. Yes, though the making out didn’t make me weak-kneed, it had been enjoyable. When he feels like it, Will can be enjoyable.

From the way he’s looking at me, he feels like it.

“That Shepherd kid isn’t half bad, is he?”

He’s turned his eyes to Shep’s drawings and I stifle the words in my throat. He’s wonderful. “He’s pretty good.”

Will takes a few steps and lays a hand at the small of my back possessively. A small pulse of pleasure radiates from where his fingers lay. “Maybe next Sunday I can take you to the MFA. Or the ICA. Show you some real art.”

“How do you know we both have Sunday off?”

“I checked the schedule.”

It’s not hard to do, it’s online, but you have to go out of your way to find out someone’s schedule other than your own. Will checked my schedule. It might not make anyone else swoon, but I’m flattered. “Oh. Um, okay.”

“Good.”

He snakes his hand around my waist and he pulls me to him so we’re standing face-to-face, no room between our bodies. The muffled voices of boys cleaning up are bouncing around the awkward corners of the building. I put my hands on his chest and apply pressure.

“The boys are still here. We shouldn’t.”

“Why are you always pushing me away, Erin? Don’t you like me?”

“I do like you, I—”

“Because I like you. I think about you all the time.” He does? “I want to be with you. Here. Now.”

I shake my head and flush. “Not now.”

Instead of his expression darkening, his sculpted brows go up. “But here?”

I squeak and squirm in his grasp but he doesn’t let go. “Will!”

“Here?”

Suddenly it doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. I’m tired of playing by the rules, of being a good girl. I’ve achieved my one goal in life; I should be allowed to let loose. Maybe I should try being adventurous, daring. Live on the edge for once. Maybe being a tad promiscuous will make me feel like a real grown-up, and will smother the wholly inappropriate feelings I’m starting to develop for Zach Shepherd.

“Okay. Here.”

He smiles that über-charming grin. I’m happy to have pleased him, especially when he kisses me, his hands curling around my hips and his fingers digging into me in a possessive and rough way that makes my breath go short. But I have to hiss, “Will, stop. Wait ’til they’re gone.”

An hour later, I’m wishing we would’ve waited longer. There’s a reason I don’t do this. But it’s been so long I forgot how dirty and abandoned it makes me feel. Like a pair of used socks that get tossed on the floor. Not even into the laundry basket. Oh, no. He didn’t put me in the laundry basket. This is a one-time thing and now that he’s had me he won’t want me again. I’d had one tutor who, though she was sleeping with my father, had felt it appropriate to lecture me about how I should keep my legs closed.

“No man wants to marry a girl who gives it up easy. Especially a girl like you.”

I knew what she’d meant; she hadn’t had to explain it. Pretty but not so pretty they’d keep me around for my looks. My dad had money, but not so much I’d be worth marrying for that. And this woman hadn’t thought I was all that bright. What the heck did she know? She’d made the same mistake she’d warned me against, and it wasn’t so long before Natalia wasn’t my tutor anymore.

But for all her hypocrisy, maybe Natalia wasn’t so far off base. I’ll be just another campus conquest for Will. How many fellows has he slept with? God, am I foolish. It hadn’t even been that good. Fumbling, awkward vanilla sex that happens between the drunk and/or in a hurry who don’t know each other’s hot buttons. I’d tried to figure out what he wanted but Will is not an attentive lover. At least we’d used a condom, hastily dug out of his wallet.

So I made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. I’m allowed to make a few mistakes, right? Except my dad convinced me from an early age that I’m not allowed. That whatever the consequences would be for other people, mine would be a hundred times worse. I’d be the kid who OD’d the first time I did drugs. I’d be the one who got salmonella from eating raw cookie dough. I’d be the one who got run over by a bus because I jaywalked.

These are the thoughts my father instilled in my head. I am not allowed to take chances. I am not allowed to take risks. I’ve been built to suffer and I shouldn’t invite more heartache into my life than I’ll already have. I figured out later it was his way of trying to make sure I didn’t leave him like my mom had, but the damage went too deep. He thought he was carving it in stone, but I’m a piece of soap. It’s not something I particularly like about myself, but I’ve always been soft, malleable. I don’t mind so much being blown along like a feather in the breeze even if I sometimes feel lost, like I’d rather be plucked from a gust of wind and stuck in someone’s cap.

Will left a few minutes ago, told me we shouldn’t walk across campus together lest people figure out what went down, and I’d agreed. But now I’m alone, staring at the clock waiting for the ten minutes we’d agreed on to pass and I’m sorry. I’m sorry about it all.

“Screw it,” I mutter, and head out when there are three minutes left on the clock.

Chapter 3

Erin

Thanksgiving break is coming to an end. The boys will be filtering in in a few hours with hair just cut and suitcases of freshly washed clothes, maybe with a new video game or some gadget I won’t understand the point of. For now, the dorm my tiny attic apartment is in is empty and I intend to enjoy.

I’d had Thanksgiving with a few friends in Somerville. They’re all in grad school or law school or med school. I’m the odd one out with an actual job. They’d expressed envy over the fact that I earn a paycheck, but I placated their egos by insinuating how little I get paid.

Teaching at a boarding school has its advantages: room and board are provided, the benefits are good, and the strength of community is unparalleled. Rolling in dough is not one of them. It had been fun to see everyone and catch up, gossip about our classmates. It was good to not be alone in that in-between space: the not-quite-adult I have to be with my colleagues and not-quite-adolescent I’m not allowed to be with my students. But I’m an introvert at heart and it was a distinct relief to climb into my car at the end of the night and drive back to my own apartment instead of crashing on a futon.

But in the stillness of the empty dorm, the silence is oppressive. I’ve finished the book I’ve been savoring—one that’s incredibly hot in a way I should be perturbed by liking because it’s hovering so close to the edge of being not okay. Followed by taking a bath in my too-small tub to wash away the slickness of my arousal and the subsequent orgasm I’d rubbed myself to while imagining all of those invasive and intimate and hotly shameful things happening to me.

Once I’d gotten that out of my system (and put the book in the freezer), I’d watched a few movies while eating leftover Halloween candy and folding heaps of overdue laundry. I’m looking forward to the boys coming back, settling into the familiar routine that fills my waking hours. It gives me confidence to get through the day. In the meantime, my body is bouncing, full of energy. The athletic facilities are locked, won’t open again until morning, so I’ve got one alternative: Dance Party.

I’m already decked out in my Flashdance best: cropped leggings, a tank top and a sweatshirt I’d cut the neck off. It’s a short trip to turn on my laptop, hook it up to the speakers and crank up my eighties mix. Soon I’m rocking out hard, busting out my best moves. For a white girl, I’m not too bad, thanks to the hip hop classes I’d taken to blow off steam and take up time in college.

After a good twenty minutes of shaking what my momma gave me—one of the only things she gave me—I’m sweating. They’ve turned the heat on in the dorms though this fall’s been unseasonably warm and my apartment’s sweltering. I shove open the window that’s been painted a dozen times, the last coat still sticky from when it was painted over this summer, and open my door to let the cross-breeze in.

My head is clearing while I’m doing my best Molly Ringwald impression when there’s a knock at my door. Or, more accurately, my doorframe. I’m startled into a shriek and clap my hands over my mouth, turning to see who my intruder is.

Shep.

My face flames and I hold up a finger to tell him to wait. We won’t be able to hear each other over Deniece Williams. Never mind I need a minute to collect myself. How long was he standing there? This is humiliating. Although it could’ve been worse. I could’ve been going to Funkytown. Or whipping it. Or it could have been someone other than Shep. Shep’s not going to do an impression of me in the dining hall and he’s not going to bust my chops about my sick dance moves in class. My mortification settles into a low burn of embarrassment. Shep will keep my secrets.

“Mr. Shepherd. I thought you boys weren’t due back until four.”

He’s standing there in jeans and one of the light fleeces all the kids seem to wear when they’re not required to be in dress code, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He stubs an Adidas-clad toe into the dingy carpet of the hallway and looks down.

“My dad has to work tomorrow. He wanted to get home early.”

Right. His eyes find mine and his gaze makes me flush hotter. It’s not a leer like I get from some of the boys, especially the ones who don’t have me in class, but it is an observation. A study. I have a flashback to Shep’s drawings in the art show and all the wrong areas in my body tighten when I picture him sketching me. I drag the cuff of my sweatshirt over my forehead to wipe away the sweat and shove some escaped tendrils of hair behind my ears. Don’t remember me like this. My thoughts stutter as I try not to imagine how I would like Shep to draw me. A rational thought would be great, but my head doesn’t seem willing to supply one. I’m grateful when Shep does.

“I told Mr. Foster before I left I’d have to come back early. I guess he forgot. Dorm’s locked.”

“Of course. I’ll get my key.” Jeez, Erin, why did you think he was showing up at your door? To seduce you? I hurry to the rack on the wall where I keep my keys, find the extra set to Ford, and shove my feet into a worn pair of flip-flops. “Let’s go.”

Shep eyes me closely. “It’s kinda cold out there, Miss Brewster.”

I wave a hand. “It’s not far. Besides, I need to cool off.”

He tilts his head in a way that makes me want to run back to my bedroom and grab my warmest parka, but I’ve made my call. I shut the door to my apartment and scrawl a note on my white board to say I’ll be back in five in case there are other early arrivals who come looking for me. Then I traipse down the stairs, Shep’s heavy footsteps following mine.

I do my best not to look back at him and try to make small talk about his vacation as we cross the small quad. Shep’s not a big talker anyway, but his one-word answers tell me home is not the greatest place in the world. It’s possible he’d rather be here, feels more at ease on campus than he does with his family. He wouldn’t be the only one. The Hill is the only place on earth where I can plant my feet on the ground.

By the time we reach the front door where a worn duffel and his familiar backpack are waiting, I’m shivering. My stubbornness has turned out to be foolishness. I use one hand to rub my arm while my shaking fingers attempt to get the key into the lock.

It’s not that cold outside, but in my overheated state and sweat-drenched clothing, I’m freezing. My toes are thin and shivery, like they’d snap off if I stubbed my toe. The lock thunks open and I pull the door to let Shep in.

“Leave a note on Mr. Foster’s door to let him know you’re back, okay? See you in the morning.”

I turn to skitter across the frozen tundra to Oliver, hugging my arms against my chest and trying to rub warmth into my biceps. I’m stopped by a warm hand on my shoulder. “Miss Brewster, take my coat.”

Shep is stripping out of the fleece, revealing a hint of plaid boxers peeking out over the waistband of his jeans and a tantalizing strip of skin and a dust of hair trailing… No, no, no no no! I clench my eyes tight to get the picture of my fingers running over that skin, the ripple of muscle, out of my head. I open them to Shep holding out his fleece, a rugby shirt settled on his frame, mercifully hiding any more skin I might covet.

I hesitate. This seems inappropriate even if I weren’t having the thoughts I’m having, and I am. I’m a second from waving him off.

“Erin.”

His voice is a command. It’s almost the tone I’ve heard him use on the soccer field with his teammates, but there’s a different edge. One that makes my knees weak and, heaven help me, everything south of my waist tighten and throb. I should scold him for using my name but my synapses are too busy sending signals to other parts of my body to get the words out.

“Take my coat. Please. You’re freezing. I don’t want you making yourself sick.” My lips part, revealing chattering teeth, and I reach for the coat. The expression on his face softens when I take it. He’s back to being one of my students. “Can’t have you missing class. There’s too much to cover. I’ll never pass the AP if we don’t get through it all.”

I yank the fleece over my head, warm from his body and smelling of his clean, Ivory-soap scent. A lot of the boys wear expensive colognes. They smell like luxe department stores. Not Shep. His aroma is drug-store toiletries made irresistible by the fragrance of him layered underneath. I tug the zipper all the way up my throat and realize I’m swimming in it. I have to push up the sleeves so I can see my hands. I look like a toddler in my father’s clothes.

“Thank you. I’ll have this back to you tomorrow.”

He nods and bends to pick up his bags, slinging the backpack over his shoulder.

“Thanks, Miss Brewster.”

“Of course. See you tomorrow.”

I huddle inside the warmth of his coat, trying to deny the pleasure of being surrounded by him, and hurry across the quad. I look back before I open the door to Oliver. Shep is standing with the door open, waiting for me to go inside. Not until I swing the door open does he heft his duffel bag and go inside himself.

* * *

Shep

Could she be any cuter? I could’ve stood there all day and watched her. She’s a good dancer and she wasn’t even trying. She was having fun. I get glimpses of her silliness in class occasionally, more in Turner or when I walk her back to her apartment. But she still tries to keep it under wraps, be professional. But this was pure, exuberant Erin. I’d pay good money to see her that way again. Not likely, given how embarrassed she was.

I wanted to tell her, “Don’t be sorry. I’m not sorry.” But instead, I’d let her ask me about break and given the shortest answers I could get away with.

Yes, I was at home. Yes, I had a good holiday. No, we didn’t have a big meal.

I don’t get into how my mom had gone to a food pantry to get us an actual turkey or how my dad had yelled at her for it. “We don’t need anyone’s help, Christy. I can provide for my family. We don’t take fucking handouts. I’d rather go hungry than eat someone else’s charity. It’s bad enough Zach goes to that rich, faggot school.”

I’d hustled Caleb back to our room while they fought. Not that the thin walls did much to hide my dad’s raving or my mom’s crying. I used to try to stand up for her, but she’s begged me not to so many times I stopped. I think she’s worried he might take a swing at me. He’ll scream the house down, but he’s never hit her. I don’t know what I’d do if he hit her.

Caleb and I sat on the floor between the twin beds with the mismatched quilts; his legs out straight and my knees bent because the room’s so narrow. It’s smaller than the one I have all to myself on the Hill. I’d talked to Caleb about school. He’s got a crush on this girl Emily.

“Is she pretty?”

“Yeah. And she smells good.”

“Like flowers?” Like Erin? I don’t even know what kind of flowers she smells like, but it’s definitely flowers.

“No. Like…like cookies.”

I laugh, but I get it. Of course Caleb would fall for a girl who smells like cookies, food, a warm, welcoming home instead of the dark empty house we usually come back to. Nothing wrong with liking a girl who smells like cookies.

“Is she smart?”

“Yeah, she’s the smartest girl in our class. She won the spelling bee.”

“Is there anything Wonder Woman can’t do? She sounds perfect.”

“She’s short and she doesn’t run fast so she’s not good at basketball.”

“You pick her for your team anyway?”

His forehead got all wrinkled like he wasn’t sure what the right answer was. “Yeah?”

“Good man. Does she like you?”

“I don’t know. She might think I’m not very smart.”

Caleb makes okay grades. Mostly Bs, the occasional A and a sprinkling of Cs. He’s not the smartest kid but he works hard. Brains aren’t going to be his saving grace anyway. He’s got this knack for getting people to like him. I don’t know what it is about him, but even the meanest, get-off-my-lawn crank seems to have a soft spot for my brother. Kid’s got sun shining out of his ass or something.

“If she thinks you’re not very bright, she’s not as smart as you think.”

“Is there a girl you like?” I should say no, but his face is bright and eager. He’s spilled on his crush, so why shouldn’t I?

“Kind of.”

“Are you going to ask her to be your girlfriend?”

“I don’t have time for a girlfriend.” It’s true and an easier answer than “I can’t, she’s my teacher.” Caleb’s head might explode. I wouldn’t blame him. His current teacher is one I had, too. Mrs. Ellis is nice, but she could be our grandmother. Definitely not girlfriend material.

“How much time does it take? All you have to do is be nicer to her than you are to anyone else and eat lunch with her.”

I’ve never wished so hard I were ten again. But I’m not and life’s more complicated than that. But ... “Speaking of eating, sounds like dinner’s ready.”

By “dinner’s ready,” I’d meant Dad had stopped yelling and Mom had stopped crying. Later, I’d hear them through the thin walls while Caleb snored obliviously. Fucking. I didn’t want Caleb to hear him using her, that she lets him. How can she let him?

I’d buried my head under my pillow, tried to go to sleep. Failing that, thought of Erin. How I’d never do that to her. How I’d be different. How if she’d let me, I’d deserve it. Earn it. Finally it had stopped and I’d heard my dad’s heavy uneven footfalls headed to the bathroom. Happy Thanksgiving from the Shepherds.

But now I’m hauling up the steps of Ford to let myself into my room, preparing myself to put all my stuff away. I usually get pissed off while I’m doing this because it’s after a six-hour drive in the car with my dad, who’s been sullen at best or a raging asshole at worst. This time he’d been silent, which was fine by me. But instead of meditating on what a dick my dad can be, I find myself thinking of Erin. I wonder if my fleece is going to smell like her, like flowers, when she gives it back tomorrow.

Chapter 4

Erin

I’m looking over my calendar for the first time in weeks. Winter break has been welcome; a chance to decompress and finish planning for spring. My classes are all caught up on their material, but spring semester is going to be a long haul. Especially for my seniors who have to get ready for the AP exams right when their maturity and attention level is tanking. Not to mention I’m worried about a few of them.

Most of my kids are doing well, As and Bs. I don’t trouble myself too much about most of the Cs. They’re smart but lazy. I’ve offered help more than once and my encouragement is unflagging, but if they’re not prepared to work for it, I’m not going to drag them up the mountain like some mathematical Sherpa. The rest of the kids—particularly the ones who are struggling—deserve my effort and attention way more than the ones who are so confident in their parents’ ability to buy their way into a good college they don’t care.

I make a list of the kids I need to talk to, draft emails I’ll send them once they’re back on campus. When my draft folder is full to bursting, I flip through my calendar to make sure there aren’t any looming deadlines before the kids get back in a few days.

As I flip through the last week, something catches my eye. A red dot. It’s subtle, not meant to be seen or mean anything to anyone but me, but it’s there. A little red dot that may as well be a giant strobe light exploding from the page. That tiny red dot says I should’ve gotten my period a couple of days ago. It’s totally out of character for me to have missed that, but perhaps I’ve been so entrenched in the vacation routine I’ve set up for myself, I’ve been on auto-pilot.

Late. A word that strikes fear in most single women’s hearts like no other. My cycle’s always been so steady you could set a German train schedule to it. Two days is a big deal. Huge.

A shudder runs through me and I clutch at my abdomen. No way. No freaking way. I grab my keys and I’m about to run out to my car in my flip-flops and cut-off sweatshirt, but an image of Shep flashes through my mind, tipped head and stern glare. Don’t you dare.

Though it’s silly—Shep can’t see me and even if he could, I’m the adult here—I take five minutes to grab my parka and put on socks and shoes before vaulting down the stairs and out to my Civic. It’s freezing, and I’m thankful I had the good sense to listen to the specter of Shep as I shiver in my car, waiting for the heat to turn on and warm me.

I guide my car through the silent streets of campus and head two towns over to a drug store, paying cash for a pregnancy test. My face turns a vivid shade of red when the cashier, an older woman, eyes my ring finger and its distinct lack of ring. I may as well have a scarlet “A” tattooed on my forehead. I wave off the bag that’s too thin to hide its contents anyway and shove the box inside my coat. I hustle out to my car and shake the whole way home though it’s heated up by now.

Once there, I go through the rigmarole everyone’s familiar with. The indignity of having to pee on a stick adds to the doomsday feeling that’s sinking my belly.

Please, please, be on the fritz, cycle. I haven’t felt sick, my breasts aren’t tender, I haven’t had cravings. Clearly, I. Am. Not. Pregnant. But when I look at the test after the requisite five minutes, there it is, as I knew it would be. Two blue lines, less welcome than even that red dot.

I’m pregnant.

I’ve stood outside this door before. Not a lot, a couple of times. But now I know every inch of it. Every divot in the corkboard, the corner broken off the plaque announcing it as “Faculty Apartment 2,” the white paint chipped off revealing various colors this door’s been painted before. Dark brown, hospital green, and a startling seventies orange.

It’s been almost a week since I made my discovery and I’ve been dreading this conversation. I got to avoid it for a few days because Will was in New Jersey with his family and this isn’t the kind of news I want to deliver by phone, but he’s back. I was hoping to talk to him before the boys swarmed the place, but he didn’t arrive on campus until the last minute. Now the hallway is thrumming with adolescent noises of boys catching up with each other after a month away and done for the moment with the minutiae of studying. It’s hard to get back into the swing of things.

I flush when a door on the hall opens and Seung Park, a well-mannered sophomore who looks like a Korean pop star, emerges.

“Are you looking for someone, Miss Brewster?”

It’s unusual though not unheard of for faculty to be in dorms other than their own. My cheeks burn hot as I point a thumb at the door. “Believe I’ve found him. Thank you, Mr. Park.”

With that, I really have to knock. So I turn, metaphorically straighten my big-girl pants and raise a hand, only to be almost bowled over by a Will Chase in a hurry.

“Erin. What’re you doing here?” He sounds more surprised than he ought. It’s possible color rises in his cheeks, though it’s hard to say with his reddish-brown beard obscuring most of his face.

“I’m sorry. Uh, can I come in?”

He checks his watch and shifts his weight, frowning. Where are you in such a hurry to get to, Mr. Chase?

“It’s important,” I offer, hoping he won’t make me say anything else, knowing another door could open at any second. That would be my luck, too.

He steps back from the threshold and sweeps an arm inside. “By all means. Let me make a phone call first.”

After shutting the door and leaving me in the middle of his small sitting room, he disappears down the hall. I stand there, not wanting to take any liberties, looking around and trying not to eavesdrop on the conversation taking place on the other side of a door.

But it’s a tiny space, smaller than mine, and I catch some words: “Leaving... Fault she can’t… At my door… Soon as I can.”

There’s a minute before his door swings open again. When it does, it’s to a Will who’s more familiar. A few steps and he’s in the living room, hands at my elbows, offering me a broad smile.

“Erin, angel, what’re you doing standing here in your coat?” He ducks his head and pecks my cheek, hands coming to my zipper and tugging it down. He pushes it over my shoulders and flings my freed parka over the arm of the couch. Not bothering with my scarf, he pulls on my belt loops until the fronts of our bodies are flush. “It’s good to see you. I missed you.”

Pleasure blooms in my chest but it’s quashed by the fleeting memory of the phone call I heard. “You could’ve called.”

“I wish I could have. My family is insanity at the holidays. My mom needs help with things around the house, my nephew’s failing his seventh grade Shakespeare unit so my sister insisted I intervene, they dragged me to a million parties. It was awful. Forgive me. I would’ve much rather been curled up in front of a fire with you. You believe me, don’t you?”

The firm hold he’s got on my pants is convincing and his dulcet tones, deep with desire, don’t indicate he’s telling anything but the truth. I’m loath to wreck what I’m guessing would be a halfway decent roll in the hay, but I can’t let him continue to kiss my jaw.

“Will—”

“Yes, angel?”

His attentions don’t stop so I wedge my hands between us, palms flat on his chest, and push until he backs up. “We need to talk.”

“Next time we go on break, I swear I’ll call. Don’t be like that. Now, come on—”

He kisses me again, hoping to end the conversation. I screw my eyes shut because I have to work up my nerve to say this. I never will if he’s making advances.

“Will, I’m pregnant.”

His lips drop from my skin, leaving the faint burn of the scritch of his beard on my cheek.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant.”

He stares at me for a few seconds before half his face scrunches up and a laugh puffs from between his lips.

“That’s not funny.”

“I don’t think so either, but it’s true.”

I can’t look at him. Instead, my gaze roves all over his apartment; his books, family photos, paintings.

“Are you sure it’s mine?”

Seriously? “Yeah. I haven’t been with anyone but you since...”

I don’t want to finish that sentence. Since my junior year in college. I’ve had boyfriends since then, been on dates, but no one I’d trusted enough to have sex with. Now I know why. I hate, hate, that I’ve slept with a man who thinks I’d have been with anyone else.

“How many people have you slept with this semester?” I’ve asked it as an absentminded joke, but when his eyes bug and his breath catches, I know the answer isn’t one. I guess we never said we were exclusive, but I’d thought… I’m so ridiculous. And I want to believe his “Just you, angel” so badly.

“That’s less than ideal. But luckily we live in blue-state America. You don’t have dark room duty Friday and Andy can run rehearsal without me. We’ll go to Planned Parenthood in Somerville and get this, uh, taken care of. No problem.”

The fact that he knows where the closest Planned Parenthood is doesn’t inspire confidence, but that’s not my biggest problem.

“I don’t want to take care of it.”

His hands grip my arms in a way that makes me yelp and his face goes rock hard.

“What do you mean?” His head is cocked threateningly and his words are murderous sharp, so my words are meek when I say, “I don’t want to get an abortion. I…I’m going to keep the baby.”

He shoves me back as his fingers explode off of me. “The hell you are!”

I stumble and fall hard onto the coffee table. Luckily the ugly wood thing supports my weight as Will looms over me. While I’ve dreamed of being overpowered by a man, physically moved and controlled, it’s never looked like this. This is frightening, not sexy.

“There is no fucking way. You’re getting rid of it.”

“Will, you need to quiet down. The boys will hear you.” I’ve dropped my own tone to just above a whisper in hopes he’ll follow suit, but he’s like a man possessed. He grabs my arm and hefts me up.

“Fuck waiting until Friday. Let’s go, right now. Clean up this fucking disaster.”

“You’re not being reasonable. Even if I were to agree, which I don’t, nothing’s open. No one could see me. You need an appointment. And you don’t have to have anything to do with it. I’m not giving you a choice here, so I don’t expect anything from you.”

His fingers are digging hard into my flesh, but it doesn’t turn me on like it usually does. The hardness in his face isn’t the kind that could set me on fire and this isn’t a game or an act. He’s pissed.

He thrusts my arm away and starts pacing. I wait for him to say something, rubbing where I’ll have bruises coming up in the morning, and wonder what his next move is going to be. He walks with hard, long strides back and forth in the tiny space and my eyes follow his lean form from one side of the room to the other and back like I’m watching a tennis match.

“Will—”

“Get out, Erin.”

“But—”

“I said. Get. The fuck. Out.” He’s yelling, but with the most perfect enunciation. I don’t want the boys to hear anything more than they already have, so I put my hands up in surrender.

“Okay, I’ll leave.” I take a step toward the couch where he threw my parka, but he bellows, “Now!”

“Okay.”

It’s going to be a cold walk with no coat, but there’s no way I’m putting myself in front of that charging bull again. I back up until my heels hit the wall and then pull the door open, slipping out and down the back staircase, tears welling in my eyes.

I don’t know how I thought that was going to go, but not like that. God, not like that.

* * *

Shep

I’m slaving over my Latin homework when a movement out the window catches my eye. Someone’s running across the green. It’s too late for a student to be out and it’s freezing cold. Who the hell—

That’s when I know. It’s Erin. Why is she out? And she’s coming from Gefflin. Why would she be in—

Mr. Chase is the dorm affiliate for Gefflin. I’ve seen him flirt with her and watched her blush when he does, but I’ve also see him flirt with pretty much anything that has tits. If it weren’t so obvious she’s not special to him, I’d like to think I’d be green with envy that he’s allowed to flirt with her instead of filled with a red burning rage. He’s a dick who doesn’t deserve to stand within a hundred feet of a girl like Erin.

I can’t have her, but I’ll be damned if he’s going to. Now she’s running across campus in the dead of night with no goddamn coat on. Again. Does the girl want to get sick? While I wouldn’t mind nursing her back to health—putting her to bed, passing a cool hand over her feverish forehead, and hand-feeding her so she wouldn’t refuse to eat—that’s not an option. I don’t want her to be miserable, laid up alone with the flu or pneumonia or whatever the hell she could catch running around campus in the middle of winter without a goddamn coat on.

Erin’s a grown-up, has taken care of herself for years, but I’d like to knock some sense into her. Her little form scrambles across the green. She doesn’t bother to keep to the paths zigzagging the dead grass, but takes the most direct route. When she yanks the door to Oliver open, I watch her climb up the stairs through the frost-cornered windows, rubbing her arms until she reaches the third-floor landing. She’s gone through the swinging door that leads to the hallway when there’s pounding at my door.

“Shep-Shep-Shepherd!”

“Yeah, Lucky.”

Lucky pokes his shaggy head into my room. “What’s your deal, man? You look like you’re having as much trouble with this translation as I am. It’s a bitch, amirite?”

The translation isn’t hard and I know from a glance at Lucky’s book I’m a good thirty lines ahead of him, but I wouldn’t mind the company to suffer through the rest of it. I gesture at the navy blue butterfly chair that passes for guest seating and turn back to my desk. It’ll get my mind off of Erin at least, and the wildly inappropriate thoughts I have about her.

“Yeah, it’s a bitch all right.”

Chapter 5

Erin

The email had been terse:

Erin,

Please report to my office after seventh period.

Everett

I suppose he could want to check in. It’s been a while since we’ve had a heart-to-heart over how things are going. Once the school year is in full swing, it’s hard to find time to breathe, never mind chitchat over tea.

I write back to confirm that I’ll be there and don’t think much of it until the end of the day. But when I see Will’s tweed-clad shoulders leaning up against the wood-paneled wall, my stomach leaps into my throat.

He turns and our eyes meet; our expressions of horror mirror images. What we’re both thinking is Oh no.

“Did you get an email from the Headmaster?”

“Yes.”

I thought hell was other people, but hell is waiting outside Uncle Rett’s office, a colleague of my grandfather’s who I’ve known since I was born, knowing he’s going to ask me about my sex life.

We stand in silence, Will’s arms crossed over his chest, his clenched jaw evident even through his beard. I try not to fidget, but my anxiety needs an outlet.

When the door opens and Mrs. Latham gestures us inside, the blood in my body might explode out of my pulse points and leave me a drained shell on the floor. That horror show might be preferable to what’s waiting for me.

Uncle Rett is sitting behind his large desk, his be-jowled face stern and put-upon. He doesn’t want to have this talk any more than we do.

“Miss Brewster, Mr. Chase, please have a seat.”

We sit in the stiff-backed black chairs with the logo of the school in gold on the back. I suddenly know how every boy who’s ever been sent to this office must’ve felt. Uncle Rett waits for the door to close before he speaks again.

“It’s come to my attention that you two are…involved.”

Such a delicate way of saying it. But sure, involved.

Will grinds out a “Yes, sir,” that sounds like it’s been forced out of him at gunpoint.

“It’s not surprising two young, intelligent and attractive people such as yourselves thrown together on a campus full of old fuddy-duddies would start a relationship. Indeed, many of our faculty and staff have met their spouses on the Hill. The occasional rumor of hand-holding or dating wouldn’t concern me, but that’s not the rumor I’ve heard.”

Every internal organ I have stops working, shocked into humiliated panic.

“This is not a conversation I’d like to have, but it must be had. Are you pregnant, Miss Brewster?”

His eyes, the warm brown ones that have always looked upon me with such kindness, are glazed with disappointment. I wish I could tell him Of course not! No, never, not me. But I can’t. I’ve never lied to Uncle Rett and I won’t start even though I’d rather crawl under my chair and die.

I swallow hard before I can force the word from my throat. “Yes.”

His eyes close on my confirmation and he shakes his head, the dim glow of his green desk lamp glinting off his bald pate. He’s been bald my whole life; I can’t imagine him with hair.

“What are you intending to do about this pregnancy?”

“I’m going to keep the baby.”

Will grunts, not able to keep his disdain for my decision out of this conversation when we should be standing united on this side of the desk. Uncle Rett’s eyes flash to Will, and his face reddens in anger.

“If that’s the case, we have a few options. As faculty at this school you have a responsibility to uphold the highest moral standards, and a pregnancy out of wedlock does not meet those criteria. If both of you would like to remain teaching here—and aside from this incident with your personal lives, we’ve been pleased with your performances—you would need to get married.”

“Married?” Will’s voice is a croak, a horrified, strangled vocalization.

“Yes, Mr. Chase.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting into tears. This year had started out so well, all of my dreams were coming true, but it’s devolved into my worst nightmare. I’m pregnant by a man who has started to show some ugly colors under his tweed-and-corduroy veneer of WASP-y charm, and I’ve been presented with an ultimatum: get married or get out. The third option, get rid of the baby, is not going to happen, but Will is going to push for it.

I give in on a lot of things; let other people call the shots on much of how I lead my life. I don’t mind it for the most part. If I let myself admit it, I like it. But there are some things that are too important, that matter too much to let other people decide. I don’t use it often, so much that it probably seems like petulant stubbornness instead of the kind of assertions other people make every day, but I can put my foot down. In this case, I will.

“You may have the weekend to come to a decision, but by this time on Monday I’d like an answer. You’re dismissed.”

In that moment, I ache for Uncle Rett. This is not the conversation he wants to be having on a Friday afternoon when he should be finishing up paperwork so he can take Aunt Tilly to a nice dinner in town. Instead he’s lecturing his junior faculty members, one of whom has been like a granddaughter to him. I am such a complete and utter screwup.

Will and I push out of our chairs and I follow him out of the office, pulling the heavy door shut behind me. I walk behind him across the campus to Gefflin and trudge up the stairs, an unspoken agreement between us: We need to talk.

When he’s gestured me inside his apartment and closed the door, he turns on the stereo and a concerto comes on. Lovely music to have a knock-down, drag-out fight by. But he surprises me, crossing the room and wrapping his slender fingers around my upper arms and rubbing. His affection is startling, but welcome. I sink into it, letting his hypnotic movements settle me.

“Let’s think about this rationally, angel. Did you just do the one test?”

I shake my head. I’d done the second one almost immediately following the first, grasping at desperate straws. Then I’d gone to a different drug store in another town to pick up several more. Days later, the result had still been the same.

“Maybe it was a bad batch. Manufacturers make mistakes.”

I swallow hard. That’s why I’d gotten three different kinds of tests. Just in case. “But not all of them, not all at once. I’m pretty sure eight positive tests is beyond the margin of error.”

The soothing motion stops and his hands drop, leaving a trace of the warmth that used to be there. It’s replaced by his voice that’s gone ice cold.

“Get rid of it.”

“I won’t.”

“Christ, Erin, if I had known you were such a right-wing nut job, I never would’ve fucked you.”

“I’m not a right-wing nut job. I just…” I can’t explain it. I am firmly pro-choice. Have been for as long as I can remember. Should any of my friends find themselves in this situation and want an abortion, I would support them. I would drive them to the clinic myself. But my baby, inside my body? “I can’t, Will. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is not going to get me out of this hellhole you’ve dug for me.”

“I’m sorry, I dug for you? You think my job isn’t also on the line?” I don’t mention the violently ill sensation I get when I think about leaving the Hill, like the very center of my universe might suddenly disappear. There’s no way he’d understand. “And I don’t recall being the only person having sex in Turner. I’m pretty sure you were there, too. Otherwise this wouldn’t be a problem. It would be every boy on the Hill’s fantasy come true!”

Well, not every boy. There are a few kids who are gay and out, a few more who are closeted, but “every boy” sounds better than “ninety percent of the boys.” He’ll forgive my literary license.

“So, what? You want to get married?”

His pacing is going to wear a hole in the already threadbare carpet, and his jerky movements and aggressive striding scare me. He’s always been the mild-mannered English teacher, charming with a ready smile, but this is the second time I’ve seen him behave like a caged animal. When animals are backed into a corner…

“I don’t want to—we barely know each other—but I don’t want to lose my job, either. I don’t want to leave and I don’t think you do, either. You love it here as much as I do.”

“I was here first.”

I laugh and he turns a murderous glare on me.

“I’ve been coming here since I was two weeks old. Rett and Tilly Wilson sang me ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider’ and drank cambric tea with my dollies. I was here first.”

His rage is spilling out of his ears, but he won’t push me on that point.

“Look, Will, I like you. You’re smart, handsome and funny. You’re everything I thought I’d want in a partner. I know this is less than ideal, but we could at least try to make it work. I don’t see any other way out of this.”

If I did, I’d take it, but I can’t leave. I just can’t. I think I could handle any hardship or disappointment as long as I got to stay here. The need to be here, on the Hill, has blanked out the other thoughts in my head. If I lose everything else, let me keep this.

“I’ll think about it. Get out.”

I swallow my protests and get up from the couch. I want to say something, but I won’t allow myself to apologize. Not for something that’s equally his fault. I walk by him, and we exchange nothing. Not a look, not a touch. We’re not even breathing the same air. As I close the door to his apartment, I hear something glass meet its maker on the bricks of the hearth.

* * *

Shep

Practice ended a few minutes ago. We tromped off the ice, filtering through the cinder-block hallway, tugging off sweat-drenched gear while the sharp edges of our skates dug into the rubber mats lining the way to the locker room.

We’ve each claimed our slice of bench, yanking skates off, tossing helmets into lockers and lobbing practice uniforms in the direction of the huge canvas laundry bins on wheels. As the gear gets stripped away, the gossip starts.

I let it run over me, unmoved, until a sophomore—new to varsity this year and doesn’t know me well enough to know better—is saying some ugly things about a certain brown-haired, brown-eyed math teacher.

“Can it, Tom.”

“Look, man, I’m just—”

“I said, shut. The fuck. Up.”

“Whatever, dude.”

He strips off the last of his pads and wraps a towel around his waist to hit the showers. My hands are clenched tight at my sides, tight enough for my non-existent nails dig into my palms. Fucking breathe, Shepherd. It’s a rumor. An ugly, untrue rumor. It’s not the first time something like this has gone around about some female faculty member but it’s the first time I’ve given a shit.

There’s no way, no fucking way Erin’s pregnant. And by Will Chase. She wouldn’t. Would she? Okay, as much as I hate it, maybe they had sex. The idea makes me want to punch my locker so hard I’d leave a fist print in the metal, but the only thing I’d have to show for it is a broken hand. She’s a grown woman. A pretty, smart, sexy woman and I’m no prude. Despite her prim teacher’s exterior, maybe there’s a little of the naughty librarian to her. Hell, I would love to fuck Erin Brewster and I’d want her to enjoy it. Lose herself under my hands, cry out because it feels so good. I’d want her to make tiny, pleading sex noises while I pushed inside of her, begging me to stop even though I’d know she wanted anything but.

Don’t even think about it, Shepherd. Can’t walk into the showers with my dick as hard as the hockey stick I threw into my locker. Christ. A second thought of Will fucking Erin throws cold water on my hard-on, and I shove my shorts off.

So maybe Erin fucked Will. But she’s an intelligent person. It’s called birth control, and if she’s going to… I can’t even think it without a cold wave of jealousy flooding through me. If she’s going to do it, she’s going to do it without getting knocked up.

The rumors must be flat-out wrong. Rage is swarming in my head like a million bees, all bumping into my skull because they’re trying to get out and too pea-brained to find the exit. In the middle of it all is a hot kernel of doubt. She wouldn’t.

Would she?

I’ve got to stop thinking about this. I stuff my gear into my locker, grab up the thin towel that’s gone through too many wash cycles and head toward the showers before I yank myself back. If I leave my stuff in a heap, it’s going to be rank and sweaty when I have to suit up for the game tomorrow. Hockey gear is gross enough without me adding to the problem. I hang it up to air out overnight, a chant in my head: She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t.

* * *

Erin

Late Sunday night, there’s a knock at my door. When I open it, Will is standing there, a forearm braced on the doorframe, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, hair disheveled, wearing the same clothes I last saw him in. He looks terrible and smells worse.

“Where have you been?”

“Out.”

His one-word answer scares the living crap out of me and my plan to wed this man sours further in my mind and in my stomach. He pushes by me and I catch a whiff of something that’s not just unwashed man. It’s liquor. Gin, if my summers of fetching G&Ts and gimlets for the guests at the country club taught me anything.

I peek into the hallway to make sure none of the boys have seen him, but the doors are closed and no lights are shining from under them. The hallway is dark and silent. When I turn back, he’s sprawled on my couch. Maybe he’s asleep.

But when I close the door, an eye cracks open.

“Yorright.”

Jeez, how drunk is he? I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at him. “I often am. About what?”

“We have teh get hitched. Merried. Shack up.”

I want to point out that shacking up is the opposite of getting married but the finer points of just about anything would be lost on him right now.

“This is your way of proposing? Showing up drunk at my apartment at midnight? What is wrong with you?”

“Same thing’s wrong with you. Stubborn, selfish.”

How can he possibly say that? But arguing isn’t going to do me any good. I clench my fists and close my eyes. “Are you sure about this, Will? You’re plastered. I don’t want you making this decision when you’re not sober.”

“I was sober. It sucked. This’s better.”

I’m stuck between joblessness, possibly homelessness, and a lush with whom I’ve had tepid sex. No girl’s dream situation, but I could deal with it. As long as I can deal with it here.

“I’m going to ask you again in the morning because I don’t trust you in this state. But you can’t go walking around campus drunk. Headmaster Wilson would fire you on the spot.”

“Solve some problems.”

“Yes, it would. But I’m not that kind of girl. Give me your keys.”

He hands them over without protest, without even asking what I want them for. I turn on my coffeepot before I head across campus to his place. When I come back with a clean set of clothes, I’m relieved he’s in the shower.

When he steps out of my bathroom, he looks like he’s had a hard night, but not as bad as he had looked. There are droplets of water clinging to his beard and the hair on his chest. The towel is slung around his narrow hips. Whatever else he may be, Will is a finely built specimen of man. I hold out the pile of clothes, but instead of taking them, he grabs my arms and pulls me in close, the khakis, button-down, boxer-briefs and his favorite argyle socks crushed between us.

“I’m sorry, Erin. This is absolute shit, but that doesn’t give me an excuse to behave like an absolute shit. I hope you can accept my apology.”

I offer him a half-assed smile. “You’re right, it sucks. I’m sorry, too.”

He sinks to one knee, his hands trailing to my mine, which are still clutching his post-bender outfit.

“Erin Elizabeth Brewster, will you marry me?”

I have to laugh. This whole situation is absurd and there’s nothing else to do in the face of it except let the desperate barks of hysteria overtake me. “Yes, Will. I will marry you.”

The wedding is a rushed affair. We got a license from City Hall and a few days later make our way into Boston to the courthouse. I wear a dress and Will wears a suit. No one we know is there. Strangers act as witnesses and when it’s over, we finger the thin gold bands on our ring fingers. Did that really happen? But when we arrive back on campus, there’s a note on my door to please report to the faculty dining room.

When we get there, a handful of colleagues are waiting to fête us with a small white cake. The swooping red letters read “Congratulations Will and Erin!”

I want to throw it on the floor.

Congratulations on what? Messing up my whole life? But some arranged marriages are happy, aren’t they? I could still get my happy ending, have everything I’ve ever wanted. Though I’d rather curl up in my bathtub and cry, I put on a brave face and accept congratulatory hugs and well wishes from the other faculty and staff. At least I can stay here. That’s what really matters.

If they know why we’ve done this, they don’t say. If the walls of this school could talk, I can’t imagine this is the most scandalous thing ever to take place here. Aunt Tilly is particularly kind.

“I’m so happy for you, Erin. Will is a handsome, intelligent young man. You two are going to be very happy together.”

I give her a tight smile, begging her with my eyes to say something, anything, that’s going to make me feel better. She’s as close to a mother as I’ve ever gotten and this is the kind of thing moms are good for, right? “I think so, too.”

“It’s not the fashion to get married so young these days, but there are benefits to starting out together. You’ll never be alone.”

I nod and hope springs. She would know. She and Uncle Rett got married young, too, and they’re still madly in love almost fifty years later. But they started out that way. At least she’s right about one thing: I’ll never be alone. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to work here. Even if I like the illusion of being by myself, it’s most comfortable when someone else has got your back. Whatever’s happened, these people do. I wouldn’t trade the most perfect husband in the world for having to leave the Hill.

Someone’s procured a couple of bottles of something that can’t technically be called champagne, and Uncle Rett makes a toast. When we’ve raised our glasses and downed the cheap bubbly, he has one more announcement to make.

“A married couple shouldn’t start out living in the closets single junior faculty members are privileged to enjoy.” Chuckles sound around the room because most of the people here started out in those apartments. “So, for you, Will and Erin, the key to your next phase of life. And the two-bedroom apartment in Sullivan.”

He produces a literal key from his pocket and holds it aloft before Will accepts it. “Thank you, sir.”

Uncle Rett claps him on the shoulder and then draws me into a hug.

“It’s going to be fine, Erin. You made the right choice. Will’s a good man. He won’t let you down.”

My eyes water and I lay my head on his chest. I hope that’s true.

After the party dies down, Will and I walk hand-in-hand across campus to Sullivan to check out our new digs. It’s a third-floor apartment, left vacant because there are two other apartments in the dorm and this one is small and oddly shaped; not quite enough room for two people. My fingers graze my belly in an involuntary reference. Never mind three.

It’s been freshly scrubbed, I can smell the vacuuming and industrial cleaning powder the custodial staff uses. As we take the short tour, I imagine my things here. A bookcase up against that wall, the coffee table littered with papers to be graded before the fireplace. Canisters of flour, sugar and salt on that shelf. But those are all my things. I don’t remember what Will’s things look like from the few times I’ve been in his apartment.

“So when do you think we should move in?” he asks.

“Tomorrow, I guess. Most of the boys will be at games off campus, so we shouldn’t have much of an audience.”

“Hey.” Will walks over and takes my shoulders in his hands. “I know this isn’t your idea of a dream house, but we’ll make it ours. I swear.”

I nod and his hands slide up my neck to grasp my face in his hands. “At least we should get to enjoy our wedding night, right?”

Desperate hope claws at me, spurred on by Will’s charm in the close space. He can be so handsome and charismatic. And surely the sex will get better as we learn how to press each other’s hot buttons, get to know what turns each of us on. I could leave one of my books out for him to happen upon and hopefully he’d take some notes. Try out some of the things I think I’d like; some restraints here, a bit of spanking there. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe if we try really hard… “Yeah.”

By the time I’m standing in front of my first period seniors on Monday morning, word has spread around campus that Will and I have tied the knot. I get a lot of good-natured joshing from the boys. But there’s no gentle teasing or even a muttered congratulations from Shep.

It’s not unusual for his face to be clouded over, but this morning he looks like he’s survived a monsoon. Tired, rumpled, miserable. Is that how I look? It’s how I feel. I want to take him aside and explain what’s happened, but that would cross far too many boundaries. All I can do is shoot him a pleading glance. Please, please understand. If I didn’t, I would have had to leave. I can’t afford to leave, to lose everything.

He doesn’t even give me a chance after class, grabbing his things and heading out the door without his usual dipped chin, not meeting my eyes. I want to go after him, but for what? We’re not allowed to acknowledge whatever it is between us, so we definitely can’t talk about how I’ve ruined any chance of anything ever happening.

He doesn’t talk to me for a week.

* * *

Shep

She wouldn’t. She didn’t. That’s been my mantra for a week. The only thing that kept me from losing my motherfucking mind through workouts in the gym, three-hour practices on the ice, endless pages of reading, interminable lines of translations and never-ending problem sets. It pounds in my ears and through my veins as I stalk across campus, stomp up and down stairs and slam through doors. She wouldn’t. She didn’t.

She would. She did. That’s the only explanation for why Erin married Will. Shotgun wedding. Not that she’s confirmed it, but that must be why. Must be.

I’ve locked myself in the stall of the bathroom in the basement of Leonard, hoping Tennant and Fisk get the fuck out of here sooner rather than later. I managed to keep my breakfast down all through class even though every time I saw that fucking ring on her finger my stomach clenched around the stack of waffles I ate this morning.

She married him.

It’s ridiculous, but I always thought there was some way for us to be together. Fantasies of getting her alone after I had my diploma in hand and telling her I love her. She’d throw her soft little body against me, the spring smell of her hair drifting into my nostrils, her head not even coming up to my chin because she’d be wearing those flat purple shoes. She’d say I love you, too. I’ve loved you since the day I saw you. I’ve thought about you every day.

From there, my thoughts go off-kilter. Dirty. Really dirty. Like how she’d tell me she’d gotten herself off with one hand while she graded my tests with the other. That she’d touched herself in the shower after watching me out on the soccer field or coming off the hockey rink. But she wouldn’t, because she’s a fucking professional, and fingering your pussy while thinking about your student is against whatever code of ethics you want to adhere to like whoa.

But now when I picture her small hand slipping into the navy blue velvet pants she wore once before winter break—and hasn’t again, I’m guessing because she looks damn good in them and it’d been hard for some of the guys to hide their, uh, admiration—it’s ruined by the hand having a goddamn gold band on her ring finger. Even though I bet she masturbates with her right hand. She’s right-handed. I’ve always thought of her…

It doesn’t matter, you ridiculous fuck. She’s married. Probably because she’s having a baby. Will Chase’s baby. That’s not some intoxicated Vegas-weekend thing you can get annulled. Erin’s not going to leave the father of her baby. Any odd hope I had of being with her is gone. The door to the bathroom swings closed with a heavy thunk. A good thing, because I can’t keep it in anymore. I flip up the seat and crouch on my knees, puking up my guts because everything just got so much worse.

Chapter 6

Erin

The first twinge hits in my AP Calc class. I’m explaining how to construct a Taylor series for sin(x), my back turned to my students, my writing bleeding onto the second half of the board. Suddenly my breath catches while a screwdriver’s punched through my pelvis. It passes quickly and I hope none of them noticed the slight pitch forward of my shoulders, my chalk-free hand flying to my abdomen.

I continue the lesson, attempting to hold their attention on the day before spring break. Best of luck to me. But the end of the year and therefore the AP test are so close they can smell it, so most of them are half-focused despite the beaches and summer homes that await them. I fully expect drubbing heels and dropped pencils all day. You’re not the only ones looking forward to getting out of here, fellows.

The clock ticks interminably to nine and then it’s time to wish them a happy break and remind them of the easy assignment I’ve given them so their brains don’t turn to sun-shriveled raisins by the time they get back.

“What are you doing for break, Miss Brewster?”

“I will be heading to Nova Scotia for a week.”

Not my idea of a dream honeymoon, but Will said he’d always wanted to go. When I had asked if we could stop on Prince Edward Island to see where Anne of Green Gables had been written, he’d laughed. We need to find you some real books to read, Erin. Can’t wait ’til he discovers the stack of romances I keep under my side of the bed.

“With Mr. Chase?”

“Yes, Mr. Caldwell. Married people do generally travel together.”

Caldwell laughs at my dry humor. I can see he’s trying to determine whether further mockery would get him in trouble. An arch of my eyebrow and a tip of my chin warn him off.

“Have fun at lacrosse camp. Please do your best not to get eaten by a manatee.”

The boys filter out and I wish them fun or good luck depending on their plans. Shep’s held back, which wouldn’t have been unusual a few months ago. But since Will and I got married, he’s been distant, avoiding me. I don’t blame him. It’s probably for the best.

I go about my business, straightening papers, erasing the scribbles on the board, doing my utmost to pretend he’s not there. But it’s difficult when my brain is shouting, Shep’s not here! He’s not here! Those blue eyes, floppy hair in need of a cut. Not here!

God, I’m sick. I’m married and carrying another man’s child, and yet I’m fantasizing about one of my students. You’re going to hell for this, Erin Elizabeth. Shep’s footsteps are heavy on the carpet as he approaches, too heavy to pretend I don’t hear him coming.

“Mr. Shepherd, I assume you’ll be going to lacrosse camp over break?”

“For the second half.” He’s responded, but absently, as if he’s only using ten percent of his brainpower. The other ninety percent is focused on me. His gaze is so intense I blush, though I’m wearing trousers, a twin set and pearls. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.” I shuffle papers on my desk, messing up stacks I’d neatened a minute ago.

“You don’t look okay.”

“It’s not considered good manners to tell a lady she doesn’t look her best, Mr. Shepherd. Surely Mrs. Wilson’s mentioned this in one of your etiquette sessions.” In an antiquated tradition, every year each boy is required to have a sit-down dinner with the Headmaster’s wife and a few other students, during which she imparts upon them bygone manners. You know, should royalty ever come to town. My accompanying beware-of-boundaries glare doesn’t have the same effect on Shep as it does on Caldwell or the rest of my students. If anything, he’s more determined.

“You’re pale and you flinched during class.”

The first of my little boys filters into class and I give Shep a hard glare. We’re not doing this in front of the kids. As he offers a fist bump to the lanky freshman passing by, I know he won’t cross any lines in front of them. He takes his role of upperclassman very seriously.

“I’m fine. Thank you for your concern. Enjoy Fort Lauderdale and I’ll see you in two weeks. If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the ladies’ before next period starts, and you don’t want to be late for Mr. Jeffries. You have a test, if I’m not mistaken.”

I’m not. Conrad was making copies yesterday in the faculty lounge while crowing about how much agony his students were going to be in. Sadist.

Shep glowers at me. If the world were a perfect place, I’d reach out, cup his jaw, run my thumb over his freshly shaved cheek and lay a kiss on his full lips. I’m fine. He’d take me in his arms, hold me close and say into my hair, Okay. I just worry about you.

But this world is far from perfect so instead I offer a tight smile to his angry scowl. He follows me out the door, turning left when I go right, and hefting his heavy bag over his shoulder before stalking down the hallway and bursting out the double doors into the sunshine.

In the bathroom, I shut and lock the stall door although I’m the only woman in the department, and tug down my pants and underwear, noticing a hint of blood on the gusset. Blood. When I wipe, there’s a pink tinge on the tissue and my heart starts to race.

Nothing to worry about. Spotting early on is perfectly normal. I’ve read it in the dozen pregnancy books I’ve devoured in place of my usual steady diet of kinky romances. Nothing to be afraid of. But it’s not early anymore. I’m almost four months along, as my snug waistband will attest to. I’ve been avoiding buying maternity clothes but I’ll have to give up the ghost and go shopping over break. Because really, not buying pants that fit is not going to stop my waist from expanding and why should I be physically as well as mentally uncomfortable?

I take a few deeps breaths and try to shove aside the unease crawling up my spine. I have three more classes to teach and then I’ll call my midwife. I straighten my clothes, wash my hands and head back in to where the boys are waiting for me.

* * *

Shep

I hate this. I’ll be lucky to not bomb this idiotic test. Jeffries is such a fucking asshole. I studied for this test, hard, and so did everyone else, but the highest grade is going to be a B. But the nerves bunching my shoulders tight aren’t about this test, they’re about Erin. She looked sick. Why didn’t anyone else say anything? Can’t they see it? Why didn’t Will do something about it? If she’s not feeling well, he should be taking care of her.

But I don’t think he thinks about her much. He thinks about Miss Davis more. Or at least looks at her more. I guess she’s pretty. A lot of crass jokes get made about her in the locker room, but she’s too…pointy. Erin’s suppler, sweeter, a soft place to land instead of a jagged bed of nails. I shut down the comments about Miss Davis after a few, but they know better than to make any about Erin when I’m around.

Shit. I’ve got ten minutes to finish this beast and then I have to book it across campus to get to Drawing on time. The rest of my afternoon is shot. But afterward, I could check on Erin. Make sure she’s okay. And if she’s not, make her do something about it.

I love that she’s so sunny and optimistic, I do. Too often, though, she takes it to the extreme, blocking out the world with hands over her ears and her eyes shut tight, humming something silly so the outside world can’t burst her happy bubble. But sometimes the bubble needs to be burst because you can’t fix something until you acknowledge it’s broken.

Hopefully it’s that her stomach’s upset. That’s what you get when you take your eggs over easy.

* * *

Erin

I’m explaining how to calculate the area of a parallelogram in geometry when the next twinge hits, this one stronger, more painful. My breath is knocked out of me. I drop the chalk I’ve been gesturing with and I couldn’t tell you which one of the boys who sit in the front row picked it up and handed it back. My clammy fingers graze his, and my vacant “thank you” gives me a few seconds to get my shit together.

I’ve been going to the bathroom between each period and there’s been more blood, but nothing that truly freaks me out. It is enough to make me nervous, forgetful, and I have to email my geometry class their homework.

I have lunch in the faculty dining hall. Will kisses me on the cheek but spends the entire hour discussing Chaucer with Lana Davis. I wonder if Will’s sorry he married me instead of trying to get into her pants. He doesn’t notice, or at least doesn’t comment, that I’m not looking well, not even a question as to how my day’s going. I wonder if I’m imagining it until Herb Warner from the history department asks if I’m feeling okay.

“Fine, thanks. Long week. You know how they get before vacation.”

“I do.” He proceeds to regale me with thirty years’ worth of tales of the antics of students going stir-crazy before vacations. I’m grateful for his chattiness. It means I don’t have to offer anything but a polite nod and occasional laugh at his endless stories.

My other class of seniors, the statistics kids, are especially hyper. I’m the last thing standing between them and freedom, and it takes all the concentration I have to keep their attention instead of letting them run roughshod over my lesson plan. This is an AP class, too, but they’re much less serious than my calc students. My laser focus on keeping eyes on the board and brains in heads makes it easier to tamp down the growing unease that’s cramping my belly. That’s all it is: a psychosomatic manifestation of my ambivalence about this pregnancy. I’ll call my midwife after this is over. She’ll have me come in, check me out and tell me I’m a nervous first-time mother, not to worry.

When the clock strikes half-past two, the boys nearly crush me on the way out the door, making me laugh with their hurried but polite good-byes. When the last of them has gone, I take up my old-school eraser in desperate need of clapping, and start to erase the board. I’m up on tiptoes trying to reach a problem Shane Burdock had done out on the board. Given that the kid is six foot four, I’ll never be able to—

A scream of agony rips from my throat as a tearing sensation slashes through my belly and I crumple to the ground. Shit. Shit. I curl into the fetal position to ride it out, trying to breathe around the pain. Good practice for labor. When it’s passed, I don’t bother cleaning up the rest of my classroom. I gather up my bag and hurry out, calling Will on my cell on my way back to our apartment. I get his voice mail. I leave a casual message, asking him to call back when he gets the chance.

When I’ve hauled up the steps, I find a note explaining his absence and his failure to pick up the phone. A scrawled missive on the kitchen table tells me he left for his parents’ house after fifth period. He’ll see me Monday.

Will’s a bit of a techno-phobe, hence the hand-written note instead of a text. I won’t be able to reach him until he’s pulled into his parents’ driveway in Cherry Hill because he turns his phone off when he’s driving. Great. I guess I’ll be going to see my midwife by myself.

I’m about to dial her when there’s a pounding at my door. Not the hesitant knocking I usually get, but a knock that says if the door isn’t opened in the next thirty seconds, it will be broken down. I’m expecting Collins. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s forgotten to call a cab to get him to the airport and a kindhearted faculty member has had to rush him to Logan so he doesn’t miss his flight to Omaha.

Grabbing my keys and slipping my billfold in my pocket, I shove on my shoes before I swing open the door, ready to chide him for his forgetfulness. But instead of Collins’s spiky blond head, I’m greeted by Shep. His eyes are wide and he looks pissed instead of pleased he’s found me here.

“Why aren’t you at the doctor?”

“I beg your pardon?”

His voice has this deep, gravelly property to it; a restrained growl. It’s incredibly sexy, even in my less-than-hundred-percent state.

“Tuttle said you looked like shit.”

“I’ll need to have a discussion with Mr. Tuttle about language—” Shep’s fists clench by his sides and a vein stands out on his temple. He is not amused. “But if you must know, I was about to call my midwife. So if you’ll excuse me—”

My lecture is cut off by another slashing sensation in my abdomen, and I pitch forward. My clutching hand lands on Shep’s broad shoulder as I muffle the shriek rising in my throat into a whimper.

“I’m taking you to the ER.”

This time, the growl is not restrained, nor are his hands. One arm comes behind my knees to knock my legs out from under me, and the other behind my shoulders until I’m in his arms like a damsel in distress.

In my head, I’m formulating an appropriate scolding: Mr. Shepherd, please put me down this instant. And call 911. But the pain radiating out of my pelvis punctures any rational thoughts in my brain. He carries me down the stairs and out to my car like I don’t weigh any more than his gym bag, propping me against the passenger side long enough to unlock the door and settle me inside, taking an extra second to put my seatbelt on.

Another stab of agony rips through me and I double over, feeling a gush between my legs. I must be bleeding. A lot. This isn’t spotting. I’m having a miscarriage. Through the panic and agony, I hear Shep cursing my Civic for being an automatic. It makes me laugh until the next sharp pain drives all human thoughts from my head.

* * *

Shep

I wish this goddamn car had a stick shift. I fucking hate automatics. If this were a stick shift, I’d have something to think about other than Erin’s agonized moaning. She’s curled up in a pathetic ball, and I reach out to rub her back, which is turned toward me.

“You’re going to be okay, Erin. It’s going to be all right, I promise.”

I don’t know if she can hear me, and I don’t know if that’s true, but goddamn if I’m going to say otherwise. I keep talking, telling her everything’s going to be fine. When a bad one rips through her, she curls up tighter toward the window. There’s blood staining the seat.

Jesus Christ.

I press the pedal down farther, blowing late through a yellow and tearing down Route 2, hoping to god the Staties aren’t out in force this afternoon. Luck is with me and ten excruciating minutes later, I screech to a halt in front of the ER doors, barely putting Erin’s car in park before ripping open the passenger-side door. She’s hot and light in my arms, moaning and shivering, imploding in pain.

Where the fuck are you, Will?

A nurse in scrubs runs toward us, probably seeing the blood soaking through Erin’s clothes. She’s shouting but I don’t understand the words. All I can say is, “I think she’s having a miscarriage.”

The nurse grabs my sleeve and hauls me toward a bed, directing me to set Erin down. I don’t want to let her go, but if I don’t, they won’t be able to help her, make it stop. That’s what I want more than anything. Make it stop. Every scream, every whimper wrenched from her body is a punch to my chest.

“Her name’s Erin. Erin Brewster. Help her.”

A swarm of white coats and a rainbow of scrubs descend. They start shouting orders and asking her questions, shoving me out of the way. A nurse grabs my arm and urges me out of the room. I walk backward, not able to stand the helplessness, the fear choking me. There’s a glass panel that lets me see her while the nurse who manhandled me out here tries to drag answers from me. I half answer her questions. Most I don’t know the answers to, and I can’t take my eyes off of Erin—

“Are you her husband?”

The lie comes to my lips. Yes. She’s mine. She belongs to me. But I could get in way too much trouble. Besides, Erin’s real husband will be here soon. “No. She’s my teacher.”

I choke on the last word. Such a hollow, inane word for what she is to me. At some point, I must have given the nurse my name, because she’s steering me toward the waiting room. “Mr. Shepherd, you can wait out here.”

After half-an-hour of staring dead-eyed, useless at the worn linoleum floor, I can’t. I run out to the car, wishing I could keep running, all the way back to the Hill and beyond, run away from all of this. Instead I grab the cell Erin had been clutching, dropped on the floor of her car in one of her fits of agony. Will’s number must be in here. They can call him. I don’t know anyone else to call for her. Does she have family nearby? I don’t know. Someone at school might.

Fuck. School. I am going to be in so much trouble. I’ve broken about ten thousand rules. Not supposed to leave campus without letting someone know. Not supposed to drive on campus. I’m sure there must be something about inappropriate touching between teachers and students, and cradling Erin against me would definitely count as inappropriate. Or would if anyone had any idea how right it felt.

But fuck it. If they want to kick me out for this, so be it. I won’t apologize. I start the car and search for an empty spot, getting lucky a few rows from the entrance to the ER. I don’t want her car to get towed or ticketed on top of all of this. The bloodstain on the seat makes me cringe as I pull a too-tight turn into the space, almost clipping a BMW. I turn on a burst of speed to get back into the ER. Once inside, I find a nurse who looks familiar, give her the phone and tell her Will’s name. I plaster my hands against the window to Erin’s room. They’ve gotten her into a hospital gown and she’s stopped screaming.

She’s pale under the fluorescents and there’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead I want to wipe away. She looks dazed as she talks to a nurse. Maybe they’ve given her a sedative? Looking up from her conversation, she sees me with my forehead pressed against the glass and the corner of her mouth twitches. She’s glad I’m here. She says something to the nurse, who looks over her shoulder at me before turning back to Erin and shaking her head.

Tears well in Erin’s eyes and her small chin wrinkles. I can read the word on her lips: “Please.”

The nurse’s rounded shoulders rise and fall in a sigh, but she pokes her head out the door.

“Mr. Shepherd? Miss Brewster would like to speak with you.”

I shove my hands in my pockets and try not to flatten the nurse on my way in.

Erin’s lids flutter as I approach and dump myself into a chair. I keep my hands in my pockets so I won’t touch her.

“You should go back to school, Mr. Shepherd.”

“I—”

“Please don’t argue with me. I’m tired and I can’t stand up to your testosterone-fueled whatever-this-is.”

The weak wave of her wrist with the IV taped to the inside of her forearm slays me. Is she angry at me? All this stuff surges around in my head and perfectly rational thoughts explode like popcorn kernels into the crazy urges I always have about Erin. I can’t decide whether I want to take her into my lap and hold her until she falls asleep, fuck her until she’s begging me to stop, or take her over my knee and spank her until she cries. Any one of those things would be better than sitting here. Doing nothing.

Now she’s mad at me and she wants me to leave? But a puff of her cheek is telling me she’s trying to smile. She’s not angry. At least not really angry.

“I’ll wait with you until Mr. Chase gets here.”

She shakes her head. “Could you have someone call school? Will’s on the road, he won’t answer his phone for a few hours yet. Mrs. Wilson or Mrs. Latham should be around.”

There’s a tightness in my chest like I’ve run too hard for too long. They don’t care about you the way I do. Please let me stay. I’ll take care of you, haven’t I proven that? But she’s exhausted and she’s trying to protect me. So I shove the words back down my throat and lean my head out the door, waving to the nurse, and give her instructions.

When I turn back to Erin, her eyes are closed. Dark circles are heavy under her lashes, and her chest is rising and falling under the thin cotton of the johnny. She’s asleep. I seize the opportunity to run a hand across her forehead, sopping away the sweat beaded at her hairline and over her eyebrows. She stirs and I wait for her to open her eyes, yell at me, call me Mr. Shepherd again, but she doesn’t wake up. Instead, she leans her head toward my hand in her hair and she sighs.

A punch lands in my gut. She likes this. Likes my hand in her hair. Twist the screws a little harder, would you universe? You fucking suck. But for a few minutes at least, I can offer her comfort. I let my fingers wander through the strands lank with sweat. I don’t care. This is the prettiest she’s ever looked to me, because I know for certain in that instant she wants to be with me, too.

When the door opens half an hour later, I yank my hand away, not wanting to be caught, not wanting to have to answer any more awkward questions than I’ll already have to. I’m expecting Mrs. Latham or Mrs. Wilson, but it’s Will on the threshold.

“Mr. Shepherd, Headmaster Wilson is waiting outside. He’ll take you back to school.”

I stand, waiting for some other acknowledgement from him. Possibly a thank-you or at least a How is she doing? But there’s none of that. You’re a cold fuck, Will Chase.

The hospital room is too small not to brush his shoulder on my way out. It takes every ounce of willpower to not slam him up against a wall and knock his shit-eating teeth into the back of his throat. Your wife is in the hospital. She lost your baby. She was in so much pain she couldn’t not scream no matter how hard she tried, and you look like someone ate your leftovers. But instead I take a deep breath and step into the hall, remembering before I close the door I have Erin’s keys in my pocket.

“Mr. Chase.”

I may as well be a cockroach for how he looks at me, but he holds out a hand for the key ring dangling from my fingers and pockets it. I turn to go and before the door’s all the way shut, I hear him waking her.

“Erin, what the hell happened?”

I ball my fists in my pockets to keep from beating the crap out of this thoughtless fuckwad and head down the hall to look for Headmaster Wilson. I find his bald dome easily; it glints under the fluorescents a head above the slumped bodies nearby. When I stand in front of him, his tangle of white eyebrows goes up.

“You’ve had an interesting afternoon, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stares at me, trying to see into my brain. It wouldn’t be shocking if he could. More teenage guys have passed in front of this man’s steady gaze than I can imagine. I look him straight in the eye like I think a man would, a man I’d like to be, anyway. Can he see how I feel about Erin? What’s he going to do about it if he can?

It seems like forever that we face off, but he blinks first. “Let’s get you back to campus and you can tell me about it over dinner. Mrs. Wilson’s made my favorite. You like pot roast?”

He stands, dwarfing me—he’s one of the few people on campus significantly taller than I am—and lays a hand on my shoulder, leading me out to the parking lot. In so many words, he’s told me I’m not going to get in trouble for this. A weight lifts. I’d do it all over again no matter what, but knowing I’m not going to have to go home a failure is a relief.

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Erin

My eyes crack open at someone shaking my shoulder and a voice.

“Erin, what the hell happened?”

The corners of my lips tilt down. That’s not Shep. My lids flutter open to Will, looking pissed. I must’ve slept longer than I thought if Will’s here. But I’m not rested like I’ve slept for ten hours, and the clock confirms. My brain, hazy with painkillers, tries to fit the pieces together while I answer his question.

“I had a miscarriage.”

“That’s what Tilly said.”

Why isn’t he holding my hand, or stroking my hair, offering me comfort? Why did he wake me up? He’s looming over me and his glare narrows. I feel about an inch high, guilty for some reason even though it’s my body that’s betrayed me.

“Are you shitting me with this, Erin?”

“What?”

“Did you do this on purpose?”

If he’d asked me if I were the Queen of England I couldn’t be more shocked.

“Of course not. If I—”

“Yeah, you and your anti-abortion schtick. Whatever. Was this your way to trap me into marrying you? Then getting rid of it because you weren’t ready for a baby?”

My anger flares, fiery in my chest. How could he think so little of me? “Listen to yourself. You sound absurd.”

He looks absurd, menacing even, pacing the small room, hands raking through his thinning hair.

“This is bullshit.” He’s muttering under his breath and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming at him, to hold my tears at bay. How dare he?

“Get out, Will, if that’s what you think of me. If that’s what you believe. I can’t deal with this.” It’s while I’m scrubbing my hands over my face, my limbs stiff from trying to curl so hard around that gut-wrenching pain, that the switch flips. “Where were you?”

My question halts his determined wearing a ditch into the floor and his face could not say more blatantly I’ve been caught before he settles it into a bland mask.

He sits in the chair where Shep waited with me and takes up my fingers, kissing my knuckles. I want to pull away, but I’m too tired. “I was in the car on the way to my parents’ house. You know that, angel. I left you a note, or didn’t you see it? You ought to pay more careful attention. You’re so scatter-brained.”

“I did.” My heart hardens into an ice cube, sending sleet pumping through my veins. “You don’t answer your phone when you’re driving.”

It’s comical how myriad expressions flit across his face as he tries to decide what to do with this information. Here, let me help you. “Get out, Will. Have someone bring me some clothes.”

“Erin—”

“No. Get out. Leave my keys.”

“They won’t—”

“If I need a ride, I’ll call someone.”

I dare him with my eyes to argue with me. It’d give me a chance to scream at him. I’ve never been the screaming type, but if there’s anything worth screaming about, it’s your husband of less than two months shagging someone while you’re losing the baby that got you into the marriage in the first place.

He holds up his hands in limp defeat and lays the keys on the table beside my bed. My lids are heavy and I dismiss him by rolling onto my side. I wish it were Shep’s chest under my head instead of this flat, antiseptic-smelling pillow. I wish Shep were here so he could brush away the tears rolling down my cheeks the way he wiped the sweat off my forehead. Tenderly. With love.

* * *

Shep

Mrs. Wilson’s pot roast is delicious and I tell her so.

“Thank you, Mr. Shepherd. I’m glad you enjoyed it. You must be looking forward to some home cooking when you go back tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I agree politely, not wanting to tell her most nights it’s a box of mac-and-cheese or a microwave dinner. If it’s a bad night, three bowls of cereal I’ll get yelled at for eating in the morning when there’s not enough food at breakfast for everyone.

Headmaster Wilson had asked me some questions about Erin, but Mrs. Wilson hushed him. “Let the poor boy eat, Rett. He’s obviously starving.”

I’d done a passable impression of a ravenous teenager even though I couldn’t care less about food. But once I’d gotten a few mouthfuls of the heavy broth heaped over roasted potatoes, it hadn’t been hard. When I’ve finished the thirds I’d helped myself to at Mrs. Wilson’s urging, the phone rings and Mrs. Wilson excuses herself.

“You’ll be heading to Fort Lauderdale for the second week of break then, Mr. Shepherd?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Looking forward to it?”

“Yes, sir.” I am, although more for the chance to sleep and eat as much as I want than for the fun and sun most of my teammates are excited about. “I appreciate the school paying my way. There’s no way I could’ve gone otherwise.”

“You’ve more than earned it and we couldn’t have the team captain sit this out, right? Do we have a shot at winning the division this year?”

We talk team politics until Mrs. Wilson calls the Headmaster into the hallway outside the dining room. At first I ignore their low voices, too conscious of being able to listen in on their conversation, but then I hear Mrs. Wilson say, “She’s fine, Rett. Don’t worry. She lost the baby, but Erin’s going to be fine.”

My head snaps up from where I’d been staring into the smear of gravy on my plate.

“They’re keeping her overnight to make sure the miscarriage is complete. She can come home in the morning.”

“Is Will staying with her? Should I go lock up Sullivan? The Jacksons and Bess already left town.”

There’s a pause that makes me turn my head. If what comes out of her mouth is anything but Yes, of course—

“No. He called from their apartment. It seems Erin told him to come home.” Her voice is light but strained with a hint of warning. It makes me crack a smile. I can see round Mrs. Wilson drawing herself up to her full five feet tall, wagging a finger at the nearing seven-foot Headmaster, and him cowering. That woman is formidable and I wouldn’t argue with her, either.

“Tilly, I…I’ve made some mistakes, I won’t deny it. But overall, I’ve run a tight ship. Even the hard decisions, most of them felt right in the end. I’m a lucky man to have as few regrets as I do. But forcing Erin Brewster to marry Will Chase may be the biggest mistake of my life.”

They’re still talking but I can’t hear anything over the roar in my ears. Headmaster Wilson forced Erin to marry Will? Why would he—

The baby. Will got her knocked up. I can’t imagine parents wouldn’t be calling about that. They’re probably calling anyway. So he made her. Now the reason Erin had to marry Will is gone. Are they going to get divorced? Stay together for a while to make sure it doesn’t look like a shotgun wedding and then quietly divorce? Live happily ever after?

I’ve been a total douche. I was such an ass to her. I didn’t say a single word to her for over a week and I knew every time I looked at her it hurt her, but I was so angry I didn’t care. I couldn’t see past my own misery to see how scared, how unhappy she must’ve been. She doesn’t love Will, I know it. And if he loves her, that’s the shittiest version of love I’ve ever seen.

What was I going to do anyway? Whisk her away and settle down in some Rocky Mountain town where no one knows us, raise up the baby as mine? She could teach and I could bust my ass doing whatever work I could find. I’d hold down three jobs if I had to. But you can’t take Erin away from the Hill. She loves it here; it’s a part of her. It makes her feel safe.

What were my other options? Tell her I loved her? No can do. Still can’t. But now I can try to make it up to her for being such a complete and utter dickwad. Somehow, some way. I can start by not acting like such a dipshit.

A few minutes later, the Headmaster and his wife come back into the dining room. Mrs. Wilson offers me some tea.

“No, thank you. You’ve managed to fill the bottomless pit.” I pat my stomach with a smile. Who doesn’t like ravenous-teenage-boy jokes, besides a borderline homeless family who can’t afford to feed one properly? “If I eat another bite or take another sip, I might explode. But thank you so much for having me. That was the best dinner I’ve had…” Ever. It’s the best dinner I’ve had ever, but to cop to that would make them feel sorry for me, or worse, make them think I’m being insincere. I go with “in a long time.”

I lay my napkin on the table as I stand, and I’m surprised when Mrs. Wilson grabs me in a hug. She’s little and soft like Erin. Though they look absolutely nothing alike, and her hair smells like coconut instead of flowers, this is what it might be like to hug Erin’s mom. What a weird thought. I pat her on the back and Headmaster Wilson clears his throat.

“I’ll walk you back to Ford, son.”

“That’s all right, sir, no need for you to go out in the cold.”

It’s March but the chill’s lingered, paying us back for an overly warm fall, I guess.

“I could use a stroll, walk off some of that pot roast.”

His hand on my shoulder tells me not to argue. Instead, we head down the stone front steps and into the dark.

His spit-shined oxfords clomp along the path next to my scuffed ones, which need to be replaced. Are we going to walk the whole way in silence? That would suit me fine, but the not knowing freaks me out. I’m racking my brain for something innocuous to talk about when he interrupts my thoughts.

“In case you were worried, we heard from Mr. Chase. Ms. Brewster is going to be fine.”

I swallow hard and stare straight ahead, clenching my hands in pockets. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

I know he’s staring at me, those laser eyes of inquisition boring into my brain, searching for the truth. “We got interrupted before. What were you doing in Sullivan anyway?”

Every muscle in my body is tensed. I could lie, say I needed to ask a question I’d forgotten to in class, or I was dropping off a book I’d borrowed from one of the guys who lives there. But in my almost four years on the Hill, I’ve never lied to Headmaster Wilson and I have far too much respect for him to start.

“In class. She looked sick. I went…to make sure she was okay.” I’m breathing like I just finished running a dozen suicides by the time I’ve gotten it all out. I’m ready to bolt if he shows any sign of being pissed. But when he raises his hand, it’s not in an about-to-strike way. I’ve been in enough neighborhood scuffles and hockey riots to know. No, it comes to rest on the back of my collar at the junction of neck and shoulder. His voice is strained when he says, “You’re a good man, Mr. Shepherd. We’re lucky to have you.”

I close my eyes for longer than a blink. “Thank you, sir.”

Chapter 7

Erin

The baby is gone. The baby is gone and Will’s been cheating on me. My money’s on Lana Davis, but it could be someone else. It doesn’t matter. No matter how you slice it, this is awful. I grip the wheel of my Civic in the parking lot of the hospital. They’d looked me over this morning before discharging me, but it looks like the miscarriage was complete so I shouldn’t have any more gut-wrenching pain. I’m to call my midwife if I have more than cramps or if the bleeding is “excessive.”

I throw the plastic bag of my ruined clothes over the bloodstain on the passenger seat of my car. Excessive indeed.

I’m not sure what to do. I don’t want to go back to school. Will is going to be there and sympathetic faculty members who will make me want to put an eye out. At least the boys are gone. Poor Shep is probably traumatized for life. It might be awful and selfish of me, but I’m glad he was there. It was a bright spot in the otherwise grey horridness of the past twenty-four hours.

I don’t want to go home but I can’t stay here. I start up my car, a smile slipping across my face as I remember Shep cursing up a blue streak because my car’s an automatic. He must be able to drive a stick shift. I never learned. I wonder if he would teach me? God, Erin, how Say Anything of you. Shep may be John Cusack but I’m no Ione Skye.

I guide my car down the back roads toward school. Shep took Route 2 here, which would be faster but it’s always made me nervous. I’m so distracted by self-pity and malaise it would be a bad idea. I learned to drive around here—my grandfather taught me the summer after I turned sixteen—but I still think Massholes are out of control.

Pulling into my spot behind Sullivan, I hope against hope Will will be gone. I don’t want to see his face, hear any more wild accusations. I’m tired and numb. I want to lie down and not get up for a very long time.

I trudge up the stairs, overwhelmed by how exhausted I am. Thank goodness it’s spring break. I’ll have two weeks to get my head on straight before we have to finish out the semester. The boys deserve my best, especially the seniors I’m prepping for their APs, and I’m in no condition to give it to them at the moment. Hopefully this will wear off before allergies hit. Every spring finds me sniffly and watery-eyed, no matter what meds I take.

I slip my key in the well-worn lock and it turns, letting me into my small, oddly shaped apartment. Correction: not my, our. The person who makes me a “we” is sitting on the couch.

“Erin—”

“Save it, Will. I’m tired.”

He’s on his feet, blocking the hall to our bedroom. I’m too worn out to push past him so I stand there, wishing he would move, tears surging to the surface but not quite brimming over.

“Erin, angel, look at me, please.”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice to stay steady. No, I will not look at you. I will not do anything you say. You’ve never earned it, and I’m going to take it back.

His hands come to my biceps and I stiffen, wanting to scream. Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me. But instead I close my eyes and sniff. He takes it as a cue to pull me into his arms. Because I’m too destroyed to do anything else, I drop my bag and cry. His body goes stiff and awkward. He pats my back like he’d seen it in a movie. This is what you do when women cry, yes?

“I’m so sorry, Erin. It won’t ever happen again, I swear. I was angry at you and I shouldn’t have done it. I should’ve talked to you instead of running to someone else. She’s easier to be with because we don’t have real problems. But I was an ass. I swear, Erin, I swear, it won’t happen again.”

He eases me away from him and I scrub a fist over my face, angry I’m letting him see me in tears. What else is he going to take from me?

“Angel, I got something for you. For us. I want you to know how serious I am about this. Maybe I never fully committed to this marriage, but I have now. This thing with Lana, it’s over. I know you lost the baby, but we can make another baby. Later, when we’re ready. You’re so beautiful, Erin, and we both love it here. I want this to work, I do. So I got this, to tell you so.”

He pulls out a box from his pocket. When he opens it, my eyes almost fall out of my head. It’s a ring with a not-small diamond. How did he—

“That’s what I did, right after I left you yesterday. We’ll have to get it sized, obviously, it’s not going to fit, but it’s for you. I got it for you. Here.”

His tone is strained, a frantic used-car salesman trying to land a whale. Or wring any sale he can out of whatever desperate, gullible fool walked onto his lot. He takes my limp hand and slides the ring on my finger. It’s too big. Of course it’s too big. My hands are tiny and the diamond looks enormous and gaudy.

“Will, I…” I don’t want to be married to you. We gave it the old college try and it hasn’t worked out. It wouldn’t have worked out even if it were for the baby, and now we have no excuse to try to make it work. Please, stop. “I need to lie down.”

“Of course you do. Come on.”

He walks me back to the bedroom and stands in the doorway while I slide off my shoes and climb into bed, pulling the covers over myself. The ring, weighty on my hand, drops into my palm when I tilt my fingers and I discard it on the bedside table. I roll away from him and huddle under the blanket. He leans over me to kiss my cheek.

“We’ll talk when you wake up. I love you, Erin.”

I shut my eyes and try to block out his words, preferring to lull myself to sleep with the sensation memory of Shep’s hand in my hair.

I hate spring. Or should I say, sbrigh. Because that’s how it sounds through my horrible allergies. This is the first year I’m thankful for my allergies. At least my stuffy nose, runny eyes, and clogged sinuses can be blamed on something other than heartbreak. I spent the two weeks of spring break—even the one I was supposed to be on my honeymoon—mostly huddled in my bedroom, binge-reading romance novels to restore my faith in humanity.

That and thinking about Shep. I hadn’t heard from him, hadn’t expected to, but hoped I would. But what would he say? Drop me an email? Dear Ms. Brewster, Hope you’re feeling better after I watched you lose a baby. XOXO Shep? Leave a voice mail with his typical terse words: Ms. Brewster. It’s Shep. I was thinking of you. I hope you’re okay.

All so inappropriate.

In the meantime, Will has been attempting to court me; bringing me flowers and takeout. The flowers are roses, flowers you’d give anyone because you don’t know any better to get them what they’d actually like. They’re bloodred, the color of passion and love. I’d lain in bed, staring at them, wishing they were pink or, better, lilies. I love lilies. He’ll learn, right? Will will learn. I hope he can be taught. To pay attention, to care. That it’s not the grand gesture of a diamond ring, but showing up every day and learning your partner’s minor chords that says love, devotion.

The boys coming back has provided a distraction from the emptiness in my belly, the void in my heart. I’ve given away my one precious life to poor choices and bad fortune and I’m stuck. At least I can be on the Hill, the real love of my life. I let the strong grip of routine and the hum of other people’s lives comfort me as I sniff myself to sleep at night, hoping Will won’t notice because I can’t stand the thought of him comforting me.

* * *

Shep

Fort Lauderdale is hot. Hot and sticky. I try to enjoy it after the torture that was being home for a week. I’d worked as much as I could while I was there. They’re always glad to have me because I’m fast and accurate. My boss was pissed I’d only be there for the week, but he’d taken what he could get.

Caleb had shot up another inch in the two months I’d been gone. Kid’s a beanpole. He’s too skinny, and the happy glow he’s always had is fading. I don’t know if it’s malnutrition because fresh fruit and vegetables are way more expensive than a twelve-pack of ramen and when you’re trying to feed a teenage boy, volume counts more than quality, or if it’s that the shit that surrounds him is catching up with him, dulling his shine.

Bottom line is it doesn’t matter. I need to get him out of there sooner rather than later. While I’m here, I borrow Lucky’s cell, telling him I need to call home but really call Northwestern. I get my adviser assigned early and try to work out how to graduate in three years. I’d love to spend four years kicking back and fucking around, enjoying myself like my trust fund friends will be. Everyone who comes back to visit says college is a breeze after the academic boot camp that’s four years on the Hill. That sounds fantastic.

But not as good as getting a real job and maybe getting Caleb to come live with me. All my AP classes should help, but three years means no double major, no studying abroad, declaring my major pretty much the second I step foot on campus. Good thing I already know what it is.

I’ve had a lot of great teachers over the past four years, but having Erin in class solidified my goal to be a teacher. A math teacher. Everybody hates math, but not me. There’s always an answer. More important, a right answer. If you work hard enough, you can find it. For the next three years, I’m going to work my ass off. So for tonight, I should enjoy.

Right on cue, there’s pounding on my hotel room door.

“Shepherd, stop jerking off and let’s go. It’s dinner. They’re taking us to Benihana. You know what that means.”

At least Lucky knocks in case I was rubbing one out. I wasn’t. Haven’t been. Not because of a lack of opportunity, although four to a hotel room does cramp your style. At least it should. But that’s not the real reason. It’s because the last time I saw the source of most of my jerk-off fantasies, she was sick and I was helpless. That’s enough to throw cold water on my simmering hormones.

Lucky bursts in and starts doing some ridiculous hip-thrusting dance to a rhythm no one else can hear.

“Throwing knives and setting stuff on fire?”

“Geishas, man, geishas!”

I shrug off the beat-up tee I’ve been lounging in and pull on a polo shirt I found at the church tag sale a few weeks ago. Navy blue, Ralph Lauren. Two dollars. Perfect. “There aren’t geishas at Benihana.”

He freezes, his pelvis mid-thrust. “You’re breaking my heart, Shep. Think I can at least get a glass of sake?”

“Have you ever had sake?”

“No. But it sounds good, doesn’t it? You’re supposed to get knocked on your ass from a glass.”

“Go for it, man. But don’t cry on my shoulder when Coach busts your ridiculous, drunk ass and you get expelled two months before graduation.”

“You’re no fun, Shepherd.”

He scrubs a hand through my hair from the back and I shake him off, saying “Come on, man,” though in my head I’m thinking I can’t afford to be fun. I shove my keycard into my pocket and swat him upside the head. Benihana sounds really fucking good.

Chapter 8

Erin

Graduation. It’s bittersweet as a faculty member to watch the kids stand up and receive their diplomas. Most of whom I’ve taught, seen while I’m on duty down at Turner, or sat with over twice-weekly formal dinners in the dining hall. I know them all by name. It’s not hard when there are seventy-five of them.

They don’t wear caps and gowns, but grey slacks and their navy blazers with the Hawthorn crest embroidered on the breast pocket. Nor do the faculty don academic regalia. Thankfully. I’d be sweltering in this heat. It’s bad enough in the skirt suit I’ve put on for the occasion. The boys file up one by one to accept their diplomas from the Headmaster, and I’m surprised by the tears that prick at my eyes. The boys receive their diplomas in the manner they’ve lived the rest of their Hawthorn Hill careers, the class clown as obvious as the valedictorian.

They all look happy. All except Shep. His jaw is tight when he accepts the leather folio and a firm handshake from Headmaster Wilson, and he doesn’t look out into the audience or pump his fist when he has tangible proof he’s a graduate under his arm. My applause is more than polite for him, which it has been for all of “my” seniors, but perhaps even a titch louder for Shep. Am I allowed to think of him as Shep now? How many times do I have to tell myself to not think of him at all?

But it’s nicer to think of him than the other thoughts that are swimming around my head.

Will didn’t come home last night.

He’s sitting beside me, showered and shaved, dressed in the suit I’d taken to the cleaners to be ready for today. He’s sitting beside me as if nothing’s happened. As if we woke up in the same bed this morning, as if we’re an established faculty couple who’ve been sitting beside each other at graduations for years, and will continue to sit next to each other until one of us drops dead.

The last boy takes the stage to get his diploma, and when he stands with the rest of his class, the crowd erupts. The cheers, whistles and general mayhem is good cover for Will leaning over and saying, while still in the middle of a round of applause, “We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Your classroom?”

“Fine.”

We sit while the Headmaster makes his last remarks and when he’s finished, the crowd disperses like a dandelion. Will and I get blown apart on waves of conversation and congratulations. It takes me half an hour to make my way through the swarms of families and boys milling about. I’ve met most of the parents before, and I make pleasant chit-chat while my heart is hammering.

My pulse pounds against my skull, my ribs, my wrists, the backs of my knees while I plaster a smile on my face and make inane conversation. Small talk isn’t easy for me under the best of circumstances. Parents’ Weekend and visit days leave me wrung out and exhausted, and the strain of imagining what Will wants to talk about is making it worse. The more time I have to worry about this, the more freaked out I get. By the time we’ve glad-handed half the crowd and sneak away to my basement classroom, I’m light-headed with anxiety. When we’re inside, Will pulls the door closed until it latches.

I have a view of the swarms of be-suited gentlemen and sundressed women and girls who look out of place here. There shouldn’t be so many of them fluttering around, their voices too high-pitched to be bouncing off the brick and ivy-covered walls. I stare at them, trying to reconcile their presence, but I shouldn’t try too hard. They’ll be gone in a few hours and then I’ll be back to the minority, even when all the boys have left.

Will’s cleared his throat, expecting to draw my attention. I don’t turn. I’m going to hang on to any scrap of control I have over this situation, so I ignore his guttural plea. I’ve been standing at the window, watching the celebration, but my legs are leaden. It might be a good idea to sit down. I drag myself over to the chair behind my desk and drop onto the wood, warmed by the sun filtering through the window and worn by generations of math teachers who’ve come before me. The terrible ergonomics are a point of pride.

“You wanted to talk?” My voice has detached itself from my body. It’s doing a pretty good impression of someone who doesn’t give a care.

“Erin, I…”

Will’s got a big enough ego that it’s rare for him to sound genuinely contrite. It’s usually in a way that screams I’m apologizing because I know you think I’ve done something wrong and it’ll be easier for me to smooth this over and not deal with you being pissed off anymore if I pretend it’s rational. But there’s a cold streak of genuine remorse that sets off a chain reaction through my body.

“I’ve been…”

“You’ve been what?” The bottom’s dropped out of my stomach. I can’t believe this is happening. The diamond on my finger glints in the sun and shines a mocking beam right into my eye. “You’ve been what, Will?”

The coward looks at the floor. “When I said that Lana and I were over, that was…less than the entire truth.”

Oh? Tell me more. At my lack of audible response, he looks up like a dog expecting to be met with a steel-toe. Except I’m not the kicking type. I’m the kicked.

I should be glad. He’s been honest with me. A lot of men would’ve carved another notch on their belts, zipped their lips along with their flies, and hoped their wife would never know. It’s not the first time Will’s carved this particular notch. Does it even count as a separate betrayal? At this point it’s the reopening of an existing wound. Do I want to keep walking around with this sore that refuses to heal?

I should muster a “Screw you” or a “We’re over” or something brave and pithy that will make him sorry he thought of a woman other than me, never mind had sex with her. I hook the low heels of my shoes over the rung at the bottom of my chair and pull as hard as I can, exerting the only force I have control over until my thighs shake with strain and I have to let go.

“Okay.”

He looks at me like I’ve recited the Gettysburg Address or some equal non sequitur. I should yell. I should do something else. Someone with more self-respect would punch him in the face. But I’m worn out and what energy I have left shouldn’t be wasted on reactionary jibes at the man who promised to love and honor me and has done everything but. The boys who worked so hard for me and say their shy and earnest thank-yous, or who swing me around in exuberant and slightly mortifying hugs, they’re who deserve any feelings I can muster.

“Later.”

“Okay. Angel, I’m—”

I close my eyes and shake my head, heavy with disappointment in the both of us. “Don’t.”

When I open them again, Will nods and heads for the door. I want to throw a piece of chalk at the spot at the crown of his head where his hair is thinning, point out his vanity and flaws in a petty cat scratch of bewildered rage he’d brush off like a fly.

When the door latches behind him, the tears slip from my eyes. I wrench my ring from my finger, leaving red marks, and fling it across the classroom. It makes a satisfying clink as it bounces off a window and skitters who knows where over the carpet. Despite knowing this is probably best for all involved, I can’t help feeling shitty. He may not have been perfect, but he’d been another brick in the wall of my life that I’d built.

Now it’s crumbling. And I’ve gone and thrown a two-carat diamond across a room. I scramble to my knees and go in search of the ludicrous shiny bauble. I’d told him it was too much, but he’d insisted. I’ll return it, if this is the end, despite it being well within my rights to keep. If I can find it. I don’t want his money, or really his parents’ money. I’m on hands and knees, butt in the air, sinuses thick and burning with tears forced forward by gravity, reaching under a radiator for the trinket, when there’s a knock at my door.

I’m so startled I forget I’m cowering under a desk and slam my head hard against it in my effort to be upright.

“Son of a—”

I crumple to the ground, a mess of snot and wrinkled summer-weight wool. Tears of pain join the pity party in my eyes. This is too much.

In a second, dark grey trouser-covered knees appear in my field of vision.

“Ms. Brewster? Are you okay?”

Shep. Of course it’s Shep. This day should get a lot worse. My eyes travel up to his face while he lays a hand on my shoulder.

What’s called for here is to sniff, extract myself from under the desk as gracefully as possible, stand up, brush myself off and assure him, Of course, Mr. Shepherd. I dropped my ring and it rolled under the radiator. You surprised me. Congratulations and best of luck at Northwestern. Good day.

But what comes out is “No,” as I burst into tears. Most teenage boys would stutter and back away, possibly offer some tissues at arm’s length while looking around desperately for someone else, anyone else, to please do something with this crying woman. But it’s not Jeremiah or Caldwell who’s kneeling beside me. It’s Shep.

I bury my head in my hands as weeping racks my body. I can’t stop the flood, but Shep is undeterred, his hand resting on my arm. My tears come hard and fast, hot moisture rolling down my cheeks, off my nose. One unfortunate drop streams into the hollow of my ear.

When I gather up the reins of my outburst, Shep is still on his knees beside me, stroking my arm with long, firm passes. I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am, so I jumpstart the rational part of my brain. I cannot, cannot lose this job. I can’t leave here. Especially now. If Will and I are getting a divorce. Are we getting a divorce?

I don’t refuse when Shep offers me a hand. I take it. It’s callused from long hours wielding a lacrosse stick, and warm. He helps me sit up, laying his free hand on the top of my head to urge me out from under the desk without banging my head again. God help me, I lean into his touch instead of away like I should, wishing his fingers would curl in my hair and hold firm.

“Erin?”

He’s said my name twice before but the way it rolls off his tongue like he’s said it a million times imprints itself in my memory. Ignoring the low glow in my belly, I extract myself from his grasp and wipe the tears from my cheeks with my hands.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shepherd. Please forgive my…lack of decorum.” The understatement of the year colors my cheeks, and I hope he can’t feel the heat radiating off of me. A shallow line forms between his brows. I want to rub it out with my thumb. Nothing should mar his skin, especially not wrinkles from dealing with his ridiculous teacher. “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?”

“I have to go. My parents want to get home tonight.”

He has that tight look on his face as he looks down at the carpet, the one he gets when he thinks about home, his family. He’s disappointed and he’d rather stay to hang out with his friends and go to the wild off-campus party that’ll be happening later. The faculty pretend not to know about it, but we do. But he’s a dutiful, respectful son and he’s not going to argue. What he’s not saying is that his dad probably has to work at the feed mill early tomorrow morning. No time to take vacation days to let your son go to some outrageous, alcohol-fueled party with his aristocratic friends.

“I wanted to say good-bye, though. And thank you.”

His dark blue eyes have swept up to my face. I wish we could say the words we really want to say.

“It was my pleasure.” My face flames with the truth behind my words. It was my pleasure to see him every day, his easy, solid manner an anchor in the sea of volatile testosterone, his handsome features a pleasant place to rest my eyes. His very existence proof that there are good men in this world. “I’ll miss you.”

My confession flips a switch. “I’ll miss you, too.”

He kneels up and sets a foot flat on the floor. Instead of standing, he leans forward and presses a kiss against my lips as he slips his hand into my hair.

I’m startled, but his fingers sculpt around my skull and brook no argument. My eyes go from wide-open to slackly closed as his mouth meets mine. This feels right in a way kissing Will or my boyfriends never did. But my pliancy is shattered by how not right it is to be making out with one of my students. Under a desk. In my classroom.

I wrench myself away and drag oxygen into my lungs as if it will save me.

“Shep, I—”

“I should go.”

No. Don’t. Please? That’s what my crumpled-up face says but my brain intercedes before the thought makes it out of my mouth. “Yeah.”

Because if you don’t, I’ll throw myself into your arms and never leave. He stands and, always the consummate gentleman, offers me a hand. Though I’m wary of what his firm grasp will make me want, I take it, half-desperate for his touch and half-determined to act like nothing’s amiss. If he offered me a hand up from my seat on the grass watching a soccer game, I would, I have, accepted it.

He supports my weight as I come to my feet, wobbly-kneed and shaky. I haven’t let go of him, don’t want to, so I turn it into the world’s most awkward handshake.

“Good luck at Northwestern. Let us know how you’re doing.”

He flinches at my use of the plural. I’m a jerk. Me, I plead in my head where it’s safe to, let me know how you’re doing. Tell me you miss me.

We stand there for what feels both like hours and milliseconds, our hands clasped tight. I want another kiss, but in full view of the window, families and faculty milling around not so far away, this “handshake” is suspect. I loosen my fingers as the uneasy thought about what someone like Uncle Rett might think if he happened upon us worms into my brain.

Though it rips my heart in two, I don’t call him Shep as I step back.

“Good-bye, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Bye, Ms. Brewster.”

He looks at me for a long second before he turns and walks out the door. I sink to my knees when the latch trips and cry anew, my fingertips grazing my lips where he kissed me. These tears aren’t for Will. They’re for the lost possibility of what might have been but can never be with Zach Shepherd.

Chapter 9

Shep

“Damn it, Kaiser.”

It’s the second week of school and I’m already buried under mounds of homework. That’s what you get for taking an extra class, I guess. I don’t have time for this shit. But Kaiser’s dragging me out of my chair in a headlock and Paul’s throwing stuff out of the particleboard piece-of-shit that passes for a closet in the crappiest undergrad housing the university has.

“Get dressed, Shep. You’re going out tonight.”

“I would, guys, but I’ve got—”

“Shut the fuck up and make things easy on yourself. You’re coming whether you like it or not. It’s Tudor’s birthday and we’re doing a, uh, team-building exercise.”

I roll my eyes from where my head’s still wedged under Kaiser’s arm. I could have him on his back in a second but I can take some hazing. I push at his flexed forearm halfheartedly to give him the satisfaction. “Is ‘team-building exercise’ code for ‘strip club’?”

Paul snaps a dress shirt against my ass and I growl, pushing harder against the arm at my throat that feels more threatening though the pressure’s the same.

“For being such a geek, you’re not a total square. Now suit up, my friend. This night is going to be the stuff of legend.”

“Then fucking let up, Kaiser. I can’t change my shirt with you choking me.”

He releases his grip and I drag a few breaths into my lungs. He hadn’t been holding me tight, but I hate that trapped feeling. I shake it off and grab the button-down from Paul before I strip off the long-sleeve Hawthorn Hill hockey tee I’ve got on. The guys are still jabbering and I’m half looking forward to the porny bow-chicka-wow-wow beat of the club so I don’t have to listen to them anymore.

Ten minutes later, I’m cramming into Hurley’s Acura. I know enough to know it’s a nice car, but I also know enough about how to fit in with rich kids to not comment. We buzz through the streets of Evanston and down Sheridan into the city, ending up in a neighborhood I don’t know yet. The club is sketchy, but not the nastiest I’ve seen, called something like All Starz, if I read the gaudy sign correctly. The lot of us—spilling out of expensive cars, half drunk and all blowing off steam from a long week—fill up the parking lot and bottleneck into the club.

Someone’s paid our way so we get in no problem and without a second look from the bouncers, jacked dudes who could snap most of us over their knees like twigs. I’ll keep an eye on the guys who don’t know when to shut the hell up to make sure that doesn’t happen.

The place is dark and a bunch of tables have “Reserved” signs on them, where we spread out. Soon after, waitresses wearing not much more than the girls on stage saunter over and take our drink orders. When I ask for water, our server leans over farther, showing off her gaudy, sparkly canyon of cleavage, and a cloying fake vanilla smell pours off her.

“You driving, honey?”

“Yeah.” It was a lie on the way here, but I’m guessing it won’t be on the way back. Hurley had nudged me on the way in. “You’re all straight-edge and shit, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You mind driving back if I want a drink?”

“Sure.”

I don’t bother explaining that if I thought I could actually trust anyone here, I’d be happy to get fucked up. Relieved. Let me forget for a few hours about Erin Brewster. She’s been making unwanted appearances in my dreams since I met her, but after graduation, it’s been worse. It’s worse because I know what it feels like to have her lips against mine, have her kiss me back.

For the most part over the summer I’d been too busy working, watching Caleb or sleeping. Showers were a three-minute exercise in waking myself up and scrubbing shampoo in my hair and passing whatever sliver of soap was left in the shower over myself.

But now, I’m busy but I’m not that busy, and I’m tired but not sacked out. My dick has woken up from its summer hibernation. And the girls. Holy fuck, the girls. They’re All. Over. I’m not used to their high voices echoing through the halls of everywhere, or their girl smells or the short shorts. Real girls actually dress like that?

I’d thought the flirting was bad at school dances when we’d meet up with the girls’ school in the next town over, but add alcohol and kids away from home for the first time and you get explosions of sexual aggression. I’m flattered by the attention but it feels wrong to me. They don’t know anything about me. How do they know I’m not an asshole who’d treat them badly? Do they care? They should care.

Pointless as it may be, I can’t get rid of the nugget of hope that someday, somehow, I might be able to be with Erin. That miniscule possibility is enough to keep her as the yardstick in my head against which I measure all others.

All I can think when the round little redhead who lives down the hall leans in my doorway to ask me to kill a spider is that she’s too insistent, not mild like Erin. The Asian girl who times her gym workouts to flirt with us when we’re coming and going from practice? Smells too spicy and wears too much makeup, not subtle like Erin. Even the knockout blonde in my multivariable calculus class? Not as smart as Erin.

Now sugar tits. Yeah, lady, I’m the designated driver. She taps my nose with an acrylic nail. “Coming right up, honey.”

I should’ve found some empty carrel in the library to hole up in. A number starts on the main stage and war whoops go up around me. I do my best to ignore the cowgirl strip routine going on, when there’s a hand on my shoulder.

“Shep. Come on, man.”

It’s Paul. He’s cocking his head toward a low-lit door in a corner of the club with its own bouncer. “What? We going to the champagne room?”

“There’s a reason I picked this shithole. Tudor’s coming, too. Come on.”

I drain my water, setting down the empty glass with a few bucks under it, and slip out of my seat, ignoring the boos of the guys whose views I block. I shove my hands in my pockets as we head over. Paul’s looking over his shoulder to make sure we aren’t being followed, but all eyes are glued to the girl who’s down to a G-string, chaps and a Stetson.

Paul thrusts his pointy chin at the bouncer, who nods us in, and when the door opens… Holy shit.

I’ve seen this in the occasional porno but never in real life. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

“Close your mouth, dude. Be cool.”

Paul nudges me with an elbow. I do my best to plaster a look of cool disinterest on my face, but this might be my biggest challenge ever.

There’s a girl strapped over some kind of bench and a guy is whaling on her ass with a… I don’t even know what to call that thing. It’s maybe leather? Got a handle and a bunch of separate strands that are spreading over her reddened ass cheeks with every blow. Whatever it is, it’s making the girl scream, but not in pain.

“Nice, right?”

“What the—”

“Sit down, shut the fuck up and enjoy. You want some more water, you pussy?”

“Yeah.”

We dump ourselves into seats at an empty table at the front to watch the show. Though I was watching a mostly naked chick with a bunch of guys a few minutes ago and I didn’t blink, this makes me squirm. The faux leather is tacky and the place grimy, but there’s something about this…

My uncomfortable musings are interrupted by the woman’s voice. She’s stopped screaming and instead she’s begging, her voice tight and desperate. “Please, sir, please, sir.”

“Please what, you slut?” the guy asks, punctuating his question with a hard slap of the tool to the backs of her thighs.

“Please, sir, may I come, sir? Oh, please.”

The tightening in my gut had loosened when he’d called her a slut, but it springs back tighter than ever.

“Go on, you horny little bitch in heat. I want to see you come.”

And she does. She fucking does. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m no expert and I’ve seen When Harry Met Sally, but I’m almost certain she’s not faking it. I can’t help but imagine how Erin would look; bound like that, begging like that, coming like that, but for me, not this guy. I wonder if the girl likes the name-calling or if it’s something that gets just him off. Her cries of pleasure are ebbing and the guy’s stopped hitting her. He’s stroking her cherry-red ass and she’s mewling these gaspy sighs of satisfaction. It’s then I realize I’m hard as a fucking rock, and unlike during the talent show going on in the main club, I haven’t dragged my eyes away from this scene since we came in. My water sits in front of me untouched.

“Nice, right?” Paul’s weasel face is hanging over my shoulder and I shrug. He smacks me upside the head. “Come on, dude—”

His accusations are muffled by a commotion on the platform. The guy who’d been hitting her has moved around to where her hands are attached to the bench to undo her bonds. Some douche in a backward baseball cap and a White Sox jersey has jumped up and has his hands all over her, squeezing her ass and making pumping motions with his hips, grinding into her from behind.

Her partner comes around and yells at the guy to get back, but fan boy’s got a good four inches and fifty pounds on him and despite being shit-faced, lands a solid punch. I’m out of my chair, telling Paul to get a bouncer or, failing that, the rest of the team. Fan boy’s friends are pulling him back, but he’s bigger than them, too. I bust in between his drunk ass and the girl right before he grabs her again.

“Hey, buddy, hands off. Girl’s just trying to do her job.”

I am so going to get clocked. I sneak a glance at the girl’s partner, out cold on the floor. Shit. I can’t afford to get in a fight. Luck’s with me, though. My interruption has given fan boy’s friends enough time to get a good grip on him and he doesn’t have enough leverage to get his fist close to my face. They drag him off and I turn around. She’s crying and calling out, wrenching her wrists in the leather cuffs like she could rip free if she pulled hard enough. “Denny? Denny, are you okay? Oh, god.”

I crouch down in front of her, brush a curtain of corn-silk-soft blond hair behind her ear so I can see her face, and reach for the wrist Denny’d started to unfasten.

“Hey, he’s going be okay. It’s just a punch. Look, he’s coming to already.”

Twitches of his fingers and a roll of his head say he’ll be conscious in a few seconds. In the meantime, “Hey, sweetheart, settle down. I can’t get you out of here when you’re struggling. I’ll get you out and then you can go to him.”

She bites her lip and stops flailing, cooperative, tears leaking from her eyes. My fingers are steady as I unbuckle the cuffs and she rubs her wrists, red from her struggles. I put my hand on her arm and drag it up to her shoulder, down her back, over the side of her hip and down her leg. Not trying to cop a feel, but letting her know where I am so she doesn’t freak when she feels me behind her.

I get her ankle cuffs unfastened and help her stand. I expect her to drop to her knees at Denny’s side. He’s sitting up with the help of a bouncer who’s showed up. Awesome timing, dude. But she stands on tiptoe, throws her arms around my neck, and squeezes the breath out of me.

“Thank you,” she murmurs into my neck. This really fucking hot chick, smelling like lilacs and sweat and sex, naked as the day she was born, is pressing her whole body the length of mine. If I were Paul or Jamie, I’d have a raging hard-on. But I’m not. I put my arms around her and hold her hard and close until some of the desperation leaves her grasp.

“Sure.” Who wouldn’t have done that? But the answer is none of the twenty other guys in the room had. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

She nods into my shoulder and sniffs. The slightest tug back makes me release her, and she presses a quick kiss to my cheek before turning away.

“Hold up.” I strip off my button-down, leaving me in my undershirt. I hold it out to her and she tugs it over her head, mouthing another thank-you before tackle-hugging Denny, who’s sitting up against a pillar. After a few words, she’s sitting in his lap and he’s comforting her while a bartender comes over with a towel full of ice. A few seconds later, the girl is pointing at me. Denny’s eyes meet mine before he offers a halfhearted salute. I do the same and turn to leave. Hopefully Hurley and some other guys are ready to ditch this place. I won’t leave anyone stranded, but goddamn, do I want to get the fuck out of here.

I’m stopped by someone grabbing my shoulder. I twist out of the grip, expecting fan boy wanting to get in a late hit. Instead it’s a guy in his early forties, kinda Lenny Kravitz–looking. He holds up his hands and looks me up and down.

“Easy, man. Just wanted to talk to you. Got a few minutes?”

The wariness from expecting to get punched hasn’t entirely eased up. “For what?”

Instead of answering me, he sticks out a hand. “Name’s Mordecai. Nice to meet you.”

I’m still suspicious but all those damn manners they shoved down our throats on the Hill make me reciprocate. “Shepherd.”

Everyone at school calls me Shepherd or Shep, even my professors. I don’t think twice about it, but the guy cocks his head and gets this funny smirk on his face. “You serious?”

Guy’s named fucking Mordecai and he’s giving me shit about Shepherd? What the fuck? I swallow my smart-ass response and turn to go. “Hey, man, Shepherd. Sorry. It’s a little…on the nose. Come on, let me buy you a drink. I’ll stop being a dick.”

“I’m not drinking.”

There’s that fucking smirk again. “Tonic and lime?”

“Yeah, okay.” The adrenaline rush is draining from my system. I’m feeling jittery and wound too tight. A glass in my hand would at least give me something to hold on to.

Mordecai flags down a waitress and holds up two fingers as we take a seat at the back. The action’s stopped, maybe over for the night in the wake of fan boy. It’s nice to have a break to gather my thoughts. My fingers drum on the edge of the table as my eyes are drawn to the front of the room, where Paul’s reenacting the earlier drama for some of our teammates. At least they’re leaving me alone. I can’t take their crap right now.

“You been here before?”

I shake my head. “You?”

“I come here a few times a year.”

“Business or pleasure?” It’s a smart-aleck thing to say but he surprises me.

“Business.”

“What kind of business you in? You own a strip club? Poaching talent?”

“Y’ever heard of a club called Purgatory?”

“No. I started school here a few weeks ago. I don’t go out a lot. Some of my teammates might have heard of it, though. I get the feeling this is a regular thing.”

“I doubt it. It’s a private club. Members and invited guests only. I wanted to talk to you because I’m looking for someone to help out a few nights a week. You seem like a stand-up guy and it would keep you in beer money.”

“I don’t—”

“I know. You don’t drink. So, whatever you need cash for. Gas, pizza. Tuition?”

I flush at the last. Yeah, I could use some extra cash. The campus job they hooked me up with is minimum wage and they can’t give me more than ten hours a week. I’ve got a bunch saved up from this summer but it would be nice to be adding to my bank account instead of slowly draining it.

“What do you think? You could come by the club tomorrow. We can talk, you can see what you’d be getting yourself into.”

I take another look at the guy. His clothes are good quality but not super-expensive, same with his watch, and I catch a glimpse of a tat snaking out from under his sleeve. Everything about him says solid, with an edge. It’s just a meeting. If the place is creepy as fuck, I’ll leave. I don’t get the feeling it will be. “Yeah, all right.”

“You don’t say much, do you?”

“Not usually.”

“That’s not always a bad thing.” He drains the rest of his glass and sets it down on the table before reaching into his pocket and extracting a black leather wallet. He pulls out a black business card and slides it across the table to me. I pick it up, skimming over the red gothic script that reads “Purgatory” on the front and a phone number and street address printed in grey on the back. “Ten o’clock work for you? I’m kind of a night owl.”

“That works.” Ten will give me enough time to get my workout in and finish up my homework.

“I’ll see you then. Good to meet you, Shepherd.”

I raise my chin to say likewise and don’t hesitate when he holds out a hand. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but aside from his obnoxious habit of smirking at weird times, I like him. Low on bullshit. Easy to be around. He seems to have his shit together and expects other people to as well. I’ll have to wait and see what the deal is with his club, but something tells me Mordecai and I are going to get along just fine.

Chapter 10

Erin

It’s my third wedding anniversary. Which would explain why I’m sitting in a dark room with handmade, from scratch, by me, gnocchi congealing on the china plate in front of me. When we first got married, Will mentioned it was his favorite. While it’s a giant pain to make and I’m a notorious flop in the kitchen, I’d learned. I’d made batch upon batch to get it right.

Will loves my gnocchi. Or he used to. Or maybe he pretended to? It’s hard to tell with Will. After his graduation day confession, he’d pledged to start over. Again. For real this time. We’d gone to counseling, he’d seen a therapist, and for a while… He’s very good, my husband, when he wants to be. When he tries. But it’s so much easier—and way more fun—to be bad.

I’d say we had a really good year. Will was faithful and kind; controlled his temper and his drinking. He actually seemed to try most days. It didn’t hurt that Lana Davis had taken a job at a school in California. I think what my husband wants most in the world is for people to like him. He wanted me to like him. And I did. For a while.

Then it fell apart again. I guess I wasn’t worth the effort. Not every day anyway. He’s still good for the grand gestures. That’s what he’s best at. A gigantic shiny burst that’s going to make him the man of the hour instead of the workaday yeoman who shows up day after day to say I love you in small ways, like remembering how I take my coffee.

I push the chair away from the table, tossing my unused napkin next to my untouched plate. I could have eaten, but I’ve lost my appetite. Your husband not showing up to a dinner you’ve put your heart and soul into will do that to a girl. I clean up the kitchen in silence, wishing I had a dishwasher, but these tiny faculty apartments don’t have them. More outmoded traditions we’re bizarrely proud of. Why? They make us relics. Relics with dry, cracked hands from washing three sinkfuls of dirty dishes.

I climb into bed exhausted and numb, not bothering to read. The book by my bedside is one of the romances I read like I breathe air. I need the possibility of a happy ending like I need oxygen. Will hates them, says they’re crap, although he refuses to read one. His smack talk wouldn’t bother me so much if he’d read one. Some of them are trashy, but some of them are beautifully written and heartrending. Who cares anyway if you enjoy them? But no, it’s beneath a Serious Literary Scholar like himself. Beneath his math-teaching wife, too.

It may be beneath him, but I wish he’d even look past the cover and see what kind of sex I’d like to have. I’d annotate it, marking sections with a highlighter: we could try this; cross things out with a red pen: oh, hell no; and mark a few pages with sticky flags: dear god, yes. Please, please do this immediately if not sooner. The idea curls my mouth into a sad clown smile. If Will hasn’t taken the hints I’ve dropped, and wrinkled his nose when I’ve suggested something out of the ordinary, he won’t think that’s funny.

I’m not going to pick up the latest because I’m loving it and I don’t want to be all anaesthetized when I read it, empty like one of Will’s discarded bottles of gin. I want to savor every word. So I stare at the ceiling, pining for sleep until the door to our apartment creaks open and Will trips over the threshold. My hands tighten in the sheets. He’s been drinking. Again.

He stumbles into our room and his attempts to be quiet are insulting. A picture frame knocked off a dresser he steadies himself against to take off his shoes, swearing as he stubs a toe on the hope chest, the grinding of the stubborn drawer I’ve been asking him to oil for weeks. Frustrated tears well in my eyes by the time he fumbles his way under the covers.

“I hope the boys didn’t see you.”

He stiffens as if he’s surprised I’m awake. “Didn’t.”

“How do you know? You’re so plastered I doubt you’d notice if they were grapefruit bowling again.”

The hallway had smelled better than usual after that stunt. The scent of citrus permeated the carpet for weeks, drowned out the standard fetid odor of too many gym clothes washed not often enough. I’d still had to chastise them with a straight face. I’d told Will about it when he’d returned from the Model UN trip he was leading, hoping to be able to laugh about it behind closed doors, but he’d wrinkled his nose instead. I couldn’t tell if it was disgust at my juvenile sense of humor—come on, grapefruit bowling? That’s awesome!—or at the idea of walking on zest ground into the carpet for the foreseeable future. Not that Will takes his shoes off except when he comes to bed.

He doesn’t defend himself but collapses onto the mattress heavily, snoring within a minute, leaving me to stew in our marriage bed.

I make my obviously hungover husband pancakes and coffee the next morning. Cream and sugar, how he likes it. When he bothers to get me a cup, which isn’t often, he still puts sugar in mine even though I’ve told him a hundred times, Just cream, please.

I get a couple of tabs of aspirin from the bathroom, pour a glass of orange juice, cut some strawberries, warm up syrup on the stovetop before pouring it into a tiny pitcher. I put the whole production on a tray with legs that fold down, a wedding present from one of his sisters. Balancing the heavy tray along my arm so I don’t spill, I come into our bedroom. When I’ve roused him to seated, I place the banquet over his lap.

“Thanks, angel. This looks wonderful.”

He’s started to eat and I sit down on the chair next to our bed, twisting my fingers together in my lap. “Will, I want a divorce.”

He pauses with a bite of pancake dripping with syrup hanging over his chest. A drop falls onto his buttoned-up pajama top. That’s going to make him crazy. But his fastidious compulsions are momentarily silenced.

“You what?”

“I want a divorce.”

“No, you don’t, Erin. You’re saying that because you’re upset about last night. It won’t happen again, I swear. I’ll finish eating, we’ll get cleaned up and we’ll go have a wonderful day. Everything will look better. I was going to take you to the special collections at Harvard. They have—”

“Does that sound like something I’d like to do, Will? Honestly?”

He lays his silverware down on the tray and his face furrows into a bewildered frown as if he’s never thought of it before. He has, occasionally, but only when he’s sorry. Except Will is never truly sorry. What he is is sad he got caught, uncomfortable with having someone angry at him.

“Look, we’ve tried. We’re not in love, there’s no baby, and I can’t take this anymore. The lies, the drinking, the cheating. I’ve held out for three years, hoping you could become the man you say you want to be. You even were for a while. But deep down, every day, you’re just Will. You’re charming and intelligent and handsome, but you’re also irresponsible and careless. I don’t want my life tied to yours anymore.”

“But—”

“No, Will. No buts. Not anymore. If you’re worried about your job, don’t be. I already talked to Rett and we can both stay. We can keep it quiet through the end of the school year. After graduation you can move out, and we’ll both go about our business.”

I’d love it if he’d leave, if I didn’t have to see him strutting around campus all the time, wondering who he’s sleeping with, but at least I’d be able to be thankful he’s not sleeping around on me anymore.

“What if I don’t want to stay here being ex–Mr. Erin Brewster? You’re like Hawthorn royalty, so what the hell will that make me?”

“Single?”

He scowls and shoves the tray down the bed, hard enough that orange juice and coffee slosh over the sides and onto the tray, sullying the puddle of syrup on his plate.

“I’m not going to stay here and be made to look like the bad guy.”

“When have I ever made you look like the bad guy?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s nothing to come out. Will may be a terrible husband, but that’s no one’s business but ours. I’ve been careful to keep my problems behind closed doors, and been suchssful to the extent that Uncle Rett was surprised when I’d asked over our usual Sunday dinner what happened to faculty members who got divorced.

“I’m still leaving.”

“That’s fine. I’m going to stay.” There’s a one-man-band playing in my chest and I want to get it out but at least I haven’t cried. I don’t want to give him any more of my tears, though it’s tempting. Will never knows what to do with me when I cry. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I walk out the door and start counting in my head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—that’s when I hear it. The shattering of something against the wall. My guess would be the glass of orange juice. That’ll be fun to clean up. I shut the door, pull the shower curtain closed before I turn on the spray and sit down on the nubby bathmat, letting the hot stream of water drown out my tears.

Will goes to his parents’ house in Cherry Hill whenever he can, trading duties with other faculty and staff. That means the weekends he’s around, he’s not, and that’s ducky. He’s been sleeping on the couch and we live around each other, not with each other.

He’s been looking for other jobs, closer to his family. He’s got interviews with several schools this weekend. I offer him good luck as we pass each other on the threshold, and his nose wrinkles. “You’re in such a hurry to get rid of me, aren’t you?”

“I meant it when I said you could stay here, Will.” I did, too, though I’m relieved he’s leaving.

He slings his leather bag, heavy with his laptop and papers to be graded, over his shoulder and without another word, heads down the hall.

The breath I’ve been holding leaves my body in a rush. It’s always a question: Which Will will I get today? No yelling and no breaking things is a good day. He’s gone until Sunday night, so even better. I set my own books down on the kitchen table and flop onto the couch. Spring break will be here soon, and I can’t wait for two weeks of uninterrupted Will-free time. But for now, I’m going to make the best of what I have.

I’ve been keyed-up and anxious all day. Even though Will’s gone, I can’t get my head to stop being on guard. Relax, relax. I close my eyes and breathe, but the low-level anxiety that’s been my more or less constant companion since I don’t remember when won’t let me go. I drink a cup of tea, turn on a movie I’ve been wanting to watch, but I’m still in its grip. His grip.

There’s one last thing to do. I get ready for bed, changing into soft cotton pajama pants, a well-worn Hawthorn T-shirt I’ve had since I was in high school, and a pair of fuzzy socks. When I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face, I climb under my sheets, turn on my bedside lamp and hang over the edge of the mattress to take up a book. It’s not the one I’m reading. That’s on my bedside table.

This one is for special purposes. I turn to a well-thumbed page and start to read, substituting certain words with the personal fantasy already playing in my head. When I’ve reached a particular point, I slide fingers under the blanket and up my shirt to toy with a nipple while my other hand turns pages.

The hero’s about to punish the heroine for not following his instructions, and there’s so much about this that makes me hot. Being given instructions. Having someone pay attention enough to know when I’ve disobeyed, and caring enough to discipline me, make me better. The punishment itself… I don’t relish the idea of being actually hurt. I don’t think pain is my thing, but if he—

He. Even when I hadn’t given up on Will yet, when I let my mind go during fantasizing or even sometimes during the rote sex, I’d think of Shep. Not when he was my student, no, though it hadn’t been easy to shut that down. But the wrongness would eventually win out. He wasn’t a minor, but it was the power imbalance; knowing I was technically an authority figure, though that never felt a hundred percent true even though he was always respectful. But after he was gone…

I’d fumble to make him not look like my student, picture him in street clothes instead of dress code or one of his Hawthorn uniforms, but sometimes I’d slip. Today I toe the line, thinking of him in a suit. He’d look drop-dead handsome in a suit, his broad shoulders filling out the jacket. When he’d shove his hands in the pockets of the trousers, it would pull the vent of the coat open in the back and I’d be able to see the curve of his butt.

I’d kneel at his feet, naked, while he lectured me, my eyes brimming with tears because I’d disappointed him. He’d grasp my elbow, hard enough to help me up but not hard enough to leave a bruise, and steer me to a desk, instructing me to bend over, lay my palms parallel on the fine-grained surface.

When I was in position, very conscious of being at his mercy and completely willing to take whatever punishment he’d deemed fit, he’d stroke my back. He’d also toy with the various implements in a canister on the table, their business ends sticking out above the rim.

A crop, a loopy john, a wooden spoon, a leather-covered paddle, a small cane. This time he’d opt for the worn old-school wooden ruler.

I set my book down, able to carry out the fantasy without any more help, and slip my freed hand under the waistband of my pants and into my underwear. I’m, predictably, wet. I always am when I indulge in this daydream.

He’d remind me what I was being punished for, make me repeat it back to him and then tell me my punishment. Twenty strokes, I’m to count. I picture the red welts being laid across my cheeks, my fingers curling into fists while I struggle not to reach back, trying to accept the punishment he’s deemed appropriate while my tears drip onto the desk. I’d choke out the words: One, two, three. I’d pay the price and when it’s over…

He’d stroke my heated, red behind and then tell me to spread my legs, slipping a finger through my wetness when I had. He’d make a contented, appreciative grunt as he pressed inside of me.

“You like it when I discipline you, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like being told what to do and having consequences when you don’t follow instructions. Why is that?”

“Because…” The fingers that are sliding in and out of me are making coherent thought difficult but I don’t want him to stop. “Because it makes me feel loved.”

He’d rest a hand over mine, sprawled, clutching on the desk, nest his fingers between mine and lean down to kiss the sensitive spot where jaw meets ear.

“You are, Erin. I love you. I’m going to look after you.”

Then he’d push me forward until my hips were flush against the desk and withdraw his fingers, a smack landing hard on my flank when I cried out in disappointment. Soon my arms would be pinned behind my back, wrist to elbow, secured with his belt. I’d hear him unzip his pants. He’d press against me, making me wriggle to get closer to him.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to make you better.”

With that promise, he’d slam into me and the pressure from the smooth wood surface on my mound would be enough contact to get me off.

My fingers are moving faster, rubbing my clit in what used to be circles. It’s not until he comes inside me in my fantasy, gripping my shoulders hard for the last brutal thrusts, that I come in reality. My muscles clench tight around nothing and a low-level tone hums in my ear while I press my fingers against my clit a few more times, wringing every last bit out of this orgasm.

I slump, letting go of all the tension. It’s with images of Shep unbinding my arms, carrying me to bed and holding me tight, telling me over and over he loves me, that I finally fall asleep.

Chapter 11

Shep

I knew I’d see her.

If not now, then when I hope I’ll be arriving on campus in the summer. It’s inevitable. A small campus, a small community—everyone will know I’m here within a matter of minutes. If she wanted to find me, it wouldn’t be hard. But I was hoping, really hoping, it wouldn’t be yet. I made the arrangements last minute in a move that fought every impulse I have so there’d be the possibility I wouldn’t have to see her yet. And if I don’t get the job, I don’t want to disappoint her. Would she be disappointed?

But here she is, stutter stepping down the wooden stairs that lead out of Leonard. She’s not holding the railing because her arms are full of books and notes. I have that same urge; it doesn’t even take a second. Be careful, you’re going to fall. But she doesn’t. She shifts the pile into one arm and grabs the peeling-paint-clad railing and stares, mouth open, eyes blinking as if she’s trying to figure out…

Yes, Erin, it’s me.

I understand how jarring this is for her. It is for me, and I’ve had time to prepare. I knew she was still here. Despite not having seen her or talked to her since our ill-fated graduation-day good-bye, she looks exactly how I’d expect. Except thinner. She didn’t need to be thinner. The thought makes my eyes tighten around the corners. She doesn’t look like she’s taking care of herself, or being taken care of, and my eyes dart to her hands. The arm clutching the papers draws them tight to her chest so she doesn’t fumble them and I see it. That goddamn diamond glinting in the sun.

Bile surges in my stomach and I realize how badly I’d been hoping she’d have quit him. I read the bulletin faithfully, trying to decipher clues about her life from the faculty notes. I wonder if she’s done the same. I’ve written in more than I would have. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have at all. But the thought that she might flip to the back where the most recent classes have their own columns of accomplishments and announcements, looking for any scrap of news from me, made me dutifully write in four times a year so if she were looking, she’d find something. The only love note I’ve ever been allowed to write her.

Hoping that she’d be able to read between the lines:

“Zach (Shep) Shepherd will be graduating a year early with a major in mathematics and a minor in art from Northwestern.”

You inspired me, Erin, and made me want to be true to myself.

“He is currently applying to teaching positions at private schools in the Boston area.”

I’m coming home to you.

She stands there, frozen on the stairs. Should I have written her? It wouldn’t have been hard. I know where she lives; her address and her email are the same. But though I’ve pined for her, thought about her every day, it strikes me that maybe she hasn’t given me a second thought since I walked out of her classroom almost three years ago.

* * *

Erin

I’d hoped, dreamed, prayed this was what he meant, that this is the code he was hoping I’d crack with his notes to the alumni magazine. I’d been selfish and conceited enough to fantasize that his updates—like clockwork, unlike any of his classmates—weren’t for anyone else, but love letters hidden in plain sight. A particularly subtle epistolary romance. With every issue arriving in my faculty mailbox, I’d secret the thick colorful pages into my bathroom. I’d fill up my too-small tub and climb in, torturing myself before I sunk into the hot water and let myself crack it open, hoping against hope there’d be yet another few sentences, the only window I’ve had into his life.

There they would be, innocuous enough I suppose, but I’d picture him, brows pinched, fingers hovering over the keyboard: I want to tell you everything but I’m allowed to say nothing. So dribs and drabs were all I’d gotten:

“Zach (Shep) Shepherd made the varsity lacrosse team as a true freshman and has declared an early mathematics major. What time he can find outside of classes and practice, he spends in the art studio.”

It had been enough, those sad missives. I’d tried to keep my end of the bargain, but when all you have to report is Yes, I’m still in my forced marriage to my borderline abusive husband who still cheats on me and drinks too much, but good news! My classes are going well and only one student in the past three years has gotten below a four on an AP exam I’ve prepped them for, it starts to be a little silly.

I could have written him; he wouldn’t have been difficult to find. But at first, I’d wanted to commit to my life with Will. By the time it became clear I had no life with Will, it was too late. What would I say anyway? Nothing good.

But he’s standing here, on campus, in a blazer, khakis and tie. It’s almost like he never left except he looks just old enough you can tell he’s not a student. His hair’s longer, brushing the back of his collar, and he’s walking alongside Uncle Rett. Oh, Headmaster Wilson, you have some explaining to do. But why would he mention to me that Shep was going to be here?

Shep’s stopped in his tracks. He looks at me, his brows creasing the way they do—did—when he thinks I’m putting myself at risk. I realize it’s because my hands are full and I’m about to fall down the stairs. So I heft my books into one arm and when I clutch them to my chest, his eyes go dark.

My ring. He’s looking at my ring. I want to drop the books and run to him, pull him behind a bush, kiss his mouth, run my hands down his button-downed chest. It’s for show. ’Til the end of the year and then we’re going our separate ways. We started the paperwork. It’s over, I promise, please.

But I can’t because the whole campus is milling about between classes, Uncle Rett’s standing right there and I don’t even know if Shep wants me anymore. If he ever did. He’s probably got a girlfriend. Of course he does. He’s handsome, smart, and a good man. Why would he wait for me?

So when I raise my hand when I get to the bottom of the steps, it’s in a cautious hello I hope conveys everything I wish I could say. His mouth opens like he might try to say something to me across the quad, but instead he shuts it, raises a hand as awkward as mine before shoving it in his pocket and turning back to Uncle Rett, who’s no doubt asking him a question. I’ve got one, too.

What are you doing here, Shep?

* * *

Shep

It’s official. I will be starting as a mathematics fellow at Hawthorn Hill in the fall. My interview had felt like a thrown-together formality, which it had been. My grades at Northwestern are tops, and I can fill some coaching holes left open by retiring teachers. Not to mention they love to hire alums, do it all the time. We must make up a third of the faculty and staff. What better way to show how priceless a Hawthorn Hill education is than to have graduates clamor for ill-paying teaching positions?

And ill-paying they are. I don’t have a ton of loans because I’d gotten both merit- and need-based scholarships, not to mention one of those named athletic scholarships where I’d had to kowtow to the overly enthusiastic donor at a fancy lunch once a year. When I’d said at the last one I’d be graduating in the spring, the look on my benefactor’s face… I thought I might get a call the next day telling me they were taking it back and I’d need to write a check for ten grand before they’d hand over my diploma. But I hadn’t. It had been fine.

It’ll be tight, not a lot of cash to throw around, but more than I’ve ever had. Of course, my father will be livid. I can hear it, word for word: “I spend all this fucking money on your goddamn education and you’re going to be a fucking teacher? You could’ve been a goddamn teacher if you’d stuck around here and gone to community college. This is what you’re going to do with your life? You’re such a fucking waste.”

I’ll stand there, take the abuse he heaps on me. He’ll yell for a good twenty minutes. When he’s finished, I’ll heft my duffel onto my shoulder one last time and walk out the door, ruffling Caleb’s floppy hair on my way out, telling him, “If the old man fucks with you, you call me.”

Dad’s never hit any of us, but he’s gotten close. With every passing year of more stress, less work, balancing ever closer on a dangerous edge, it wouldn’t surprise me if he snapped. My mom will kiss my cheek on the way out and whisper, “He loves you, Zach, and he’s so proud.”

Sure.

Or maybe I’ll call. Yeah, a phone call would be better. I hope it’ll be my mom or my brother who answers when I call to tell them I’ll be back on the Hill come fall, but that’s a fucking selfish attitude. Make the people I’ve been trying my whole life to protect break this news to the person I’ve been trying to shield them from? No. I’ll call in the afternoon when my brother will be at school, my mom should be at work if they haven’t laid her off yet, and when my dad’s home from his shift at the feed mill but hasn’t drunk himself into a stupor or fallen asleep from exhaustion.

“I got a job, Dad. I’m going to teach math on the Hill.”

He’ll be so fucking proud of me he’ll hang up.

Chapter 12

Erin

He’s here.

I knew he was coming today, had to be coming today. It’s the last day he could possibly come. I’m surprised he didn’t come sooner. I don’t think he went home. Home’s never seemed like a place he liked very much. From the little I know, I don’t blame him. So why did he wait until the last minute to show up?

It doesn’t matter. He’s here and I can’t wait to see him, talk to him, hear his voice, and I hope, watch the way his face will light up when he sees the ring on my finger is gone. As is Will. Not only did we divorce, but he’s moved on to another school, this one in Connecticut. I hope he’s happy there, I do. He’s not a great guy, Will, but he’s not evil incarnate or anything. He’s not malicious. He should come with a warning label, that’s all: Single-Use Only.

But Shep. It’s foolish of me to think he won’t be attached. He’s not engaged or married; it would’ve been in the bulletin. He’s young for that, but it’s not out of the question. He’s so serious and steady it wouldn’t surprise me if he decided what he wanted and locked it down as soon as possible. Mine. So a serious girlfriend? Definite possibility.

I’ve been squirming in my apartment, not able to keep still, counting down the minutes until the first faculty meeting of the school year starts. I’m not usually anxious about these things, but then there’s not usually the promise of Zach Shepherd. I did not, absolutely did not, change my clothes three times. I thought about jeans and a T-shirt. That’s what most of the faculty will be wearing before the kids get to school and we have to cram ourselves back into dress code the same way they do. But it didn’t look right. So a swishy skirt, camisole and cardigan it is.

I’m fidgeting on my couch, checking my bag for the zillionth time: notebook, check; laptop, check; writing implements, check. I’ve got everything. It’s a quarter to four. I’ll get to the faculty dining hall five minutes early. Fine, fine. I haven’t been so nervous since my first day of teaching. Every year it gets easier, the flutters in my stomach dampened, but it’s still hard. Teaching is so hard. It’s a hard job for anyone to do well, but it is the exact opposite of my natural inclination to stand up in front a bunch of people, teenage boys in particular.

It’s worth it, though, to see the light bulbs go on over their heads, to watch them out the window as they leave class and high-five each other because they aced a test, and—my favorite—their serious conversations when they’re trying to help a struggling classmate understand something. It makes my heart burst.

Speaking of. I take up my bag and skitter out the door, down the steps. I’d asked to move. I don’t want to keep living in the apartment where my marriage failed slowly, painfully, inevitably. But not this year, due to staff changes and housing needs. Maybe next year.

The end of summer is coming. It’s hot, but the breeze is cooling off, and everything is saturated with color and scent like a bowl of overripe fruit. I traipse across campus, keeping an eye out, but I don’t see Shep’s tall, broad, dark form, only the familiar stoop and creak of some of the older teachers. Usually I’d stop to chat, but there’ll be plenty of time for that at the cocktail party afterward.

I’ve reached the brick building, its trademark ivy hanging over the walls, and let myself inside, where the air conditioning hits me full in the face. The faculty dining room is crowded with people greeting each other and catching up on summer happenings. A lot of them teach at summer programs at other schools or lead travel programs, work at camps. Some stay here and run the sports camps, others have vacation homes they retreat to. I was here, playing administrator and helping with class scheduling and curriculum development. Looking around, I don’t see Shep, so I find an empty seat to sit in while I bounce my heel against the worn carpet. Where is he? He’s got five minutes left according to my watch. He was always the punctual sort.

When I look up from my watch face and out the window, a navy blue Volvo sedan, not new, pulls up in one of the spaces behind the dining hall. When the driver’s side door opens, it’s him. It’s really him. I’ve thought of him often since he left—more since he was here in the spring, giving me a more vivid picture to pin my hopes on. He’s here. Wearing khaki shorts and a polo shirt, shoving sunglasses over his forehead. Oh my.

He grabs a backpack, the same one he had as a student, and hefts it over his shoulder before shutting the door. I lose sight of him then and count how long it takes him to make his way inside. Through the basement door in the back, up the well-worn steps with the sandpaper treads, down the carpeted hallway, through the tiled student dining hall and…

He’s here. In the doorway. His blue eyes scan the room and stop ever so briefly when they get to me. I smile and start to lift my hand in a wave, but his face darkens and then his gaze skims over the rest of the room. There’s one word for how I feel in that moment; the second I’ve been looking forward to for months, that I’ve—if I’m being honest—anticipated for years. The moment when there was a possibility of Shep and I being together. I thought it would be exciting, thrilling, but instead the artificially cold air is heavy in my chest. One word.

Devastated.

* * *

Shep

I am such an asshole.

A cowardly, gutless douche bag.

I could have come earlier. Days earlier. Weeks, even. I mean, was it nice to make some extra cash working at the club and tying up loose ends before I had to leave? Yes. Could Mordecai have done without me for the past several weeks? Definitely. Summer tends to be slow. People are on vacation, spending time outside, and frankly, leather and latex get damn hot in the sweltering Chicago heat and humidity. I’m not squeamish about bodily fluids and odors—you can’t be and work at a fetish club—but August is a lot for even me to take. Mordecai gave me those hours as a favor.

Most of them were more like therapy than me doing anything useful. Mordecai knows about Erin. He’s the only one who knows about Erin. She’s been a frequent topic of conversation over the past few months. Our most recent, most painful, conversation had taken place a couple of weeks ago while we did a super-thorough cleaning of the restraints that get used in the club. Q-tips and everything.

“Why are you still here, man?”

“I don’t need to be there until the last day of August.”

“Need, sure, but you could be there. You’ve wanted to go back since the day you left. So what’s holding you back?”

I’d lowered my head, concentrating really fucking hard on getting a tiny piece of grime that was wedged under a buckle I’d polished.

“It’s her, isn’t it? Erin? Are you afraid to see her?”

“I’m not afraid,” I’d scoffed. “She’s not rabid or anything.”

No, not rabid or anything bad. She’s tiny. Sweet. She smells like fucking lilies. I’d figured it out. They’re Kaiser’s girlfriend’s favorite and he got her a huge bunch of them when he proposed at graduation. The olfactory impression almost knocked me on my ass, the scent memory of Erin so strong. Lilies.

“Please. You’d rather face down a pack of slavering wolves than talk about this girl you’ve been in love with for years. I’ve seen that sketchbook of yours. She’s the only thing you draw. Don’t deny it.”

I couldn’t. Obnoxious fucker. Even though I wasn’t looking at him, I knew he had the same insufferable smirk on his face he’s had since the day I met him.

“Shut your fucking face, demon spawn.”

He’d snorted, enjoying getting as much of a rise out of me as he ever does. “So, what are you going to do? You clearly don’t have a plan.”

No, I didn’t have a plan. Except to show up and then see what happens. Didn’t work for Napoleon and I doubted it would work for me.

“If she’s still married, I don’t need a plan. I’ll need a shotgun and a shovel. For me, not him,” I’d clarified at Mordecai’s raised brows. “I couldn’t stomach watching them.”

“And if she’s not?”

“If she’s not? Fuck if I know.”

“You want her. Badly. Why don’t you give it a try? Sounds like she’d be game.”

“Not for everything. She might be totally vanilla and then where would I be?”

“Right. That.”

I shot him a glare. Yeah, that.

“You don’t think she’d try it?”

“Maybe, but I don’t want to push her into it. What if she thinks I’m a sick freak? I couldn’t handle that.” It had made my guts churn thinking about it. Hurting her, disappointing her, scaring her? Not an option.

“You’re good. I’ve watched a lot of people come through those doors. You wouldn’t force her into anything, and you’re good with the newbies. They like you. They trust you. You’re not some criminal out to corrupt her and eat her alive. Maybe she’d love it. Maybe she’s into it already. You don’t even know.”

I’d closed my eyes like it would block out the image I got of Will dominating Erin. I hoped not. Will’s a dick. An irresponsible, insensitive, self-absorbed asshole. Unless he had a total personality overhaul, he’d be a terrible Dominant and I wouldn’t wish him on anyone. Especially not Erin. That would make this even worse. “I feel like a predator. Like a fox in the fucking henhouse.”

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing?” One of these days I’m going to punch that smirk right off his face.

“Worse. I’m a wolf in shepherd’s clothing.”

At my confounded outburst, Mordecai had laughed. Asshole.

“Why don’t you clean up? Club’s opening in half an hour. Lydia’s supposed to come in and she’s going to ask for you. Is your head on straight enough to play?”

I threw down the cuff I’d been working on and pushed back from the table. “It will be.”

“Better be.”

“You know I’d tell you if it’s not.” It’s happened twice in the three years I’ve worked for him that I wasn’t in any shape to do my job. Today wasn’t going to make three.

“I know.” When I’d turned around, the jackass started humming “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” I’d reached up and slapped the top of the doorframe so hard my hand hurt. The sting in my palm and Mordecai’s mocking tune followed me down the hall to the staff locker room.

Now I’m here. I decided on the long drive from Chicago that I’m going to leave Erin alone. I don’t want to hurt her or scare her. Even if she is interested in me. It wouldn’t be the me of now, it would be the me of three years ago she wants. I don’t look that different—my hair’s longer, I’ve gained some muscle from the hard training I did year-round to keep in shape for lacrosse, but it wouldn’t be so hard to understand why she’d think I was the same. But it would be a lie.

She’d walk into it like a trap, find herself stuck with another monster she wouldn’t know how to handle. No, I’m going to stay the fuck away from Erin Brewster even though in the second she looked up and I saw her empty ring finger I wanted to throw her over my shoulder, drag her into the kitchen and pin her down over one of the cold metal prep tables and have my way with her.

Christ, Shepherd, you are a sick, sick fuck. Fantasizing about something that would scare the living crap out of her. You can at least be man enough to leave the poor little lamb alone.

* * *

Erin

Shep sits as far from me as the space will allow and my heart’s made a home in my stomach, soaking in bile. Did I do something wrong? I haven’t talked to him since graduation. It’s been that long. I didn’t get to say a word to him last time he was here; he was like a ghost. He keeps his eyes glued to the front as Uncle Rett starts his welcome-back speech. Though I ought to be paying attention, my gaze keeps wandering to Shep’s arms crossed tight in front of his chest, and the curve of his bare flexed calf dusted with dark hair.

I’m so distracted that the smattering of polite applause when Rett’s through may as well be a thunderclap. God, I’m like a skittish rescue pet. It’s foolish to have had these expectations and I knew it. Though I’d hoped for it, I didn’t really think Shep and I would run toward each other across the football stadium and fall into each other’s arms in slow motion like some tampon commercial. But I’d thought…I’d thought he’d at least talk to me.

The academic dean is talking, explaining the new schedule for this year. There’s grumbling as there always is when anything around here changes, but there isn’t much difference. We’ll be cutting classes shorter on Wednesdays so the boys have time to get to their games and meets. In the past few years, traffic’s gotten even worse and we’ve been habitually late. Not a good showing.

When the dean’s through, he welcomes the new faculty and staff by name, enforcing the tradition of making them stand up in front of the room and introducing themselves before handing over their classroom and teaching assignments. It’s mild hazing, if you can even call it that, though I’d almost puked when I had to do it despite all the friendly faces.

There’s a new Arabic teacher—that had been a controversial addition but an alumnus who’s a high-ranking officer in the military had endowed the position, so who were we to argue—a new drawing instructor since Mrs. Germaine retired after graduation last year, and a physics teacher we hired away from a rival school, although it may have been more for his tennis coaching prowess than his skills in the classroom. There’s polite applause for each of them, and then it’s time to introduce the fellows.

There’s a young man named Kurt—who reminds me too much of Will with his delicate features and slim hands—who’ll be teaching art history, and a pink-haired and eyebrow-pierced fireplug of a woman named Emeline who’ll be teaching computer science. I met her last week and helped her carry some boxes up to what used to be my apartment in Oliver. Even after she dyes over the pink and takes out her piercing to adhere to the faculty dress code, the boys will get a kick out of her. She’ll be popular. And then there’s Shep.

When he stands, I can see him resist shoving his hands in his pockets. Instead, he takes a quick glance at his running shoe digging into the carpet before he gathers himself and looks up.

“Afternoon, everyone. Dean Allen introduced me as Zach, but if you don’t call me Shep or Mr. Shepherd, I probably won’t turn around.” That gets a chuckle from some of the faculty, knowing the habits of the boys and our own culture of addressing them formally. He twitches a half smile before moving on. “A lot of you might remember me. I graduated from Northwestern with a major in math and a minor in studio art this spring, a year early. I’ll be on the math faculty and the assistant varsity lacrosse coach and thirds coach for soccer and hockey. I’m looking forward to being on the other side of the red pen and the whistle for a change.”

Dean Allen shakes Shep’s hand and gives him the envelope that will tell him he’ll be teaching two sections of Algebra I, statistics, and AB Calculus. In the room next to mine. I’d been excited when Cheryl, our space planner, had told me I’d have a new neighbor but now I’m not so sure. Shep’s blue eyes flash to mine and there’s a spark of longing, want, in his expression, but it clears when there’s another round of applause to welcome him and his fellow rookies.

He takes his seat and I spend the rest of the meeting lost in thought about what the hell I could’ve done wrong.

* * *

Shep

It’s the first day of class and I’m waiting for the guys to walk into my classroom. My classroom. I’ve never had a classroom before. It’s spare. I didn’t bother with pictures or the ridiculous motivational posters some of the other teachers have. I’m sorry, but if you’re not motivated, a poster with a tiny kitten dangling from a windowsill telling you to “Hang In There!” isn’t going to help.

I’ve got my books stacked on my desk and I’ve written my name on the board. I broke two sticks of chalk before I finished. How did my teachers make this look so easy? Especially Erin. It must have taken everything she had to stand up in front of us. I’m surprised she managed it that first day. My gut is churning and I’m used to this. It’s not so different from being a team captain, or for that matter, easing someone through a scene at the club.

I build up that leadership headspace, the sliver of distance I enforce between me and them in time for the first guy to walk into my class. I’m glad I’ve got freshmen first thing; they’ll help me warm up for dealing with the seniors later. I didn’t go to school with any of those guys, but only by a few months. It’s weird.

I keep a close eye on the clock and it’s not long before I’ve got a full class of freshmen—most of them looking too young to be wearing regulation blazers and ties—staring at me. I’m about to start when, through the wall behind me, I hear her, sunshine voice dimmed by the old-school plaster walls: “Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Brewster. Miss Brewster to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.”

A spiky shim of regret wedges its way under my ribs. Is it wrong that over the years when I’ve thought of her, sometimes I’ve wished I were sitting in the back of her classroom again, not as a student anymore, but watching her and getting to hear her say those words? But when she would, it would be different. Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Shepherd. Mrs. Shepherd to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.

When the kids had left the classroom, I’d get up and pin her against the chalkboard. She’d flush and struggle, scolding me gently, “Shep, you’re going to get chalk all over my sweater.”

She wouldn’t mean it though; the press of her hips against me would be begging for more. I’d kiss her and wind that single strand of pearls around my thumb until it would leave a light impression on the delicate skin of her neck. She’d let out a breathy moan as I slid a hand under her shirt to fondle a breast, tweak a nipple through the lace of her bra. I wouldn’t stop until she was pleading for more.

“You want more, Mrs. Shepherd?”

“Please, please…”

I’d turn her around to face the wall, ruck up the back of her skirt and rip away her panties with my fingers not twined in her necklace. Then I’d kick her feet apart, opening her for me. I’d get to look at her flawlessly round ass while I fumble with my fly one-handed because even in dreams I have to obey laws of physics. Just when I wouldn’t be able to stand it any longer, I’d sink inside her and she'd sigh, a loud, satisfied signature of pleasure. Then I’d wind my arm around her waist and fuck her while I fingered her clit until she’d come around me. The spasms in her tight cunt would knock the control I’d been clutching out from under me, and I’d come in her, hard.

I’d let her pearls go and slide a hand up her arm to cover hers, shaking, splayed against the chalkboard, twining her tiny pinky in mine. I’d kiss her flushed cheek and say soft in her pink shell of an ear, “I love you, Erin.”

That’s always when I’d wake up, a hand shoved down my shorts, wrapped around my dick in the middle of the night or if I was lucky, first thing in the morning when Hurley had an early class. I’d rub one out as soon as I could, thinking of how her heels would rise out of her purple shoes every time I drove my cock into her and how her hair would smell when I had my face buried in it, her small, gasping sex noises driving me on.

I’m ripped away from my sick fuck fantasies by a pubescent voice. “Mr. Shepherd?”

There are titters in the classroom because his voice cracked on the “P.” I want to smack each one of them upside the head. It’ll happen to every single one of you at least once this year, so don’t be douche bags to each other. But it’s a tradition, pretty innocent sport all things considered, so I let it go.

“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Zach Shepherd. Mr. Shepherd to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.”

I get through the day, classes, meals, practice, without getting hard although my blood’s pooling in this funny way like it’s affected by tides, always at the ready to make a break for my dick. When I stumble into my tiny apartment after proctoring study hall, I barely make it into the shower before I’m gripping my cock, pulling with rough and angry strokes, my other hand spread against the cool institutional tiles while I jerk off. When I come—thick, hot, and heavy against the wall and dripping down my closed fist—I choke out her name and wonder how I’m going to survive the next year. Wanting her, maybe watching her find someone else.

Coming back here was the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Chapter 13

Erin

It’s been a month. A month since he’s been here, a month since he’s been avoiding me. He’s not rude. No, Shep wouldn’t be rude, but god, it hurts. I can’t catch him in his classroom—he leaves as soon as his classes are over—and he’s laser-focused as a coach so I can’t even make eye contact when they’re out on the soccer field. He won’t sit at a table I’m at in the faculty dining hall and if I sit down at a table he’s already at, he’ll make an excuse after a few minutes and leave.

I’m a pariah and I have no idea why. Not that he’s a barrel of monkeys with anyone else—he’s always been serious and earnest and that hasn’t changed. He’s not sunshine and bluebirds when he’s not with me, more like an overcast day, but whenever he sees me, or even when he senses me… I don’t know how he does that, anyway, but his shoulders stiffen and his face darkens without having to set eyes on me. I’m a storm cloud.

I gave up for a while, but that only made me feel worse. My appetite has suffered, my attitude has suffered. I am suffering. Aunt Tilly had asked me about it when I had dinner with her and Uncle Rett on Sunday.

“Is everything all right, Erin? You’ve seemed down lately.”

Down is an understatement, but I’d plastered a fake smile on my face, not showing my teeth. “Yeah. Getting back into the swing of things is a little rough.”

Maybe they’d speculated later that it’s because of the divorce, but they’d be wrong. I have fleeting moments of missing Will, but it’s overwhelmed with relief. That decision was absolutely for the best.

Tilly’d raised a skeptical brow before cutting into her duck à l’orange. It’s one of her specialties.

“How’s it having one of your old students teach next door? Mr. Shepherd seems to be doing well.”

I’d swallowed my wine before I could choke on it. “Yeah, the boys seem to like him.”

It’s a weak endorsement, but if I tell her how I sometimes sit in my classroom during my free periods to hear him through the wall, I might cry. He’s brilliant. Really brilliant. I love to hear him talk, love the way his mind works, the way he explains things in a way I never would. I wish I could sit in his classroom and have him teach me, instruct me, fill me. That’s when my thoughts start to wander away from his brilliant mind and on to less cerebral and more…corporeal thoughts. Fleshy, sweaty, sexy thoughts.

Luckily, Uncle Rett had jumped in, talking about how our thirds soccer team was crushing the other schools in the division under Shep’s leadership. My unfulfillable fantasies had puffed into the air, a victim of reality.

I’m tired of suffering. I’ve suffered enough. If he’s going to be like this, I at least deserve an explanation. So that’s how I find myself standing outside his door, poised to knock. The hand by my side is curled in on itself in sympathy and I steel myself, setting my jaw and my brow before I rap my knuckles against the wood.

When the door opens, it’s clear I’m the last person on earth Shep’s expecting. Was he expecting someone else? My stomach lurches at the thought, remembering knocking on Will’s door.

“Erin.” His dark brows crease while he takes a step back, his head turning like a horse’s yanked by reins. “What are you doing here?”

All my resolve deserts me, scattering in flimsy scraps all over the stained hallway carpeting. My shoulders collapse and I can’t meet his eyes. “I…”

“Is everything okay?” Just like that, he’s back. The Shep I remember who was always so concerned about me, offering me his fleece, walking me back from Turner at night, rushing me to the ER. His hands are braced against the doorframe like he’s trying to hold himself back. I wish I’d come here with some problem for him to solve, a crisis to manage. But all I’ve got is, “Yes, everything is fine,” and I hate the way a barrier gets drawn down between us, his expression shuttering. Why is he locking me out?

“I… Can I come in?” My voice is small and desperate.

He digs a running-shoed toe into the hardwood on his side of the threshold and looks down at it. It’s as if he’s expecting some unusual reaction, a cloud of smoke or maybe a secret hole to open that he can slide through. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Okay, then. I look over my shoulder to make sure there aren’t any little ears to hear what I’m about to say, but the hallway’s clear and silent. I gather whatever pieces of tenacity I can and wait until he looks me in the face. “Why are you avoiding me? Since you’ve gotten here, you barely speak to me.”

“I’m not avoiding you, I’m busy. You know how it is.”

His response is rote, like he’s practiced it. Is it the height of narcissism to think maybe he has in case I ever came around to call him on this? You’re so foolish and conceited, Erin. God. But then he scrubs a hand through his hair, and in the gap I can see through a doorway on the opposite side of the hall. Into his bedroom. At least I think it’s his bedroom. Tacked over a desk to the institutional-beige walls… Are those his drawings from his senior year? Along with one I haven’t seen before. A finely detailed portrait of heels lifting out of a pair of shoes. My shoes. I’d recognize those purple flats anywhere. Even from the back, even in greyscale.

The sight gives me the courage to stand firm instead of turning tail and running away, inflates the hope inside of me that this thing between us hasn’t just been in my head. It’s there. It has to be. Why else would he have pictures of me hanging in his room? When he notices me gazing over his shoulder, he raises his hand to the doorframe again, blocking my view. I’d like to push past him or duck under his arm to look my fill but I won’t invade his space. I will, however, give it one more try.

“I do. I’m busy, too. But, I thought…”

“What? What did you think?” I hate the bordering-on-derisive note of his questions. “Cruel” is not a word I would’ve ever dreamed I’d associate with Shep but that’s what this is. Downright mean. I could call him on it, set up evidence like we’re in the midst of some television courtroom drama. Exhibit A: You kissed me. Exhibit B: All the updates you sent into the bulletin. Exhibit C: You came back here. I could go on for days with all the small, unsaid ways he’s told me that he cares for me, is attracted to me. But the habit of not saying these things out loud, of keeping the pull between us a furtive secret we don’t even dare whisper, is a hard one to break. All I can do is gesture weakly behind him.

“What are those, then? Your drawings of me. I thought they meant something. At least they used to. I don’t understand. I just—”

“Stay away from me, Erin.”

His voice is hard but brittle. Like if I took a hammer and chisel to his words, they’d flake off in sharp slabs. Stay away from me, Erin. There’s a jagged warning there and it punctures any hope I had of us being together. Or being friends. Or being anything at all. He didn’t deny it but it doesn’t matter. My eyelids flutter, tears behind them, and my weak chin quivers. Don’t cry. He’ll pat you on the head and maybe hold you because you’re pathetic, because that’s what he’d do for anyone.

I’ve bared my expansive vulnerability to enough men and I’m not going to do it again to someone who doesn’t give a care about me or my feelings. My throat is tight and it makes my words come out tiny and weak. “Will do.”

I open and close my hands, which have been clenched by my sides this whole time, and turn to hurry down the hallway, hoping to at least make the stairwell before I start to cry.

* * *

Shep

Erin hustles down the narrow hall and I hope none of the doors open as she rushes by. It’s bad enough she’s so upset but the last thing she needs is one of the guys seeing her like this. I wait until she’s turned into the stairwell, a hand clamped over her mouth, before I shut my door and slide to the floor with the ancient wood against my back. I can see my drawings hanging on the wall over my desk, the ones she must have seen. I’m just glad my sketchbook was shoved under my bed when she came by.

Drawing Erin is not exactly a hobby of the past. I’ve got pages of pieces of her, ranging in time from the day I first saw her to yesterday. On the nights I’m not jerking off thinking about her—and who am I kidding, often on the nights I do—I draw her. Sometimes I try not to but it’s always the same: the slope of her shoulder against a bright blue sky while she sits in the bleachers, a drift of her hair as she walks down to her classroom on a windy day, the clutch of a pen in her hand while she takes notes in a faculty meeting.

If I thought avoiding her day in and day out, watching her laugh and smile and chat with other people, listening to her teach her classes through the horsehair plaster that separates us was bad, I was right. But this is a hundred thousand times worse. Knowing she had to screw up the courage to confront me, forced herself to walk up all those stairs to knock on my door, hope in her heart that maybe it didn’t have to be this way or maybe hurt sinking in her stomach because she didn’t understand what she’s done wrong. Because she’d make it her fault, I know she would. Will.

I scrub my hands through my hair and push off the floor to look out the window. There she is, like I knew she’d be. Running across campus with her hand still covering her mouth, probably trying to contain the tears because I made her cry. I watch her make her way across the quad and into Sullivan, catch a fleeting glimpse of pumping legs through the window that looks into the stairwell that leads to her apartment. It’s like watching a replay of four years ago. The buildings are different, but the small, pained shape of her hurtling across campus is the same. A knife twists in my gut that I have anything in common with Will Chase.

It’s for the best. She’ll stay away from me, get over it, find some nice vanilla guy who’ll tell her she’s pretty and make love to her. Not someone who wants to pull her hair, spank her until she cries, bind her up in black leather, and have her up the ass. In all fairness, I’d tell her she’s pretty, too, because she is. She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. And I’d tell her I love her, all the time. Because I do.

I want to destroy something. But knowing I don’t have the cash handy to fix anything I break, I strip off my jeans, throw on some shorts and head down to the gym to lift. Because lifting weights is the simplest thing in the world and everything else is too complicated.

* * *

Erin

It’s the day of the fall art show. I used to half-love and half-loathe this day every year. Loved it because remembering the pencil drawings Shep did of me gave me a thrill. They’d been beautiful and took my breath away when I came into the alcove, unsuspecting. But after seeing them in his apartment when I confronted him last week—a glaring reminder of how he used to feel about me but doesn’t anymore—that makes me sad, too.

I guess that just leaves the loathing. I’ve hated it because that was the night of The Mistake. Having what was supposed to be meaningless sex with Will is the most foolish thing I’ve ever done.

Even though it was a Mistake, with a capital M, I do wonder. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t had a miscarriage? Would we have scrapped and struggled our way to a happily ever after? Or would it have been equally as disastrous, and having a baby would’ve made it all the harder to leave? But I do think of that tiny lost life from time to time. There was a reason I miscarried: the baby wasn’t viable and I can’t count how many people have told me it wasn’t my fault and it doesn’t mean anything. I believe them, I do. But I also want to mourn and no one wants to hear that, either.

So my emotions are already running close to the surface as I shower and dress. I put on my purple ballet flats and a new dress I bought over the summer because it looked cute when I tried it on and I couldn’t remember the last time I bought a dress. While I was preening under the flattering soft lights in the dressing room, I did not, absolutely did not, picture myself sitting across a candlelit table from Shep, peeking over my menu to see his trademark gravity applied to picking out his entrée. Flushing when he caught me staring. “Accidentally” grazing his ankle with my foot under the table because we’d be sitting so close together our knees would touch.

I had none of those thoughts then and I’m not having them now. Nope. And none of the sadness that wrings my stomach out like a damp hand towel because that will never happen. Stay away from me, Erin. His words echo through my head as if he were standing behind me, leaning over my shoulder and saying them into my ear. It’s harder than usual to apply my eyeliner and mascara because tears are making a break for my cheeks, but I manage and then I’m set to go. Is it selfish and awful of me to hope Shep won’t be there? It would only take a scrape of a razor to make me bleed and Shep’s always been more of a cleaver where my emotions are concerned, for better or for worse. I don’t know what it is about him that hits me so hard, but… Battered. That’s how I feel as I wander about my apartment for a few minutes before I can’t procrastinate any longer.

I’ll put in my appearance, make sure my students who had invited me see me there, glad-hand any parents who’ve shown up and then I’ll come home. I’ve got a book waiting under my bed for me. It’s one that’s supposed to be especially filthy. I’ve been saving it as a treat and I’ll earn it if I can get through tonight without bursting into tears.

* * *

Shep

“Hello?”

“Caleb?” The voice on the other end of the phone sounds too old, more like one of my students than my brother, but when he says, “Zach!” I know it’s my stubborn mind insisting he’s still six like when I left home and not about to turn fourteen. He could be one of my students next year.

“How’s it going?”

There’s a pause, too long, before he says, “Fine.”

“Dad there?” That would explain why he wouldn’t want to say much.

“No.”

“Mom?”

“No.”

“So what’s up?” Another silence so long it makes me want to get in my car and drive straight to Shamokin to shake the answer out of his head. “Caleb. Tell me. Now.”

“I got my mid-semester grades.”

“And?”

“I’m getting Cs in social studies and English.”

“Okay. How about math and science?”

“I’m flunking.”

Shit. I knew he’d been having a rough time—he’d told me so a few weeks ago—but I didn’t know it was this bad. I rein in my flip-out and try to keep my tone even. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe talk to your teachers? Ask for extra help after school? During lunch? Before school if you have to.”

“But Dad says—”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about what Dad says. You can’t…”

Flunk out. I won’t be able to help you if you flunk out. I haven’t mentioned it because I don’t want to get his hopes up, but I’ve been dropping hints with Headmaster Wilson about Caleb. His grades aren’t good enough to get him in here, but I’m hoping everything else he has to offer might give him a boost, and being my kid brother won’t hurt. Once he got here, his grades would get better. It was sure as hell easier for me to focus on my schoolwork and on the soccer field once I had more than enough to eat and didn’t have to worry about which bill my parents couldn’t afford to pay that month, what we’d do without until they scraped together some more cash: Phone? Oil? One month it was so bad, we didn’t have electricity.

“You don’t want to stay back, right?”

“No.”

“You want to go to college, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

Defensiveness is building in his voice, and I’m struggling with my own impatience and fear. “Then you can’t flunk. You can’t.”

“Fuck you, Zach. I’m not like you!”

His bluster is uncertain; he swears like a kid who’s experimenting with how the words sound coming out of his mouth. My brother is not a naturally angry kid. He might be pissed at me, but that’s not the only thing going on here. I take a deep breath and scrub a hand over my face, catching a glance at my watch when I do. Fuck, I’m late to the art show. I’ve got to go. But I have to smooth this over first.

Caleb’s a good kid. He deserves better than what he’s been handed. I can’t stand the thought of my Tiny Tim brother turning into a bitter drunk like our dad because I wasn’t good enough to save him and he wasn’t strong enough to save himself.

“I know you’re not. I don’t want you to be. Nobody wants that. I’m an asshole.” He snorts a laugh and a relieved smile splits my face. I’m not known for my comedic timing, but I’ll take it. “What I do want is for you to get the hell out of Dodge as soon as possible. I know it’s the long game and it’s hard to see from where you’re standing, but you need to pass. I’m not asking for straight As. That’s not your style and that’s cool. But you can pull Cs. Can you do that? For me? If you pick up your grades I’ll ask Dad if you can come up and stay with me for spring break. I’ll drive you back and forth myself.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Good man. Hey, I gotta go, but I’ll talk to you on Sunday.”

I turn my conversation with Caleb over and over in my head on my way down to Turner. What am I going to do if he fails? What if he gets held back? What if he gets frustrated and angry, says fuck it and drops out as soon as he can? He’ll never leave Shamokin. It’ll be Doug Shepherd Redux. I can’t let that happen. Maybe he could come live with me? Even if I can’t get him into the Hill, Hawthorn public schools are good. At least I’d know he’d have enough to eat and he wouldn’t have to listen to my parents go at each other all the time.

But my place here isn’t certain. Fellowships are for a year. While some people get to stay, most of them move on. John Phelps might be leaving. If he does, he’d leave a few holes in the math department and on the coaching staff I’d fill like Spackle, but it’s no guarantee. What if they don’t think I’m a good teacher? What if I’m not?

In the meantime, I’ll try to call more often. It’s rough because of my dad, but I should be able to sneak in a few more times a week. If I thought Caleb could keep it a secret, I’d get him a cell myself. But he’s not so great at subterfuge, my brother. Maybe I could offer to get him a tutor since I can’t be there to help?

These are the thoughts that churn in my brain as I lope toward Turner, but I shove them aside when I walk in the door because the guys deserve my undivided attention. I know how hard they’ve worked. All those nights spending study hall down here, cramming in my other homework whenever, wherever I could so I could walk Erin home at the end of the night. My favorite time of day: the ten minutes I could be alone with her. Shards of uncertainty and longing stab me in the chest, and I pluck them out with dogged determination. Leave Erin Brewster alone.

* * *

Erin

The show is great, as usual. There’s a ceramics student who’s particularly impressive this year and everyone is oo-ing and ah-ing over bowls so wide and thin and vases so tall and soaring they look like they’re defying gravity. I make sure to compliment the other kids in his class because their work is very fine as well, but when your work is great and someone else’s is earth-shattering, it’s easy to feel overshadowed.

I’m finishing up a conversation with Takeo Ninomiya about his own solid technique when I see Shep. My hope he wouldn’t be here has been for naught. Maybe he hoped I’d have come and gone already. To be fair, that had been my plan, but I always end up staying at this stuff for longer than I expect. The way his face darkens when he sees me makes me wish we’d set up a time-share system already. He’d tell me, You get the art show from eight-thirty to nine-thirty, I’ll take it from nine-thirty to ten-thirty. You can have cross-country meets because I’m coaching soccer. You chaperone the dance and I’ll drive the van to the movies. How have I ended up making custody arrangements with a man I never got to speak with, never mind sleep with? So unfair.

But I haven’t seen everything yet. There’s still a whole floor to look at and I won’t be driven out by Zach Shepherd and his grouchy, stormy, dreamy blue eyes. I head to the refreshments table and am about to ladle myself some punch but the memory of spilling it on Shep’s crisp white shirt and touching him makes my stomach roil. Water it is.

I take my sorry excuse for a beverage and tour the rest of the studio before ducking into the underused women’s bathroom. When the door falls shut behind me, the sound of retching erupts from the far stall. There’s a long flowy skirt pooled on the floor with Birkenstocks peeking out of the hem. I thought I saw Ellie Fishburne, the new art teacher, wearing something like that earlier.

“Ellie?”

I wince when I’m answered with more puking. When it stops, a meek voice follows. “Yeah?”

“Oh, Ellie.” I ease the stall door open since she hasn’t locked it. She’s slumped against the far wall, her usually polished chestnut skin dusky and her hand resting limply over her midsection. “How can I help?”

“Water?”

I take my half-full cup and dump it out, wiping off a lipstick smudge before refilling it. I’d get her a new one, but I don’t want to leave her alone. She sips at it gratefully when I give it over.

“Was it something you ate?”

She regards me warily. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

“I’m pregnant. It’s early so we haven’t told anyone yet, but I have been sick as a dog. Morning sickness, my ass.”

As if to prove her point, another wave of nausea hits her, and I crouch beside her and rub her back while she heaves. Poor Ellie. I hadn’t been sick during my pregnancy. What little of it there was. “You should go home. Can I walk you?”

“Cole’s here. Could you find him? He’ll take me. But could you do me a favor?”

“Of course, whatever you need.”

“I’m supposed to stay and supervise cleanup. Would you mind—”

Yeah, she needs to go home, poor thing.

“No problem. I’ll get Cole. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

I refill the cup of water before I run out the door, on the lookout for Ellie’s husband. I’ve met him several times before and I recognize his spiky blond head and rocker-meets-prep-school aesthetic standing by a wall of angry black and red oils, talking to the artist.

“Excuse me, Mr. Luciani, would you mind if I stole Mr. Fishburne for a minute?”

I stand on tiptoes to tell Cole about Ellie, then lead him to the downstairs bathroom in time to hear Ellie get sick again. He bangs the door open and rushes the stall, dropping to his knees at her side.

“Again? I’m sorry you’re so sick, babe.”

The soles of his boots line up with the soles of her sandals, and his sweetness and concern make me ache, his murmured words drifting soft to where I shouldn’t be listening in.

“Sorry to interrupt, but unless you need me…”

“No. Thanks for your help, Erin. I appreciate it. Cole should be able to take it from here. He’s used to it.”

They have wan smiles for each other and Cole holds her tight around her shoulders before he plants a kiss on her forehead.

“Okay. Don’t worry about cleanup. I’ve got it covered and my lips are sealed.” I toss a quick wave in their direction and as the heavy door swings shut behind me, I hear Cole say, “We are going to have the best damn baby in the whole world, El. I promise.”

Envy twists in my stomach. It’s not Ellie’s fault, nor is the universe plotting against me, throwing a reminder of everything I don’t have in my face, but it still hurts. And on tonight of all nights. This sucks. I don’t mind doing a favor—Ellie would do the same for me—but now I’m stuck here for the duration. No escaping Shep tonight, another reminder of things I can’t have.

* * *

Shep

The show’s winding down and most everyone’s gone back to the dorms. It’s coming up on curfew, so I start nudging the lingering guys toward the door. When I’ve cleared out the first floor and the basement, I head up to the second floor. It’s empty, except for Erin, who’s picking up stray cups and napkins left on benches and pedestals, party detritus.

She looks up, startled at my approach before turning back to her chore. “I thought everyone had gone.”

“They have.”

This is so painful. Every time I see her, it hurts. This is especially hard, remembering four years ago. Those drawings are hanging up in my bedroom because I’m an emotional masochist. The dress she’s got on isn’t helping. The dark purple fabric clings in a way tweed has no right to. It shows off her shape, and a hint of cleavage. And she’s wearing those shoes. Those same goddamn shoes with the tiny fucking bows on them. Universe, you blow.

“I thought Ellie was on cleanup duty for this?”

“She was. She wasn’t feeling well so I said I’d do it.”

Erin’s not looking at me. Her eyes are searching for every last scrap to pick up and throw away so she doesn’t have to.

“I’ll help.”

A bitter expression flits across her face but it may as well fly across the room and stab me in the chest. Ouch.

“That’s not necessary. There’s not much to do; it won’t take me long.”

But because I’m a stubborn fuck and as noted earlier, a specific type of masochist, I can’t help it. “Then it’ll take even less time with the both of us.”

“Suit yourself.”

I may not be able to have her, but I also don’t want her to hate me. Especially if I end up getting to stay. She’s right, there isn’t much to do, and we’re finished up here in a few minutes, silently dragging furniture back to its place before heading downstairs for a repeat performance. The truth is I don’t want her walking across campus alone at this time of night, though I’m sure she’d be fine. But I’m going to allow myself to walk her up to Sullivan because it’s one desire where Erin is concerned I can indulge in safely.

When we’ve picked up every stray gum wrapper and moved back all the benches that had been moved to accommodate the crowds, we stand awkwardly in the entryway.

“Let me walk you home.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can shove them back down and I curse myself. I should’ve done it like I used to, not spelling out the obvious and give her a chance to say no, but it’s too late.

“You want to walk me home?” Her tone and her expression are cloudy with doubt. A hint of defiance makes me want to drag her by the hair over to the nearest bench, take her over my knee and spank her until her face is wet with tears and she says she’s sorry, she’ll never doubt me again. But that’s not an option. So though my dick is getting ideas, my brain squashes it and what comes out of my mouth is a tight, “It’s late.”

“You know I managed to walk from here to my apartment for three years escortless with nary a kidnapping, right?”

The sass, the hard sarcasm, that’s not Erin. I want to wash it out of her mouth and replace it with my cock. How she’d look on her knees with her hands tied behind her back so she wouldn’t fight me—a bell clutched in her fingers she could ring if she was actually scared, the gagging noises and the way her eyes would water as I taught her how to take me deep in her throat… For fuck’s sake.

This is not a banner night for me. First my brother, now Erin. Can I not do anything right?

“Let’s just go.”

She locks up while I wait in the glow of a streetlamp that lights the path back to the main campus. She walks down the steps with her arms crossed over her chest and doesn’t wait for me as she starts up the narrow paved ribbon. I take a few quick steps to catch up with her. It’s not hard because she’s tiny, and I notice that with her arms crossed, her breasts swell farther out of the modest neckline of her dress. I know what I’ll be doing when I get back to my apartment.

“You told me to stay away from you.”

Her words slice at me. I remember saying them. They cut then and they cut now. “Yes.”

“So why aren’t you staying away from me?”

If only I could answer honestly: I don’t want to stay away from you. I want to own you, possess every inch of you, mark you as mine, and show you what all that means. But you’re as vanilla as a milkshake and just as sweet, so I can’t. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t step in front of a tank for you. It doesn’t mean I can stop the want, the urges. I should go to the club Mordecai gave me an introduction to. Maybe I could find some nice, kinky, submissive girl who could make me forget about Erin Brewster and what I’d like to do to her. I doubt it.

“I can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

Erin’s stopped short in the middle of the path and grabbed the sleeve of my regulation navy blazer.

“Erin, I…”

“Please, Shep, don’t.”

She winds my tie around her hand and I think she’s going to yank my head down to kiss me, but she doesn’t. She looks up into my face, and I get hard as hell when she whispers, “Please,” her eyes round as the full moon that’s out tonight. I want to. I’d strip off my tie and bind her wrists around the top of the lamppost, rip off her dress, yank down my fly and fuck her right here. But no. No.

I untangle her fingers as gently as I can and smooth out the wrinkles her tiny hand made in the fabric, wishing it were her palm gliding down my chest instead of mine. “We can’t be together. I told you.”

“Why? Why not?”

She stamps her foot in a tantrum and my brain goes blank, every rational reason this would be a terrible idea buried under a fevered desire to discipline her and make her stop behaving like this spoiled brat she isn’t. I miss the adoring way she used to look at me, how pleased and flushed her face would get when we had a few minutes alone. Now look at us. This is a fucking disaster. I’m letting everybody down.

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m not smart enough to understand?”

“No, Erin. Jesus, why are you making this so hard? We can’t be together, end of story. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m not the right guy for you. So please, give it up and move on. Kurt seems like a nice guy.”

She stiffens. Kurt is a nice guy, a good teacher from what the guys say, but there’s something about him that reminds me of Will. By the way Erin flinches, I’m guessing she feels that way, too. If she were anyone else, she’d slap me across the face. I would have, because I am being the world’s most giant douche bag. But instead, her face crumples like she’s going to cry and she turns up the path without another word. I don’t catch up this time but trail a few yards behind, careful to slow my pace because though she’s hurrying as fast as her little legs will take her, it’s nothing compared to my long strides. I follow her all the way back to Sullivan and watch her fling open the door and run up the stairs before I shove my hands in my pockets and head back to my apartment to indulge in Erin the only way I’ll ever be allowed.

Chapter 14

Shep

“Where’s Erin?”

It’s a few days before the end of our month-long winter break. The department meeting has started and she’s not here. It’s weird for her not to be here. She’s punctual, and has an almost slavish devotion to her teaching duties, even inane meetings like this one.

Skip Connelly pipes up. “She sent me an email a few hours ago, said she wasn’t feeling well.”

Erin’s taught class and come to meetings when she’s been bleary-eyed and barely breathing with allergies, and when she was having the worst miscarriage you can imagine. “Not feeling well” is not accurate.

I tap my pencil against the side of the seminar table until Dan gives me a censorious look and goes back to giving an update on department matters, starting to schedule things for the fall. It’s been dicey whether I’d be here next year, but John Phelps finally announced his official retirement and odds are on me getting to stay.

I barely pay attention for the next half hour, my mind focused on Erin. She’s sick. She’s really sick, and she’s alone. I’d like to pretend I go back and forth on whether I should go over there when this is over. Erin is an adult. She’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and I shouldn’t muddy the waters. I’ve told her we can’t be together, warned her off me, and it killed me to do it. Her quavery chin, the look of betrayal in her eyes. We finally get the chance to be together and you’re saying NO? I’d done my best to convince her it wasn’t about her, but she didn’t believe it.

But she’s sick and there’s no way I’m going to leave it up to Skip motherfucking Connelly to take care of her. The minute the meeting is over, I slam my folder shut, realizing I didn’t take a single note. I’m glad for the first time that Dan is so god-awful anal-retentive he’ll be sending out minutes in half an hour. I don’t bother with pleasantries, don’t even see anyone except as shapes to avoid as I head out the door and haul across campus, bounding up the stairs two at a time to Erin’s apartment.

I wish she’d move. I hate that she still lives in the space she shared with Will. I dread going into the place where they shared meals, a bed, even the air they breathed. But that’s where she is, so that’s where I’ll be.

I knock on the door, rapping my knuckles against the wood, trying my best not to pound. There’s no answer. I lean my forehead up against the corkboard and splay my hand against the door as I close my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths.

“Erin?”

No answer. No sounds.

I knock again. I’m not sure whether to hope she’ll open the door or not. But nothing, no indication anyone’s even there.

“Erin?” I try one more time before I reach for the knob. She never locks her door. Something I’d irrationally like her to do. Nothing’s going to happen to her in the locked dorm and she’s got twenty built-in guard dogs should anyone make it in.

The brass twists in my hand, unlatching, and I push into her small living room. It’s dark and quiet; the shades haven’t been lifted. Is she so sick she didn’t make it out of bed today?

“Erin?”

I make my way down the narrow hallway and stop outside a closed door, no light shining from underneath.

I knock, loud enough for her to hear if she’s awake, but hopefully not so loud I’ll wake her if she’s not. When there’s no answer, I go in. It’s warm and stuffy in the dim room, the curtains drawn and no lights on. There’s a little mound on the bed buried under blankets and I take a few steps farther, hoping I’ll be able to see her face.

Her brown hair is strung out across the pillow, sweat-darkened strands clinging to her face and her ears. Most of her face is pale, except for two bright red patches blooming on her cheeks. She’s tucked in up to her chin and her lashes flutter over her cheeks. How sick do you have to be to look like this? Like one of those pretty tubercular women who wasted away in the sanitariums of old. I roll my eyes. Because of course I’d fall in love with some doomed consumptive—of course I would.

I hesitate. If she’s that sick, should I wake her up? I should let her rest. But odds are she hasn’t done anything about being so ill, and this doesn’t seem like something you can sleep off. So I run the backs of my knuckles against her fevered cheek, hot to the touch, until her lids lift and her big brown eyes, glassy and reluctant, look back.

* * *

Erin

“Shep.”

It comes out a whisper, so I clear my sore throat, making me choke.

“Shh, lamb. Take it easy.”

He’s stroking my face, pushing sticky strands of hair off my forehead. And he’s called me lamb. I don’t know where that came from, but it slides off his tongue like he’s said it ten thousand times before. It is such a comfort. A flush of warmth spreads through my body—not the fevered burning I’ve felt since last night, but a pleasant rush.

I should sit up, send him away, express my protest at him waltzing in here when he’s done his damnedest to keep me at arm’s length since he’s been here, but his cool gentle touch convinces me otherwise. I want him to touch me this way forever. Besides, I’m not confident I could sit up without passing out. So fluttery blinking it is, like some Victorian-era lady whose unspecified illness keeps her abed.

His voice is soft and his forehead pinched in concern. “Have you gotten out of bed today?”

I shake my head, feeling like my skull might become detached from my body and roll off the pillow, settling under the bed. “No.”

He frowns and I look at the clock. It’s two in the afternoon. “I’m going to get you some water. Do you have a thermometer?”

“Bathroom.” Will was a bit of a hypochondriac, always certain he had whatever bug was making its way around the boys, so we’d had three all told. He left me the old-school glass-and-mercury one when he’d moved out.

Shep brushes a hand over my forehead one more time. Though he’ll be gone a few minutes at most, I want to cry. Come back, please. I fall half-asleep while he’s gone. He has to rouse me again, calling me out of my sickness with his low voice and his weight making the side of my bed dip. Shep is technically in my bed. The thought makes my heart stutter, and not in the fevered palpitations that had scared me half to death in the middle of the night.

“Open up, lamb. Let’s take your temperature and then you can have some water.”

I open my mouth, suddenly conscious I probably have worse than morning breath, but before I can fret too much, he’s sliding the glass and metal under my tongue. When it’s as far back as it will go, I close my mouth and my eyes, shivering when his hand rests cool on the hot skin of my neck. He leaves it there until the temperatures even out and then it’s a warm, heavy, comforting weight.

“Time’s up,” he says, stroking me. Then he takes the thermometer from between my lips. I crack my lids to see him squint at the tiny numbers in the glow of the lamp he’s turned on. The crease between his brows deepens. “I’ll be right back.”

* * *

Shep

A hundred and three? That can’t be good. Normal’s ninety-eight point six, right? A hundred and three?

I don’t want to scare her, though, so I pet her a few more times before I get up and walk out, the whole time a panicky voice in the back of my head scrambling all over itself, freaking the fuck out. A hundred and fucking three? In the living room, I pace and fumble my phone. I have to scroll through my contacts three times before I find the number I’m looking for. After a ring, she answers and I cut her off, not giving her a chance for hellos.

“Mrs. Wilson? I mean, Tilly?”

“Yes, Shep—”

“I’m with Erin. She’s got a fever of a hundred and three. Do I need to take her to the ER?”

There’s a pause on the other end. What’s taking so long? This should be simple: yes or no. Mrs. Wilson was the school nurse for twenty years. She’s dealt with more fevers, real and fabricated, than you could shake a rank jockstrap at.

“Probably not,” she says cautiously, “but I can come take a look at her.”

“Would you? I don’t want to—”

“Of course. Erin’s like a granddaughter to me. And if Kent knew she was sick and I didn’t check on her, I’d have a very unhappy ghost on my hands. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks, Mrs.— Tilly, I appreciate it.”

That’s a weight off my shoulders. But Mrs. Wilson’s said “probably.” What if she’s—

No, can’t think that way. I shove the phone in my pocket and head back to Erin’s room, where she’s lying with her eyes closed.

I sit on the side of her bed and stroke her cheek until she opens her eyes.

“Your Aunt Tilly’s going to come over. In the meantime, you should have some water. Can you roll over?”

She struggles onto her side with my help. I was glad but surprised to find a bendy straw in her kitchen, but the place is like a kindergartner’s dream house: a drawer full of straws, another of cookie cutters, and a shelf full of glasses with colorful cheery animals. I brought her an orange owl. I thought it looked the happiest.

She sips listlessly and I urge her to have more, prodding her until the whole glass is gone. Her skin tone’s evened out, some of the red in her cheeks leaking into the cream of the rest of her face. It makes things seem less dire. I get her another glass and when she’s made it halfway through, there’s a knock at the door. I excuse myself to find a rosy-cheeked Mrs. Wilson on the threshold.

Shedding her snow-caked boots and coat, she bustles her way past me to Erin’s bedroom, leaving me to trail behind her like some useless puppy dog.

She starts fussing over Erin and I stand helplessly by the door until Mrs. Wilson verbally shoos me out. “Could you give us a few minutes, Mr. Shepherd?”

It’s been a while since anyone on staff called me Mr. Shepherd. They’re good about not treating me like a student, but it still kicks me back into a guilty feeling, like maybe I’m not supposed to be here. I wander out to the living room and take a seat, bouncing my heel off the threadbare carpet.

I try calling Caleb to take my mind off Erin while Mrs. Wilson is taking care of her, but no one picks up. Later. I’ll try again later. I’ve been calling three times a week since Caleb told me he wasn’t going to pass two of his classes, and it’s paid off. For his semester report card, Caleb had managed to pull Cs in math and science, and gotten his English and social studies up to Bs.

It was such a relief for so little effort on my part. Call the kid a few times a week, give him some accountability from someone whose opinion he gives a crap about, add a shit ton of work on his end and there you have it: passing grades. It’s not like it was a chore for me. Caleb’s a goofy kid. He makes me laugh in a way most other people can’t.

In a few minutes that feel like forever, Mrs. Wilson comes out. I search her face for worry but don’t find any.

“You’re right about the fever, but she doesn’t have any other symptoms that worry me. It’s probably a virus, and the only way to get rid of that is to rest. I gave her some aspirin and had her drink some more water. She just needs to sleep it off.”

I’ve been nodding this whole time as if my acknowledgment will make anything better. But Erin’s going to be okay and the vise around my ribs loosens.

“What can I do?”

“You don’t need to do anything. You can go home.”

Leave her? I don’t think so. I’ve already left her too many times when she needed me. I’m not going to fuck this one up, too.

“That’s not happening, so what can I do?”

The side of Mrs. Wilson’s mouth quirks up along with her eyebrows, giving the impression that the other side of her mouth has had its puppet string snipped. Her expression is impish, reminding me of Mordecai of all people. That is the only thing Mordecai and the Headmaster’s wife will ever have in common.

“If that’s the case, try to keep her comfortable. Mostly you can let her sleep, but when she wakes up, she can have more aspirin and more water. Regulate her temperature as best you can; put a blanket on her if she gets chilled or get a cool cloth if she’s too warm. You can ask if she wants something to eat, but don’t be surprised if she says no. That’s it.”

“Okay.”

I thank Mrs. Wilson and she gives me a funny look on her way out the door, as if she knows this isn’t just one colleague looking after another. She’s not wrong. I go back to Erin’s room, pluck a book from her shelf and dump myself in the chair by her bed until she needs me again.

Twenty-four hours, half a dozen animal glasses complete with colored bendy straws, and a small mountain of wet washcloths later, Erin wakes with a small, sleepy “Mmm.”

I get up from the chair that will have my ass permanently imprinted in the seat and drop onto the side of her bed. Even in the dim light she looks better, and her skin isn’t hot but warm to the touch. Before I can stop myself, the smile breaks across my face and the words are out of my mouth. “There’s my pretty baby.”

She dips her head and her eyes go wide and shy, not meeting my gaze. We both blush.

I clear my throat and drop my hand from her face. I don’t think I’m imagining the frown tugging at her mouth when I’m not touching her anymore.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, much, thank you.”

We stare at each other until her frown deepens and she looks away again. “Thanks for taking care of me, but you can go.”

Her words wedge themselves under my rib cage and poke at my heart. She doesn’t want me here?

“Hey, Erin. Look at me.”

Her eyes roll reluctantly to mine. In them I see all the times I’ve hurt her, every time I’ve let her down. She doesn’t trust me, and I don’t blame her. I don’t blame her, but I want that to not be true anymore. I want to be the man she thought I was, the man she offered herself to. Not the one who turned her away.

I do something I haven’t done for a long time. I get down on my knees and take her hand in mine, press my forehead into her knuckles.

“I’m sorry. I was trying to protect you and instead I hurt you. I’m not the guy you knew four years ago and I didn’t think you’d want who I am now. But that’s not for me to decide. I want you as much as I ever did. More. So if you want to get to know me, I’m going to stop being so fucking stubborn and scared and let you. Then you can decide.”

* * *

Erin

Shep is honest-to-god on his knees, holding his forehead to my hand. I feel better, but still woozy. The thrill of the opportunity being offered to me—to get to know Shep, peel back those onion layers and uncover what’s inside the man himself—it makes the bluebird of happiness that’s been nesting in my chest since I opened my eyes to his face explode into a burst of ecstatic feathers. That’s all I ever wanted—a chance.

So I squeeze his hand and lay the other on top of his head, a strange benediction that ends when he lifts his gaze to meet mine. My fingers slip through his dark hair, landing limp on the bed.

“I’d like that.”

He smiles. Though it had made me feel oddly childlike, I hope against hope he’ll call me his pretty baby again. Instead he says, “Me, too, lamb,” and that’s just as good. He stays with me overnight again, always there when I wake with whatever I need: a glass of water, a cool washcloth for my pulse points, a strong arm around my waist to help me down the hall to my bathroom, and bowls of broth when I can stomach them.

I haven’t felt this cared for…ever. When Tilly comes to check on me the day after, she has a sly look on her face.

“Say it, Aunt Tilly.”

I’m sitting up, propped against some pillows, and she’s got a couple of fingers at my wrist to take my pulse. It’s slower and steadier since the last time I saw her.

“Hmm?” Her dark brown eyes flicker up to mine and she looks at me, innocence personified. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve got something to say, so out with it.”

She sighs as if I’ve asked her to reveal top-secret information, but then she smiles, taking her fingertips from my wrist. “Pulse is much better. You’re much better.”

I narrow my eyes. “Seriously.”

“I remember how he used to look at you, Erin. And of course there was nothing to do about it when he was a student. I know nothing happened between the two of you when he was. But he’s not a student anymore. For the past four months, I’ve watched you two fumble around this nonsense like two incredibly incompetent jugglers. So maybe it’s time to give it a try.”

“You— You think this is okay? I want to be with him, so much. But I’m worried what everyone’s going to say. I mean, he was my student, and after Will—”

She lays a hand on my shoulder and it silences me. I hadn’t honestly thought all that much about the repercussions of being with Shep because the obstacles had seemed so insurmountable. But now it seems like it might be happening.

“Did you know that when Uncle Rett and I got married, it would’ve been illegal in sixteen states? I’m not so impressed when it comes to what other people have to say about love.”

I’d forgotten about that. It seems so ridiculous that anyone could not want them to be together just because they don’t have the same color skin. They’re so perfect for each other, their love practically drips off them. They’re so sweet it’s almost sickening. Almost. Aunt Tilly gives my shoulder another squeeze and smiles.

“It’s not going to be easy. There’s going to be talk. It could get ugly. I’m not saying that to scare you off, but I want you to know what you’re heading into. You’ve got the softest heart, Erin. It’s been bruised enough for one lifetime. I hate to see it get hurt any more, but I think you’re meant to be together and the sooner you all give up and give in, the better off you’ll be.

“Zach Shepherd is crazy about you. He made me promise to wait here until he got back so you wouldn’t be alone. So don’t mess this up, all right? I believe the universe is a benevolent place, but even she only gives so many chances.”

Oh my. What am I supposed to say to that? I have no faint clue so I let her fuss over me until I hear the door to my apartment open and shut. That’ll be Shep. As if to answer my unspoken question, his broad shoulders fill my doorway and we smile at each other.

Shy, knowing smiles.

Chapter 15

Shep

The next day, Erin looks a million times better. She’s gotten out of bed, washed her hair. I even heard her humming in the shower. She’s gotten dressed, too, in those stretchy pants that fold over at the waist and the sweatshirt that will never not make me remember her dancing.

She made us oatmeal this morning and we sat across the table from each other, having some ridiculous stilted conversation about our classes and department gossip. Word has it Dan might be leaving in the spring, which would open up the department Chair. I told her she should try for it. She’d shaken her head and waved her hands. “I can’t. I have a hard enough time managing the boys, never mind you people.”

But now the dishes are washed and put away and we’re standing in her kitchen, not knowing what do to with ourselves. We’re supposed to talk. I want to talk to her, but I don’t know where to start. Besides, she looks tired.

“Do you want to go back to sleep? I know you’re feeling better but you should take it easy.”

She presses her lips between her teeth and looks at me through her lashes. “I thought…I thought we could talk first. You said you’d let me know you. I want to know you.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Anxiety flits in my stomach. What if after I’ve told her, she never wants to talk to me again? But, what if she does? It’s a risk I’ve promised her I’d take. I steer her to the couch and sit on one side. I expect her to take the other, but she sits close, tucking up her feet and tugging down a blanket from the back of the couch to wrap herself in. It’s like story time, but this is no fairy tale. But because I think it will make her laugh, I begin, “A long time ago…”

I’m right. Her eyes light up and she giggles. “How long ago?”

“About four years ago. In a land far, far away…”

“Called Evanston?”

I grin but narrow my eyes. “Hush, you, or you won’t get your story.”

She covers her mouth with both hands before she lowers them into her lap. “I promise I’ll be good. No more interrupting.”

Is it wrong I get a little hard from hearing her promise to be good? This is going to be rougher than I thought.

I tell her about the night I met Mordecai. Erin’s a fantastic audience for a story. Her eyes go wide and her hands clutch the blanket during the anxious parts. She claps, a tiny thrilled motion, before she laces her fingers together to keep from interrupting as she’s promised when I tell her how I stepped in. I try not to make a big deal out of it—it wasn’t courageous or anything—but her eyes glow with something like hero worship and damn if it doesn’t make me feel good. Really fucking good.

“So, that’s how I met Mordecai. And started working at his club.”

“What kind of club? Another strip club?” Her eyes have gone round and curious, and I take a hard swallow. If only. She hadn’t blinked when I said we went to the strip club. She’s worked with adolescent boys long enough not to be shocked by that.

“No. It was a fetish club. A BDSM club. Does that mean anything to you?” I talk slowly, not knowing how she might react. Erin’s this mass of contradictions; so smart and so in control in the classroom but sometimes so innocent and naïve. Which end of the spectrum is kink going to fall under?

She flushes bright red. “Yes, I know what that is.”

I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or horrified or uncomfortable or what. She’s usually so easy to read. But her fingers twisting in her lap could mean any number of things. “We don’t have to talk about this—”

“What did you do there?” She’s still flushed but her expression is one of earnest curiosity. At least I haven’t scared the crap out of her. She hasn’t kicked me out of her apartment or called Headmaster Wilson to tell him he’s got a pervert on staff. But that could change.

“At first I worked the door, checking members in. Sometimes I’d get there early or stay late and help with whatever Mordecai needed help with. I needed the money and we got along well, so I did whatever needed doing. Books, paperwork, cleaning up. He taught me a lot about the business and about…”

“About what?”

“About power exchange. The games people play, how to be safe, how to use the equipment at the club, how to tell if scenes were getting out of hand. After a while, he had me start taking shifts as a dungeon monitor. You know, to make sure people were following the rules?”

She nods thoughtfully, her eyes cast down and her mouth twisted up.

“Erin, am I freaking you out with all this? I can’t tell.” My heart takes a few solid thumps before she looks at me and holds up a finger. She disentangles herself from the blanket and starts down the hallway. I’m left on the couch wondering what the heck she’s doing. Is she going to come back with a can of Mace? But when I hear her fuzzy-sock-clad feet pad down the hallway, I look up to find her with an armful of paperbacks. What the hell?

She doesn’t say a word, but sets them on the coffee table, and proceeds to lay them out in a single layer over the beat-up surface. As soon as I see the first one, I stop breathing. Title after title of classic and contemporary kinky romance and erotica. I haven’t read hardly any of them, but I recognize a lot of the titles and authors from talk I’d overheard at the club. Holy shit.

She kneels in front of me after she’s finished and looks up with a nervous smile. “Still think you’re going to freak me out?”

* * *

Erin

Shep is gobsmacked. That’s the only word for the expression on his face. I want to laugh, but I’m worried he’s going to get up and walk out the door. He thinks of me as sweet and sheltered. This might blow the lid off that. But it shouldn’t, not entirely. Reading and doing are two different things; I’ve done a ton of one and none of the other.

I hope I’m not ruining some fantasy he’s had about leading a complete and utter newbie into the lifestyle. Don’t be ridiculous. As if he’s fantasized about me. I’m sure he had plenty of women at school or at the club (a fetish club!) who were more appealing than dowdy Erin Brewster, his silly math teacher. God knows I’ve had enough fantasies of him, most of them involving things I’ve read about in those books.

It’s been a minute and his wide blue eyes are still running over the titles again and again. Otherwise he’s not moving.

“Shep?”

I’ve broken a spell and his eyes shift to mine.

“Have you read all of these?”

“Yes.” Some of them repeatedly, but maybe I’ll save that for later.

“Where do you keep them? Because they sure as hell weren’t on your bookshelf.”

I smile. No, not on my bookshelf. I’d noticed the two-thirds finished Harry Potter book lying face-down on the armchair in my bedroom where he’s parked himself for the past few days. If I’d known, I could’ve directed him to my other stash of books.

“Under my bed.”

“Of course.” There’s another pause and I wait for him to collect his thoughts. “So I’m all tiptoeing around this stuff and you’re the world’s foremost expert?”

I shake my head, hard, making myself dizzy in the process. “No.”

“Have you ever— With Will, did you…”

“No!” Relief washes some of the tension off his face. “Would it matter to you if I had?”

“No. Christ, no, Erin. That would be insanely hypocritical. No, I just want to know where we’re starting from.”

Fingers of warmth clutch at my insides. Where we’re starting from? We’re starting something? He wants me?

“Will you tell me more? Now that you know you’re not going to make me run screaming for the hills?”

“Yeah, of course. But could you put those away? They’re distracting.”

I can imagine. Some of the covers are rather…explicit. I gather up my books and bring them back to their hiding place. When I come out, Shep’s got the kettle on for tea.

“Sit,” he instructs. “On the couch, not on the floor.”

I do as I’m told, and wrap the blanket around myself before he comes back with two steaming mugs and settles next to me.

“After a while, some of the members started asking if I was available to play.”

I’d bet so.

“At first Mordecai said no, I was new and I was off-limits. But he had a few service tops and bottoms on staff and I thought maybe he’d give me a shot sometime. It took over a year. I’d resigned myself to doing everything but. But then, one night one of our best members showed up—this woman named Lydia, and she wanted to play. One of the club tops had called in sick, the other one was booked solid and Lydia didn’t like to play with other members. She told Mordecai she wanted me or she was walking. He offered to top her himself, and he didn’t usually play with members, but she refused. ‘Give me The Shepherd or I’m gone.’”

“They called you The Shepherd?” It’s like something out of my books. The guys with the trying-super-hard-to-be-badass names like Whip Cock and Master Ass Daddy make me cringe. But, The Shepherd. It’s silly, but fitting. Controlling but caretaking. I bite my lip so I don’t laugh because he looks embarrassed.

“Yeah. Mordecai introduced me to the staff as Shepherd and one of the club bottoms liked to give me a hard time about how badly I wanted to top. She called me that as a joke, but it stuck. I guess it could’ve been worse, but, god.”

“So you played with her? Lydia?”

“I did. Mordecai asked me first. He wouldn’t have made me if I didn’t want to, even though it would have meant losing her and maybe a couple of her friends who were members, too.”

“But you wanted to.”

He shrugs.

“You did a good job?”

“Good enough she asked for me the next time she was in the club. Then other members started asking for me. Mordecai had to hire someone else for the door, but I still did the other stuff when I had time.”

He says it modestly, but I’m sure it was open season. Of course they wanted him.

“Did you like it?”

“A lot of it. I liked helping people relax, feel safe, forget about all the crap going on in their lives outside the club. I liked pushing their boundaries, showing them what they were capable of. I liked making them feel good, sending them home at the end of the night knowing I’d made their lives a little better.”

“You keep saying ‘people.’ Did you play with men, too?”

“Occasionally. They tended to prefer one of our female tops or this guy Anton. But if they requested me I wouldn’t say no.”

“Did you have sex with them?”

“No, no sex. With anyone. Against club rules. We could use whatever house toys and restraints the client okayed, but no sex. And no fingers inside a client.”

“Wasn’t that…frustrating?”

He laughs. “Uh, yeah. Very frustrating.”

“But you had a girlfriend who could help you with that.” I state it as fact so he won’t have to. I’m not that foolish. Ugly, oafish, horrible guys get laid and have partners. Shep is none of those things. He frowns and I wonder if I’ve dredged up some awful breakup story. Maybe he’s still in love with her, maybe that’s why—

“No, I didn’t.”

“She didn’t want to play with you?”

“There was no she, Erin.” What? “Between classes and practice and the club, I didn’t have time for a girlfriend, and one-night stands aren’t my thing.”

“So…”

“So I spent a lot of time in the shower, and rubbing one out when my roommate had an early morning class.”

I clap my hands over my mouth and my cheeks heat with the fire of a thousand burning suns. Shep masturbating? Under a stream of water with a forearm pressed up against the tiles, his eyes closed, and his forehead pressed into his elbow? Or lying on his narrow dorm bed with his boxers shoved far enough down so he could take himself in hand and—

“God, I’m sorry. That was crass, I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Embarrassment is not what I’m feeling. Unless you’re going to count embarrassment over how hot that got me. “No, I’m fine. I work here, don’t I? I know what goes on. You guys think you’re all subtle, but…” I widen my eyes and he laughs.

“Fair.”

So if Shep didn’t have a girlfriend at Northwestern, didn’t want to go the whole wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am route, and I’m almost positive he didn’t date anyone his senior year… “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me whatever you want. I want you to have all the information before you decide anything.”

“When’s the last time you had sex?”

I’ve surprised him. He probably thought I was going to ask what his favorite kind of nipple clamps are or something. His brows crease and he scrapes both hands through his hair before he looks at me. “You really want me to answer that?”

The thought of Will and Lana comes into my head unbidden. What if Shep’s been sleeping with someone here? How is it going to make me feel if he says last week? At least it hasn’t been in the past three days, unless that’s what he was doing while Aunt Tilly was here. Oh my god, it is, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have asked, but now that I have… “Yes?”

He shakes his head and raises his eyes to the ceiling, sliding his tongue along his teeth. I can’t help my rapid blinking and my hands clutching my blanket, waiting for him to say something awful because that’s what my head defaults to. Or does now, anyway, after Will.

“Never,” he says, his eyes on the ground. “Never.”

I would’ve been less surprised if he said yesterday. “Never?”

“Never.”

* * *

Shep

Could I crawl under Erin’s coffee table and die? I’m guessing it’s always rough to tell a girl you’re a virgin. Probably you always worry she’s going to point and laugh or whatever, even when you’re a teenager and odds are she’s a virgin, too. But I’m twenty-two. I worked at a fetish club. That’s right: I’m twenty-two, kinky as fuck, and I’ve never gotten laid. It’s ridiculous. Erin’s not going to laugh. At least, not a lot. And it wouldn’t be nasty. But I still don’t want to look at her. Let her get it out of her system before I look at her.

When I finally sac up, her face is pinched and sadness is tugging down the corners of her pretty mouth.

“Is that why you didn’t want to be with me? Because of Will? Because I’m not… Because I’m…ruined?”

Rage bubbles up inside of me. Who made her—? For fuck’s sake. “No, Erin. I wasn’t trying to keep myself pure or whatever. It just, never seemed right. I don’t care how many guys you’ve been with. That doesn’t matter to me. I need you to listen to me very carefully, okay?”

She nods and bites her lip, her eyes brimming with tears.

“The only reason I wanted you to stay away from me, the only way I could keep myself from hauling up these steps and pounding on your door the second I stepped foot on campus and knew you and Will were over, was that I don’t think I could be happy in a completely vanilla relationship. I liked what I did at the club. It turned me on in a way nothing else has and I don’t want to live without it.”

Her teeth are sinking into her lip so hard she might break the skin. I want to tell her to stop, smooth the pad of my thumb over her mouth to make the mark go away, but instead I finish.

“I didn’t want to scare you. I’ve always wanted more than anything to protect you. And I didn’t want you looking at me like I was some sick freak. I didn’t think you’d be into it and I couldn’t stand the idea that you wouldn’t want to talk to me anymore. It’s not for everyone and I respect that. But it is for me, and the occasional spanking and fur-lined novelty cuffs aren’t going to do it. You’ve told me you read that stuff, but reading it and living it aren’t the same. But that is the only reason. There’s nothing wrong with you. I know people say it all the time—it’s not you, it’s me—but in this case that is the absolute truth. Are we clear?”

I’ve slipped inadvertently into my Dom voice, but when she’s sitting there all adrift, how could I not? And because I’m in that headspace, when she bursts into tears, I’m not confused or at a loss. She’s relieved, because she was terrified of what I was going to say, that I thought she was dirty or used up. I should’ve punched Will Chase while I had the chance.

“Come here, lamb.”

She scrambles into my lap, blanket and all, and buries her head in my shoulder. I hold her tight but it’s not long before she’s pulling away. Is this too much?

“I shouldn’t be—crying. I’m—sorry.” Her sobs are terrible, halting. They’re choking her and she’s trying to swallow them.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m not sorry. You cry all you need to, I’m not afraid of some tears.” I’ve watched enough scenes go down for tears of all sorts to be commonplace, and to know how cathartic they can be. One woman I’d played with cried every single time. At first it had freaked me out, but Mordecai had assured me I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I’d seen her use her safeword—she wasn’t shy with it—so she wasn’t afraid. It was a release. Whoever made Erin ashamed for crying… I take a deep breath. “I mean it.”

She looks up for a brief questioning moment and because she needs more reassurance, I give it to her. “I do.”

That’s when the floodgates open, and she clutches at me like a jungle vine keeping her from drowning in quicksand. It takes her a while to wear herself out. When was the last time anyone held her while she cried? When she’s quieted, I let myself enjoy the warm weight of her in my lap, the sweet flowery smell of her hair, the way her hand rests on my chest now that she’s not clinging to a fistful of my shirt. When I look down, I’m not surprised she’s fallen asleep. She’s not a hundred percent better and a crying jag can really take it out of you.

I slide my arm under her knees and stand up, trying to be as smooth as possible, but I shouldn’t worry. Even when I almost trip over her blanket halfway down the hall she doesn’t stir. I lay her down on the bed and make sure she’s covered up before I drop back into the chair.

Is it possible Erin is even more perfect than I thought? I’ve had these delusions, fantasies, about her and her mildness. Wondered what it would be like to have her at my mercy, and her loving every second of being there. She’s not perfect, perfect. No one is. But she might be perfect for me.

I let my curiosity get the better of me and hike up the ruffly thing at the bottom of her bed. There they are. Those books. Piles of them. Maybe I could be the one to turn Erin’s fantasies into reality.

Chapter 16

Erin

We barely leave my apartment for the next several days. We watch TV, and we eat peanut butter and jelly, and macaroni and cheese because that’s what I keep on hand in my apartment. No need to cook much since I eat in the dining hall all the time. Cooking’s never been my strong suit anyway, and I will not be making gnocchi ever again. Shep doesn’t seem to mind my kindergarten culinary skills, nor does he remark on my plates and glasses that have animals on them. Will made me put them away.

I’m still sleeping off what’s left of my cold or whatever that was, and Shep has me rest a lot. But sometimes resting means being tucked under his arm on the couch and I don’t mind. It’s my own slice of heaven. Though I try to stay awake to enjoy it, the heavy comfort of his arm around me is better than a shot of melatonin, and it never takes me long to fall asleep.

Sometimes I lie on my back with my head in his lap and ask him more questions about the club: the things he did there, things he saw, what he liked, what he didn’t. He plays with my hair while he answers, studying my reaction to every word.

We’re eating more oatmeal this morning and after we’ve tangled feet a few times under the table, Shep says, “So, I’ve answered your questions. How would you feel about answering some of mine?”

“That sounds fair. What do you want to know?”

“You haven’t experimented with BDSM, but you’ve read a lot. You must have some idea of things you’d like to try or things you definitely don’t want to do. That’s what I want to know.”

My eyes bug at the potential for embarrassment. I don’t know that I could say those things out loud. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Why not? I’m not going to make fun of you, Erin. I promise.”

“I don’t think you would. But what if you think what I want is gross? What if you don’t want those things, too?”

So much of what he’d talked about made me so weak in the knees I’d been glad I was lying down. He was matter-of-fact about it, professional almost, which shouldn’t be surprising. It was his job, for goodness sake. But it made me want to be ravished, made specific areas of my body ache for him. Can’t I say “Me, too” and be done with it?

“What we want isn’t going to match up perfectly, but I’m willing to bet there’s some overlap. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m kind of a huge perv and I’ve hung out with a lot of other pervs. Mordecai is one of the filthiest people on the planet, and he’s told me all about his exploits, whether I wanted to hear about them or not. It’s pretty hard to shock me or gross me out. In fact, I challenge you to do your worst.”

That makes me giggle. “No. But even the things I might like to do, I don’t have the words to talk about it.”

He sucks the last bite of oatmeal off his spoon, mouthing it thoughtfully, and I can’t take my eyes off his lips. I would give anything in a bucket to be that spoon. When it clatters into the bowl, I’m shocked back to attention. “Yes, you do.”

I shake my head, pressing my lips together.

“Look. Communication, talking about this, is huge. It won’t work if we can’t talk to each other. It’s the only way to keep you safe, and I want to keep you safe. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do, and the only way I’ll know is if you tell me. I pay attention to your body language and your responses, but I’m not a mind reader. I know it’s hard. It’s not something that comes naturally. It’ll take time. I’ll wait as long as I need to. But while you get comfortable using your own words, maybe we can talk about this by borrowing someone else’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got a whole stack of dirty words under your bed.” Right. All those times I’d wished I could give Will an annotated copy of one of my books and here Shep is asking for exactly that. “You must’ve gotten some ideas from there, right? How would you feel about showing me?”

“Now?”

He shrugs. “If you want. There’s no rush. I’ve waited for you for four years, I don’t mind waiting longer. But now works, if you’re ready.”

I’ve already started compiling a list of my favorite scenes in my head, so while some of me is shouting to play coy, I don’t want to. I want to share this with someone; someone who wants to know, someone who might want the same things I think I do. The thought makes me stumble. I think I want this. “What if we talk and what if we try, but then…what if I don’t actually like it?”

His features that have been so relaxed tighten like I’ve pulled a rubber band. His chest expands with an inhale and the line I want to soothe away with my thumb forms between his brows. “Honestly?”

I nod even though I’m not sure if I want the answer. Maybe I should plug my ears with my fingers and sing at the top of my lungs with my eyes scrunched closed, pretend that’s not a possibility.

“I don’t know. But you know I’m in the same boat, right? I’ve never done any of this with a partner, for real.”

His uncertainty should make me panic and there’s an unmistakable flutter in my stomach, but of course he doesn’t know. I’ve always liked his rock solidness but the fact that he’s human, not perfect, soapstone instead of granite, somehow makes this more real, more possible instead of less. He’s told me the truth. If there’s anything Will taught me, it’s that I don’t want lies. Even when the truth isn’t pretty.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

* * *

Shep

As I watch Erin walk away, her round hips swaying in a pair of pajama pants with goddamn rainbows on them, blood starts to pool where it shouldn’t. You cannot think with your dick, Shepherd. I need to pay attention to her, listen to her, what she wants. Cross my fingers and ask the universe to do me another fucking favor and let the Venn diagram of what she wants and what I want overlap enough to make this work. Please. I won’t survive breaking her heart again.

What I told her wasn’t a lie. I’m a total pervert. Even Mordecai’s said so, and he would know, but he’s in his own stratosphere. I can live without some of the kinkier shit, and who knows? She could surprise me. Some of the things she’s read…they’re not for the faint of heart. But I have some particular tastes I don’t know if she’ll be in for. I clear our places and while I wait for her, my mind wanders over various scenarios.

She comes back with a few books as I’m putting the last bowl back in the cabinet. She’s clutching at them and her face is pink, I hope a mix of excitement and embarrassment. I sit on her couch and she snuggles her way under my arm, not shy with her affection. I love that it comes so easily to her. It makes me feel adored and protective at the same time.

Settled with some well-thumbed volumes on her lap, she looks up.

“What do you want me to call you?”

“I like it when you call me Shep. I remember the couple of times you slipped like it was yesterday.” It still gives my heart a kick whenever she says it.

“I like calling you that, too. It’s like we’re finally in the same place. You get to be Shep and I get to be Erin. But, I thought it might be easier, when we…”

Her face crumples up. She’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Mordecai liked the heavy hitters, people who knew what was up, but I had a soft spot for the new kids. Guiding them through all this newness that was confusing, and awesome, and scary as shit all at once. I had been young—really young—for the average age of our members, but I’d never felt brand new even though I had a shit ton to learn. So I fill in the blank. “Play, Erin. You can say play. Or ‘scene’ if you like it better.”

She purses her lips, and it’s all I can do to keep from grabbing a fistful of her hair and wrestling her onto her back to kiss her.

“Play,” she declares. “That sounds fun.”

She’s going to kill me. Her cuteness is going to stab me through the heart and I’m going to bleed out on her couch. Jesus fucking Christ. “It is fun. It can get intense, too, but if it’s never fun, or funny, you’re doing it wrong.”

She smiles without showing her teeth and her eyes light up. “So when we’re having fun, what should I call you?”

The possibilities race through my mind, every option urging my blood south. What I wouldn’t give to hear her call me Master when she’s on her knees about to suck me off. But if she got in the habit and she slipped in public, in front of the guys? How humiliated she would be tugs on the reins of my runaway craving. I’d like to push her, embarrass her, make her cheeks bloom pink, but her being ashamed and in a situation I can’t turn around quickly? Hell no.

“Why don’t you call me Zach?” Her eyebrows pinch in a pout. Before she can argue, I lay a finger on her lips. “What if we were in the dining hall and you called me sir?”

Her face flames so hot I feel it and she claps her hands over my finger, still resting on her mouth. She shakes her head, a flick of panic.

“That’s the only reason why. No one here calls me Zach. They’d think it was special, because we’re together. It wouldn’t mean anything to them, but it would mean something to us.”

She loosens the hands clamped over her mouth and lays them on my thigh, close enough to my cock my breath catches and she looks up at me through her lashes. “So we’re together?”

“I think so. What do you think?”

She nuzzles my chest with her cheek and the hot dampness of her breath through the fabric of my shirt is testing my self-control. “I think I’d like that.”

“How do you feel about calling me Zach when we play?”

“It’s like a code, right? A secret code.”

I’ve never thought the word “darling” before, but there’s no other word for her. At least no other word I haven’t used a hundred thousand times before. This girl. Goddamn. “Yeah, lamb. Our secret code.”

“Okay, Zach.” Just like that, the name I was called for the first fourteen years of my life is transformed from something I hate to hear because it means I’m back in Shamokin where everything is dark and shitty and hopeless to a ray of fucking sunshine because it’s dropping from her lips in her sweet, compliant voice. Okay, Zach.

I clear my throat before I rub her arm. Limits, Shepherd, limits. Before I do anything else, I have to get a sense of her limits. “So what have we got here?”

Chapter 17

Shep

It’s an open weekend and the guys who didn’t leave campus have been herded into the student center by the faculty who drew the short straws. Lucky for us, we both got the night off. It’s not often we have the dorm to ourselves, but tonight’s my lucky night. Hopefully when it’s over, Erin’s going to feel it’s been one of hers.

I’ve spent about an hour stripping her slowly, torturously, one button at a time between touching the skin I’ve bared, studying it, memorizing it and savoring it. I’ll only see her naked for the first time once and I want to remember revealing every inch of her. Of course, the process has been slowed by kissing. A lot of kissing.

It wasn’t technically our first kiss. That happened four years and a lifetime ago. So much has changed since then. Erin’s not married, I haven’t been her student for years, we’re sitting on her comfortable couch instead of crouched on the floor. You’d think all that would make it easier. But instead, the deliberateness made it more awkward. I’ve kissed girls before, but never like this. Never with intent. Never with this desperate, achy, beaten-off-with-a-stick desire. God, I wanted her. I’ve had my mouth on one part of her or another for the better part of an hour and I want her still. More. I’ll never get enough.

But putting my mouth to hers… My heart had pounded as I leaned closer, threaded my fingers through the silky hair at the nape of her neck, held and twisted it to remind her, remind myself. I’d hesitated, inches from her sweetly eager face, emotion rioting in my chest while I begged the universe to please let this be good, for both of us. She’d tilted her head and raised her chin, laid her small hand on my shoulder. When she’d leaned forward, tipped, I closed the gap.

It wasn’t fireworks so much as stillness. My heart was still beating hard, my thoughts fraught and running wild. But with the touch of her, the answering softness, the slight part of her lips begging me to take more of her, give more of myself over…

I don’t get a lot of peace. Something always needs taking care of, looking after. My students, my teams, my brother. That’s how I like it. Working, earning, proving. But for a few seconds, I’d been granted serenity in the form of Erin in my arms, trusting me, wanting me, kissing me.

For my whole life, I’ve tried to do the right thing. I’ve tried to be what people have needed me to be, taken up responsibility or offered help where I could. But until then, there had been something missing. I’m familiar with duty, loyalty, but when I kissed Erin, it wasn’t because of those things. My fidelity to her is flavored differently, with an added zeal that turns those virtues into something more complete. Devotion. The heat of her, the welcoming wet invitation. It had felt like love.

Now she’s sitting in my lap wearing a pair of light blue lace panties and nothing else. I’ve been running my hands all over her, wherever I want because she’s mine, all mine. I cup a full breast and strum a thumb across her nipple, fascinated by how it gathers and hardens under my touch. When I keep at it, her hips shift in a squirm that doesn’t need translation, but I ask anyway. I want her to get in the habit of talking to me. It’s so hard for the poor little thing and I won’t deny I get off on her embarrassment.

“Do you like that, lamb?”

“Yes, Zach.”

“What do you like?”

She blinks mournful brown eyes up to mine and you’d think I told her that her favorite sweater got ruined at the dry cleaner’s. “Go on. Tell me what you like, or I’ll stop.”

I pause to emphasize my threat and her brow furrows. “Please don’t, Zach.”

“Then you’ll tell me.”

“I…” She swallows hard and huffs out a breath. Come on, Erin.

“You can do it. I want to hear you.”

“I…” She heaves a huge sigh. A laugh bubbles up inside of me, but I swallow it. She’d be mortified. She just needs to be handled right through this. I tighten my hold on her and up the intensity of the strokes across her nipple, tight and hard as a cherry stone against the pad of my thumb. God, I want that in my mouth, against my tongue, between my teeth. Not yet. Rein it in, Shepherd. She needs you.

Some of the tension leeches from her body under the increased sensations, and she makes a tiny mewling in the back of her throat. Maybe if I tease her hard enough she’ll forget to be embarrassed and spill. But my little lamb is wound pretty tight. I don’t want her to snap.

“Why are you so afraid to talk about this, Erin? Hasn’t anyone ever asked you what you liked?”

“No.”

The way her eyes dart away and she curls her body up tighter, making herself smaller, makes me wonder if this isn’t a sex thing. Maybe no one’s ever asked her what she wants so she’s afraid to ask, to say it out loud. Why bother if no one’s going to listen to you? I know she has, but mostly she lets it slip by in a swiftly moving stream of what everyone else wants, what everyone else thinks she should be.

That stops here. With me.

“I’m asking you. And I’m ordering you to tell me.”

She looks up again, her eyes gone wide and her face flushed.

“Ordering me to?”

“Yes.”

“So I have to do what you say?”

I’m on the right track. Permission isn’t going to cut it; demand will. “Yes. If you want to please me. Do you want to please me?”

“More than anything.”

Those three words make my mind go Technicolor and buzzy like a late-night color test, but I keep my voice calm and easy. For her. “Then you’ll tell me.”

I watch her turn it over in her mind. Then there’s this stubborn set to her face, softened but not buried by embarrassment. “I like…”

That’s a word farther than we’ve gotten before.

“I like it when…when you…”

Come on, Erin, you can do it.

“I like it when you play with my nipples.”

It’s come out in a flood of whispers, so fast that if I didn’t expect it, I might not have understood. But this isn’t debate team or mock trial. She’s not being graded on elocution. She’s done as I’ve asked, hard as it was, and now she gets to see what happens to good girls who follow orders.

I take the hard peak in between thumb and forefinger and roll it, back and forth. The change in action is met by a sigh, and a tiny “Oh!”

Yes, Erin. Oh.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes, Zach.”

I apply more pressure and roll farther into a twist, and she gasps. Her hips are grinding into my lap, giving me ideas I shouldn’t be having. Yet. “Do you like that?”

“Yes, Zach.”

Fuck all, do I love the way her voice gets breathy and soft when she’s turned on. I could listen to her say that all day. Yes, Zach. Yes, Zach. Yes. Yes. Yes.

“More or less than what I was doing before?”

Hesitation. “More, Zach.”

More, Zach. More, Zach. More. More. More.

“Do you want me to do it harder or softer?”

Quiet. She’s so quiet when she lays her head on my shoulder, her breath hot on my neck, and her eyelashes flutter against me when she says, “Harder, Zach.”

Harder, Zach. Harder.

Yes. More. Harder.

So that’s what my good girl gets.

* * *

Erin

Why has no one ever done this to me before? Maybe because no one’s ever bothered to ask me what I want, in any context. Not really. Everyone who’s been responsible for me has shirked that particular duty. My dad because he was too focused on his career to factor in my needs or wants; my grandfather because he felt anything beyond the time he’d been allotted with me was off-limits for comment and was probably right; and Will… Well, I’m guessing because he didn’t give a crap. But Shep, Zach, does. Though at this particular moment it’s about sex, I get the feeling he means always, about everything. I matter. I’d like to luxuriate in that for hours, but I’m distracted by what he’s doing to me.

I didn’t know I could get this hot from someone playing with my nipple, but this is, oh, god, this is…grammar-destroying good. I can barely form a coherent thought. I clutch at him like I might fall down if I don’t. I might. I can’t keep still. When he twists hard, I yelp but it turns into an embarrassing noise. You know, one of those sex noises people don’t actually make, except they do. I do. “Unh.”

Then he’s laying me down on the couch on my back and kneeling beside me. One of his hands rests under my breasts and the other sweeps some stray strands of hair out of my face. “Open your mouth, lamb.”

When I do, he slips his thumb inside, and I cinch my lips around the last joint, closing my eyes; licking, sucking.

I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes sucking my own thumb. It’s something I hate, that I’ve done my best to hide from anyone I’ve shared a bed with. Will used to make fun of me even though it only happens when I’m stressed far above and beyond my constant low hum of anxiety. I can’t help it. It’s something shameful. But this—Shep’s thumb between my teeth, his hand holding my jaw—god, is it sexy. So sexy I’m making more of those embarrassing sex noises.

“Lace your hands behind your head.”

He doesn’t tell me to let go of his thumb, so I don’t, but work my hands up and under, my fingers getting tangled in my hair. The motion’s arched my back and it makes me notice my breasts more. Shep notices them more, too. He cups the neglected one and squeezes before he treats this nipple to the same attention the other one received earlier.

I’m whimpering around his thumb and I wish he had more hands. I’m insatiable. I want him to touch me everywhere all at once.

“I’m going to touch you between your legs. Is that okay?”

I nod emphatically. Yes, yes, yes. The corner of his mouth tips up and his gaze follows his hand skimming over my stomach. I expect him to slip inside my underwear—the sexiest pair I have—but he slides fingers and a palm over the gusset of the powder-blue lace and then presses the heel of his hand above my clit, making my hips buck to get the contact I want. God, I’m shameless. But he doesn’t seem to mind. “Again.”

I’m frozen until he presses down on my pubic bone, and again I lever my hips against the not-quite-satisfactory contact. “That’s right. Again.”

My hips cant up and as soon as they hit the fabric of the couch cushion, he says, “Again. You’re going to rub your pussy on my hand until you come. Again.”

I want his fingers, all of him, inside of me but if this is what he wants me to have, if this is how he wants to watch me get off, I’m not going to argue. I rock against him, and he cups my sex, his fingers warm and hard through the thin fabric. I press harder and faster, moaning in time with my thrusts and then… Oh. Oh. My insides clench around nothing, and I rub the aftershocks out on his palm.

I’ve spent quite a bit of time getting myself off when Will left, and even when he hadn’t yet, mostly while I was single-handedly reading one of the books under my bed, but there’s something about orgasming under another person’s touch. Shep leaves his hand resting between my legs when I’ve burnt myself out but he extracts his thumb from my mouth and puts it in his own before he kisses me and strokes my neck.

“Did you like that, lamb?”

“Yes, Zach.”

“Would you like to do it again?”

“Now?”

He laughs and tightens his grip around my sex, wringing one last pulse of climax from my body. “Not now.”

“Then yes, I’d like to do it again.”

“Would you like me to put my fingers inside of you?”

Through the damp fabric of my underwear, he traces my labia and applies pressure at my entrance.

“Yes, Zach.”

“Would you like me to put my cock inside you?”

“Yes, Zach.”

“Long winter weekend is coming. While the guys are gone, and the Silvas are in Aruba, I’m going to fuck you.”

Long winter weekend is three weeks away. He’s going to make me wait three whole weeks? “But—”

He presses his thumb against my lips and I hush. “Whether or not you want to have sex is up to you. But once you’ve said yes, you’re ready, when is not. I don’t want you worrying about people being able to hear, or whether some stray student is going to come knocking at the door.

“Even though I want to flip you over and have my way with you, I’m not going to. For the next three weeks, we’re going to date like normal people because I’ve never had a girlfriend and I don’t know that I’m going to have another one. So let me, okay?”

It’s like my heart’s a game of KerPlunk and all the marbles fell out. I would’ve waited before and not because he told me so. Everyone deserves to wait until they’re ready. But what he’s just said? Kills me dead. More than my orgasm, more than the teasing. He moves his thumb so I can answer. “Okay, Shep.”

* * *

Shep

For three weeks, we torture each other. I take Erin out the one night a week we both have off and I walk down to Turner every night she’s on duty so I can walk her back to her apartment. The first night I showed up, I brought her a lily and I held her hand as we walked up that path for the hundredth time. But this time feels a world away from the others. Like my life is starting over. Like I’ve earned something worth having.

Holding hands is rookie stuff, minor league. With everything I’ve done, everything I’ve seen, it shouldn’t impress me. But somehow, her warm hand holding mine tight like she’s not quite sure I’m real, like I might tug away…it half makes me feel like king of the world and it half carves a hole in my stomach.

I want her to hold me tight because she can’t not, not because she’s worried I’m going to leave. I’m going to rebuild that wall one brick at a time, make her believe I’m in this for the long haul, because I am. It might be foolish—we don’t know each other all that well—but I don’t know if there’s anyone else for me. If things don’t work out with Erin, I might be able to find someone who makes me half-happy, but she’s a soft ball of sweetness and light, a little pitcher filled to the brim with everything I want.

It’s probably foolhardy, but I’ve already started thinking about slipping a ring on her finger. Making her mine. And not because I’ve gotten her knocked up. No. I will be fantastically and epically careful about that. Because I love her and she fills in the pieces of me that are missing.

Where I’m sober, she’s giddy, where I’m hard, she’s soft, where I’m rigid, she’s flexible. Not that she’s some shrinking violet. I love her spine of steel she dredges up when she needs it, but I’d like to give her something solid to lean against so she doesn’t need it so often. Let her be tractable, pliant, docile—how I think she’d like to be. How I like her.

Tonight’s the school dance and we’re both chaperoning. I’d traded duties with Skip Connelly, who was too glad to take a vanload of kids to the movies instead. I’m not thrilled about standing in the dining hall decked out with the casino-night theme and having to separate couples who are getting too caught up in each other. I didn’t like it when I was sixteen and I like it less now. But if that’s where Erin is, then that’s where I’ll be.

I wrap a Hawthorn-crested tie around my neck, wishing it were Erin’s head, that I was blindfolding her. She’d bite her plump bottom lip in uncertainty before taking a deep breath and letting go because she trusts me to take care of her, to show her things she’s never known about and to keep her safe. I will, Erin, I promise.

I pull on my blazer and my peacoat over it, fishing my cell out of my pocket to call Caleb as I head outside.

* * *

Erin

I’m slicking on lip gloss when there’s a knock at my door. I almost get the shimmering pink gel on my cheek because my mouth kicks up in a delighted grin. He hadn’t said, but I should have known.

When I swing the door open, he’s there. The lily he’s holding is a soft peach, a pretty complement to the vase of white, pink, and pastel yellow ones he’s given me already. One was waiting on my desk Monday morning, I’d found another one in the ladies’ room at Turner during Tuesday’s study hours—I’d giggled, thinking of Shep sneaking in there—another one when he walked me home on Wednesday. I’ve gotten one every day for the past two weeks and my apartment is filled with the sweet smell of them.

Lilies.

How did he—?

But Shep pays attention. He has an eye for detail, as has become crystal clear over these past two weeks. Despite avoiding me like the plague, he has my schedule down to the minute. On the two nights he’s taken me out, he brought me once to a rundown bowling alley where he ordered me a Cherry Coke and clapped for me even when I got endless gutter balls, and the other time to the aquarium in Boston.

They stay open late one night a month and we got lucky it was our night off. He’d let me drag him around to all the exhibits, stood by indulgently as I pressed my nose to the glass of the jellyfish tanks, laughed and shook his head as I squealed about how weird sharkskin felt when I dipped my hand into the touch pool and one swam right under my widespread fingers.

Tonight when he’s given me a soft, chaste kiss over the threshold to my apartment and I’ve put the pretty flower to join its siblings, he holds out an arm.

“Shall we?”

I nod, flushing. We shall.

We clomp down the stairs, both wearing boots because the campus is covered with snow. Though I’d like to be sexy, I thought he’d prefer me to be practical. At least my knee-high boots have fur on them so I don’t feel too dowdy. When we arrive, Shep takes my coat and spirits it away somewhere safe, away from the piles of down and wool accumulating near the entrances as the kids arrive.

Tonight is the major dance of the season and we’re hosting half a dozen other schools. The place is crowded and hot, and the slinky dresses some of the girls have donned—ostensibly to go with the theme of the evening—don’t look as silly inside as they will when they’re shivering their butts off on the way back to their respective campuses on the buses the drivers won’t have warmed up.

The evening passes uneventfully, no fights this year, thank goodness. None of the kids seem drunk, and there are an average number of couples who need to be separated because they’re practically having sex on the dance floor.

As I tap one particularly amorous young woman on the shoulder, empathy wells in me along with embarrassment. I hate this part of my job. I get it, guys, I do, but this is not the time or the place. And if I can’t get laid tonight, neither can you.

I turn back to where I left Shep overseeing the punch bowl and see a somehow familiar sylphlike form standing between him and me. The clingy black dress is too sophisticated to scream student and the dark hair is twisted up just so. A sudden tightness in my throat descends, gathering strength while it makes its way into the pit of my stomach. As I approach, the head perched on the slim neck turns and I’m greeted by the severe profile of Lana Davis.

I’d never blamed Lana for what happened as much as I blamed Will. He was married, she wasn’t. I’m not a big rah-rah-sisterhood kind of girl. Women have been as untrustworthy and back-stabby as men have been in my experience and I was glad when she moved across the country. Apparently she’s back. Shep laughs at something she’s said and I stop in my tracks. Not again. Not Shep.

I try to silence the harpy voices in my head, telling me I shouldn’t be surprised. Of course this is what I get for thinking I could have a happily ever after and with someone like Shep. He’s so far out of my league it’s not even funny. But I force myself forward because Shep isn’t Will. He wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

Shep smiles when he sees me, and the screaming dies down to a tolerable level. If he were Will, his face would’ve fallen to be replaced by a grin that used to heat my insides but eventually made me wonder what the hell he’d done this time. I step behind the refreshment table and plaster a polite smile on my face while Lana finishes her anecdote, barely glancing at me.

When she’s finished, she flashes a smile that makes me as suspicious as Will’s. “Erin! It’s been so long. I didn’t realize you were still here. It’s good to see you. You look…nice.”

I’m wearing my purple dress I love, but her unenthusiastic compliment makes me feel plain. I can’t compete with her brand of supermodel sophistication.

“Hi, Lana. I thought you were still in California.”

“I was, but the good weather, the happy people—” She gives an exaggerated shiver. “They weren’t for me. Frosty New Englander at heart, I’m afraid. I jumped at the chance when they needed a mid-year replacement at Streeter. And Zach tells me he’s teaching on the Hill.”

She’s turned her gaze back to Shep and he looks away. She called him Zach. No one calls him Zach. Not here anyway, no one but me. It’s supposed to be our secret code. Did he ask her to? I’d say no, because he’s shoved his hands in his pockets and looks distinctly uncomfortable, but maybe because I’m here?

“I guess we’ll be seeing you at these things, then.” Streeter’s a girls’ school, so we don’t compete against them, and the less I see of Lana Davis the better. At my “we,” Lana cocks an eyebrow in my direction. Shep reaches out a hand, linking his pinky with mine. Lana’s eyes alight on our joined fingers and her eyebrow edges higher—as does my heart, back into my chest. With such a small motion he’s declared us. I squeeze, reveling in the pressure of his response. We.

* * *

Shep

Lana stays for a few more minutes, but her eyes keep darting to where my finger’s still looped with Erin’s. Look all you like, Miss Davis. You’re no Jedi, and when Erin said “we,” she meant it. Lana doesn’t approach either of us for the rest of the evening except to throw a wave while she’s herding the girls out the door. But whenever I’d look up, she’d be looking at me.

I’m no stranger to being looked at. Girls at school and women at the club had made no secret of thinking I was attractive. Some of the girls had been so aggressive it made me uncomfortable. But at the club there were rules they wouldn’t dare break—not if they wanted to keep coming, anyway—and that felt safer. Anytime someone’s feelings had moved beyond a crush, a preference to play with me, and a reminder I was just doing my job hadn’t worked, I knew Mordecai would be there.

The way Lana looks at me is different. I don’t like it and there’s no Mordecai or club rules standing in her way. Not to mention how her being here makes Erin feel. Erin’s a friendly girl but her look of panic when she saw Miss Davis talking to me makes me wonder if there’s a story there. I walk Erin back to her apartment after the dance is over but don’t come up because there’s a flood of guys around us, heading back to their rooms.

At the door in front of Sullivan, I take her hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She nods, looking distracted, worried, so I squeeze to get her attention. “Erin. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

Her tight smile and too-chipper voice are pretty good indications she’s lying through her teeth. I give her hand a gentle shake. “Tell me the truth.”

“Fidelity was…not Will’s strong suit. He and Lana…”

Add being a cheating dickwad to the myriad reasons Will Chase is tied for first place on my personal shit list. The humiliation contorting Erin’s face makes me sorry I didn’t take her hint to drop it. I should’ve brought it up later, when we were alone.

“Okay, I get it. I’m sorry I asked you here. But don’t worry about Lana, okay? She’s not my type and even if she were, I’m not Will. I would never do that to you, I promise.”

She offers a wan smile. I wish I could take her in my lap and hold her until her insecurities drain away. Fucking dorms. There are a few stray guys hurrying across campus to make curfew but none nearby so I take a chance and lean down, brushing my lips by her ear. “I promise.”

Her smile in response is more vivid, but not as bright as I like to see. Tomorrow. I’ll fix it tomorrow. Before I can, though, I have a meeting with Headmaster Wilson.

Early the next morning while most of campus is sleeping off the night before, I rap on the door to the Headmaster’s office. His booming voice rumbles through the heavy paneled wood. “Come in, Mr. Shepherd.”

Mr. Shepherd? Have I done something wrong? Adolescent guilt squeezes my stomach but when I open the door, the Headmaster’s kicked back in his chair, his big hands folded across his midsection.

“Sorry, Shep. Force of habit. Have a seat. Coffee?”

“No. Thank you, sir.” I’m keyed up enough without caffeine. All I know is that I got an email earlier in the week saying he had some things he wanted to discuss with me. I’d be lying if it hasn’t been gnawing at the back of my brain for the past few days.

“I guess we’ll dive right in, then. First things first. You’re going to get an envelope in your faculty mailbox tomorrow morning offering you a permanent position here. If you’re willing, you’ll replace John Phelps in the math department and take over his coaching duties, too. It’s more responsibility than you’ve had as a fellow but it would be accompanied by a raise as well. I hope you’ll consider it.”

Consider it? Is he joking? “I don’t need to consider it, sir. I’m honored and I accept.”

It’s probably not the smartest idea to accept a job without reading the fine print, but to be honest I’d stay here if they stopped paying me altogether. As long as I’ve got a roof over my head, enough to eat, a job I love, and Erin, I’m good. I can’t wait to tell her. I love it when her face lights up because I’ve made her happy.

Headmaster Wilson smiles, satisfied. “Excellent. I’ll expect your signed contract handed in next week. And before you go enjoy your Sunday, there’s one more thing. I’ve been thinking about your brother.”

“Yes, sir.” I sit up straighter in the hard wooden chair, wondering if this is going to be good news or bad.

“Here’s the thing. I’m sure Caleb is a fine young man. You wouldn’t risk your reputation or that of the school’s by telling me that if the truth were otherwise. However…”

Shit. “However” is just a fancy word for “but.”

“However, I can’t in good conscience take him for next year. There have been a few knock-down, drag-out fights in Admissions already because we can’t take everyone. We’ve been flooded with applications this year. Up ten percent from last year, which is a wonderful problem to have. For everyone except all the qualified students we have to turn away.”

My jaw tightens, but that’s the only outward sign I give of how disappointed I am. I’d hoped this would be the year I could get Caleb out. I don’t know how much longer he can take living that life, in that house, without breaking and without becoming something he’s not. Angry, bitter, abusive. I’ll have to come up with another plan. Maybe go work at another school that’s not so competitive? Have him come live with me and send him to Hawthorn public schools? They’re way better than Shamokin. At least that would get him out of the house, away from our dad.

My desperate contingency planning is interrupted by more words coming out of Headmaster Wilson’s mouth. “There would be one way for us to skirt the rules, however.”

“How?”

“It’s a long shot and I’m not sure you’d want to take on the responsibility, but—”

“I would do anything.” Headmaster Wilson doesn’t have a complete picture of what my life was like before I came here, and I’m glad. No matter how often I tell myself my circumstances growing up were in no way my responsibility or fault, it’s something that nags at me with shame. Coming here was the best thing that ever happened to me. If I have a shot to do the same for Caleb… Well, there’s a very short list of things I wouldn’t do and I’m pretty sure Headmaster Wilson isn’t going to ask me to kill someone.

He nods at the ferocity in my tone and spreads his hands over the desk. “If you were to be named Caleb’s legal guardian, he would have the same privileges as any son of a faculty member. That would include no-questions-asked admission to the school, room and board covered. You’d have to pay for books and the rest, but—”

A crowbar of hope wrenches my heart wide open. There’s a way. Once Caleb gets here, he’ll be fine. He’ll never get straight As but he’ll make it worth the Headmaster’s while. I’ll make sure of it.

The bubble of ridiculous optimism is popped. My dad is never going to go for this. Never. It was bad enough having me come to this “faggot-assed school,” but no way is he going to, even on paper, give up custody of one of his kids to make that happen. Never. But goddamn if I’m not going to die trying.

“Thank you for letting me know, sir. I’ll get back to you when I’ve been in touch with my family. When do you need to know by?”

“The end of spring break would be best. It’s soon, but we’ll need to have a head count on acceptances sooner rather than later.”

“Of course. I’ll let you know as soon as possible. Thank you, sir. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

“I think I do. And you can stop calling me sir. You’re faculty now. Everett will do.”

“Yes, si— Yes. Thank you.” I can’t quite bring myself to call him Everett. It goes against years of hardwiring, but I suppose I should start. Especially if Erin and I are going to be together. They’re not Headmaster and Mrs. Wilson to her, but Uncle Rett and Aunt Tilly. A small smile slips over my face as I push out of the chair to go see her.

* * *

Erin

I’m woken by a heavy, warm weight sinking behind me on the mattress. I smile and lift my arm so he can curl around me before I wiggle my way against him.

“What’re you doing here? Did the—”

“No one saw me. It’s too early. But that means we should get up and go before anyone does wake up.”

The way he’s nuzzling my neck doesn’t make me want to get up. It makes me want to stay in bed forever. With him. Heaven. I roll over and pull closer, close enough to smell him—still that intoxicating mix of bar soap and skin. I can’t help but lick at his throat. I stifle a giggle as his body goes rigid under my attentions and a choked grunt escapes him. I could be imagining it through the sheets and the comforter and my pajama bottoms and his jeans, but I’m almost positive he’s hard for me.

I rock against him to see if I can tell for sure, but his hand fists in my hair and he holds me in place while he rolls away.

“You are temptation personified, but we’ve still got another week. Get in the shower and get dressed. I’ll get some breakfast from the dining hall and we’ll meet at my car in half an hour. Dress warm.”

I want to tell him I’d be warmer if I weren’t wearing anything at all, but I’ve promised myself I’ll be respectful of his wishes. His ridiculously frustrating wishes. But when he leans in to kiss my forehead, his hand still tightly wrapped in my hair, I soften. I want to please him. I want to be good for him.

“Yes, Zach.”

He groans and pulls my hair, hard, somehow also yanking on a yarn of desire running from my scalp to my…pussy. Yes, Erin, pussy. How are you going to say it out loud if you can barely think it without blushing?

He lets go, muttering something about obnoxious guys and goddamn dormitories, and stands, reaching into his jeans to adjust himself. I have to yank a pillow over my face to hide the rabid desire I have to watch him take himself in hand and…

The pillow is tugged off my face. “Come on, lamb. Up you get. I’ll see you in a little bit. Don’t be late.”

Thirty minutes later I’m climbing into his Volvo, where he’s waiting with a lemon poppy-seed muffin, a banana, and two coffees. “What are you going to eat?”

“I ate in the dining hall. I’m not going to eat while I’m driving.”

So cautious. But it somehow seems like self-control instead of Will’s mincing worries. And the crumpled empty bag of potato chips at my feet says, I’m not going to eat while I’m driving with you.

When I’ve buckled my seatbelt, he pulls smoothly out of the space and onto the narrow drive headed away from the dorms, away from campus, away from the boys. His car smells like him and it’s like being surrounded by Shep.

“Aren’t you going to ask where we’re going?”

I lift a shoulder. “I guess I thought if you wanted me to know you’d tell me.”

His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, and there’s a tiny shake of his head. “You make me want to pull over to the side of the road and…”

“And what?”

“Never you mind.” He stares at the drive ahead and turns onto a town road. “I had a talk with Headmaster Wilson this morning.”

“About me?” The self-absorbed words spring from me before I can help them, but the corner of his mouth curls up in a smirk.

“No. Why, was I supposed to ask his permission to date you?”

“Of course not.” Although if he were to ask anyone permission for anything, it would be Uncle Rett. “Then what?”

His smile gets bigger and he shifts in the seat. “He offered me a permanent faculty position. I’d take over John Phelps’s class load and his coaching roles, too.”

I feel like fireworks are going off in my chest. Shep is a great teacher and maybe even a better coach. I would’ve been shocked if the school hadn’t wanted him to stay but it’s wonderful to have confirmation. Though I’d rather throw myself into his arms for a congratulatory hug, he’s driving so I settle for an overly enthusiastic round of applause before something occurs to me. “And did you— Are you—”

“Going to accept? Of course I am.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like there’s no question in his mind that this is the future he wants: being at Hawthorn and by some exceedingly egotistical overreach on my part, being with me. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. Then his expression grows a little sheepish. “Actually, I already did. Without even reading the offer. I need to work on my negotiating skills.”

He’s embarrassed but I’m thrilled. He didn’t even need to think about it. “Congratulations. I’m not surprised, but I’m so happy for you. And for us.”

I scold myself. This isn’t about me, it’s about him and I couldn’t be prouder. But he doesn’t seem to mind my selfish delight, flashing me the most brilliant smile I’ve ever seen on his face. It makes me melt.

“Me too, lamb.”

He turns back to the road and his grin fades. Not that I’d expect him to throw a ticker-tape parade or anything—he’s never been that guy—but I thought he’d let himself enjoy it for a little longer. Unless… “Was there something else?”

He swallows, his jaw tightening convulsively. “Yeah. He wanted to talk to me about Caleb.”

“What about Caleb?”

He tells me about their conversation and I wonder for the millionth time exactly how bad Shep’s childhood was. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to ask my parents. I promised Caleb he could come up during spring break if he got his grades up and he did, so I’ll be driving down to get him in a few weeks. There’s no way in hell they’re going to say yes.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, lamb. But I appreciate the offer. I do.” He reaches over and squeezes my knee before pulling out onto the highway.

In the end, Shep takes me to Portsmouth and we walk around the seaside town, holding hands and stealing kisses between ducking into shops to warm up and look at pretty things I see in windows in this place where no one knows us. He asks me about how I grew up when I wasn’t on the Hill.

“My dad hated it here. It bred this insatiable wanderlust in him, so he pretty much arranged his life to be skipping around as much as possible. His attraction to all things transitory resulted in a brief marriage to my mom, who pretty much took off once I was born. I don’t remember her at all. He never talked about her. I give him a lot of credit for raising me, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do, but it made him angry that I craved this life instead of the one he’d built for us. When Will and I got married, because of the baby—”

I stop in my tracks. Shep was a student when that was going down. While there was epic amounts of gossip about it, I’m not sure he knows the truth.

“You know I married Will because…” My stomach churns. Because I got pregnant from having ill-advised sex with someone I didn’t love, and then refused to get rid of the result.

“I know, Erin. I knew. Not at first. Which is why I was such a fucking asshole to you. But then I did. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need for you to be sorry. I was pretty mad at myself. Anyway, my dad pretty much stopped speaking to me after that. I think he figured I’d come to my senses in a few years, go to grad school, maybe get my MBA and leave. Instead I literally wedded myself to the Hill.”

My throat is getting tight, thinking of the terse, barely congratulatory email I’d gotten three weeks after I left him a voice mail telling him I’d gotten married. And the eager phone call after I’d let him know about the miscarriage. He’d been so excited, thinking I’d change my mind and leave. Then there was the stern disappointment when I told him I’d be staying right where I was. You can’t give up on something when it doesn’t go your way. Except that’s what he’s done his whole life, what he’s done with me as well. I don’t remember the last time I heard from him.

“It doesn’t matter. Rett and Tilly are pretty much my family.”

Shep’s arm snakes around my waist over the puffy down of my parka. He pulls me close so my mittened hands are resting on his chest. When he tugs at one of the braided ties hanging from the earflap of my hat, I look at him. “I can be your family, too. No matter what you want.”

The tears come to my eyes in a flood and I try so, so hard to blink them back. Despite my best efforts, a few stream down my cheeks and he takes off a glove and wipes them away with his warm, broad thumb. Then, then he kisses me, his mouth hot and easy on mine, not demanding, but giving, offering. I can be your family. I can be yours.

I answer with a parting of my lips, inviting him in, asking him to take from me because I want to give him everything he’s given to me with those small words.

Chapter 18

Erin

Long winter weekend is here at long last and the dorm is distinctly empty. It’s time.

“Take off your shoes.”

I toe off my loafers and stare down at my bare feet, not knowing what to do with my hands. I settle for clenching them in my skirt, but Shep tuts at me. “Hands straight by your sides.”

My chest heaves as I find the will to loosen them and do as he’s asked. I’ve left crescents of red from my nails indenting my palms, and though the apartment is warm, I’m shaking.

“You’re all right Erin. You look so beautiful and I’m so pleased with you. When it’s done, you’re going to come sit with me. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Zach.”

“That’s what I thought. So be a good girl and take off your sweater.”

I have a hard time unbuttoning my cardigan, trembling as I am, but when I’ve gotten it undone and slid it off my shoulders and dropped it on the chair, I stand straight as he showed me and put my hands, open, to my sides. My reward is a smile that sends puffs of warmth through my body.

“Your shirt.”

My fingers are less than dexterous and I huff in frustration as the last button defies my efforts.

“Take a deep breath. There’s no rush.”

Easy for him to say, sitting on my couch, not stripping down naked.

“Skirt.”

The zipper is more forgiving of my jitters and suddenly I’m left in my bra and underwear—the nicest ones I have, the only ones that match.

“Come here.”

I take a step but he tuts at me again, making me at once ashamed for not being able to please him but also so hot for him. Scold me, correct me, teach me. Tell me how to please you. Please.

“On your knees.”

My mouth opens and my eyelids flutter. Like, crawl? For real? The idea is at once the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard but also humiliating. Crawl?

“Hey. Look at me.”

He’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.

“You don’t have to if you really don’t want to. Safe out and I won’t ask you again. But tell me something first. Do you actually not want to do this or do you think you shouldn’t want to?”

I consider, standing there in this pretty lingerie, worrying the corner of my lip with my teeth. “B.”

The letter is so quiet I’d be surprised if he heard it. But every particle of him that isn’t devoted to the business of being alive is focused on me. Whether he’s read my lips or he has the ears of an owl, he knows what I’ve said and his mouth widens ever so slightly.

“If that’s true, could you try it for me? I want to touch you.”

“Yes, Zach.”

He leans back, satisfied, draping an arm over the back of the couch. The sight of him, belonging here and me belonging to him, it fills my heart, crowding out some of the nervousness. I drop first one knee and then the other to the rug, hands resting on the tops of my thighs before I reach them forward, spreading my fingers and pressing my palms into the floor. I don’t remember the last time I was on my hands and knees. It takes me a few seconds to get the points of contact my body has with the floor and my spine into the proper alignment.

When I’ve found it, I wiggle my hips to confirm and Shep laughs, a garbled chuckle smothered somewhere in his throat. “You’re going to be the death of me, I swear.”

More of the anxiety is nudged away and I smile, a blush warming my cheeks. A small noise from him follows, definitely not a laugh, and his fingers tighten on the back of the couch. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and that’s his to me. I lift one palm from the floor and place it gingerly in front of me, redistributing my weight. I do the same with my opposite knee and the pattern continues until I’m at his feet. His hand is in front of my face, resting next to his thigh, and I give in to my urge to kiss the back of it, my tongue circling a knuckle.

Another small noise encourages the beginning of another circle, but I’m stopped by his hand fisting in my hair tight against my skull. My mouth falls open in a mewl.

“Did I say you could touch?”

“No, Zach.”

“Then don’t touch. That’s your warning. Next time, you’ll be punished. Understood?”

“Yes, Zach.”

The rules. There aren’t many, yet, but that’s one of them. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten already. I’m in for a long night.

His grip loosens and he tugs gently. “I said you could sit with me and now you may.”

I climb onto his lap and clutch my hands in front of me, my whole body rigid. He hasn’t said I can touch him yet, and I don’t want to get in trouble again.

He strokes my back, his hand warm against my spine. “Good girl, waiting for permission. Now you can touch.”

I don’t hesitate, throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his neck. His arms circle my ribcage and he holds me tight against him, rocking me.

“You’re shaking, lamb. Am I being too rough with you? Do you want to stop?”

“No!” I clutch him tighter and the vibration of his laugh echoes in my chest.

“All right, we won’t stop. But I’m going to keep you here for a few minutes, okay?”

I nod my agreement into his neck and my hold on him slackens as he returns to making loops on my back. My tremors stop, and my breath comes easier. He calls to this nervous part of me, the bit I keep tucked away, not daring to show anyone how deeply ill at ease I am being let loose on this earth without more guidance. But I don’t have to hide it anymore. Shep doesn’t think this is a pathetic weakness to be exploited. It’s something to be treasured, soothed, enjoyed.

When my breath has slowed to its normal rhythm and I nuzzle at his jaw, he grasps the back of my neck. I lengthen it to give him a better grip.

“Are you ready to keep going?”

“Yes, Zach.”

I lean back and look him in the eyes. The same blue eyes I remember almost tripping myself over four years ago. But his face is different than it was. He’s had to hoe a hard path and I want to make something easy, pleasant for him. His hand from my neck has slipped to cup my face and he strokes my cheek with his thumb.

“I never thought I’d get to do this. You married Will and I—” A tremor runs through me, same as it always does when I think of Will.

Shep hushes me. “I’m sorry, we won’t talk about him. I just wanted to tell you how…” His eyes look off to some faraway place. It’s not surprising two math teachers would fumble their way through words. But I’m hanging on each awkward syllable. “Blessed I feel to be holding you. I could be content with this.”

Blessed. Shep’s about as religious as I am, which is not at all, and though it’s not quite the right word, it’s the exact sentiment I would use. “Fortunate” doesn’t cut it. “You don’t have to be.”

Lust explodes behind his eyes, dilating his pupils, and he urges my head toward his. We kiss, and he lets me take the lead, showing him what I want. Slow and languorous with teasing bites and closed-mouth flirtings before encouraging more with a lick of his lower lip and a firm bite that makes him groan and claim my mouth with his tongue.

I’m crushed in his arms, at his mercy as he plunders my mouth, our tongues tangling and stroking. After several minutes of being ravished, I’m squirming, grinding my hips into his lap, rubbing against his hardness, which makes me want him more.

He scoops me up and I remember when he carried me on that awful day. This is so much better, though the safe, cared-for sensation is the same. He carries me down the hall to my room and lays me on my made bed, standing back to take me in. The look on his face… He could be looking at the most precious work of art, a priceless masterpiece. I flush from hair to chest under the intensity of his gaze. So this is what they mean when they say “worship.” I’d always thought that was a fiction, a fantasy, but he’s in front of me right now. I hope my eyes on him are making him feel the same.

* * *

Shep

Erin’s hair is splashed over her pillow and her cheeks have pinked to that rosy shade I love. The same shade I will be making her ass in the not-so-distant future. But for tonight, I’ll treat her with kid gloves, make her feel good. Earn her trust as she’s earned mine.

I hope she can’t tell my heart is pounding a mile a fucking minute, trying to beat its way out of my chest. Whatever adolescence I have left in me is giving a war whoop at the idea of finally getting to fuck a girl. While most of me is staidly thinking, No, you’re going to make love to your girlfriend who you’ve loved since the day you saw her, a horny eighteen-year-old who didn’t know I’d make him wait Four. Fucking. Years for this is screaming, Aw, hell yeah, man! and I let him, because goddamn.

She’s all soft and eager. I want so badly to be allowed into her warmth. An intimacy I’ve earned. And it’s not because of what she thinks she knows about me. Sure, we’d done the infatuation thing, but we’ve laid our cards on the table and what’s left is something that makes my heart steady.

I cup her face in my hand again. She likes that, it settles her, and she leans into me, closing her eyes. I run my fingers down her neck and over her chest, stopping to unclasp her bra to let her breasts spill out, as creamy and welcoming as the rest of her, her dark pink nipples already hard. I dip my head to take one in my mouth, licking around her areola before tonguing the hard tip, testing the texture and the taste of her. When I suck, she gasps. Her hands come to the back of my head, her short fingernails dig into my scalp.

My eyes fly to her face to make sure I haven’t hurt her, but no. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is slack. I suck harder and she mewls, surprised but not protesting. I take more of her breast in my mouth, tonguing all the skin and scraping my teeth down to the tip of her nipple, where I bite and she squeals.

“Too hard?”

“Ye— No. But I don’t… Oh, don’t stop, please.”

I don’t want to laugh so I focus my attention on her other breast, repeating the same motions. Don’t want to play favorites, after all. But when she’s expecting me to bite, I take her other nipple between my thumb and forefinger knuckle and twist, eliciting another squeal before I bite down. That earns me a groan. Maybe I’ll get her so worked up it won’t matter when I only last for a couple of minutes from being in her pussy.

Oh Christ, cannot think of her pussy. My dick’s already straining at the fly of my pants. Too much more, and I won’t last long enough to get inside her at all. I start running lacrosse plays in my head to distract myself but it barely takes the edge off, especially with those breathy moans she’s making.

I spend a few more minutes on her breasts, teasing, studying, savoring. If anyone had told me that first day I’d be here doing this now? I would’ve come in my pants. As it is…

I kiss down the plane of her stomach, downy and soft, loving the small swell of her belly even when she’s lying down. I bet if asked, she’d be embarrassed by it, but to me it makes her precious, perfect. No one manufactured this body underneath me. Especially not the small star-shaped birthmark by her belly button. I lay a kiss on it before I urge her hips up and peel her panties over her ass, down her legs, discarding them on the floor.

Someday I’ll tie her up, have her facedown with her arms bound behind her back and a gag muffling her moans of pleasure. But for today, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than the naked girl in front of me. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a woman who hasn’t groomed her pubic hair before, so I reach out to tug the curls between her legs. I’ll have her wax or shave to see if she likes how it feels, but I don’t care if she prefers it this way. My natural, genuine girl.

Even from here, there’s heat pouring out of her. When I ease my fingers inside, she’s going to be soaking wet.

“Let me in, Erin.”

She spreads her legs a few inches and I slap her thigh lightly. “More.”

She whimpers, probably embarrassed. I doubt Will said many nice things about her body. So I stroke the thigh I tapped, telling her how beautiful she is, how much I want her. When she’s squirming under my hands she lets her legs fall farther open, and I ease a finger between her folds. She’s so wet, and I use the moisture to slick over her clit.

It’s at once exactly how I thought it would be and not at all. I start out gentle, exploring, a light touch that makes her hips rock, and then pressing harder, grinding against the sensitive flesh—

“Too much! Oh, too much.”

Her hand’s clamped over mine and her eyes have flown open. Shit. I’ve fucked this up.

I ease up on my touch, returning to the gentler strokes that had her squirming earlier, and chide her. “Did I say you could touch?”

She yanks her hand away as if from a burner she didn’t realize was on, and softens back into submission. “No, Zach.”

“I gave you a warning, and you disobeyed. You’ve earned yourself your first punishment.”

“Now?”

I choke on the laugh fighting its way out of my throat at the desperation making her voice high-pitched and reedy. “No. I’m not finished playing with you. We’ll take care of your accounting later.”

The idea of tallying up Erin’s daily faults and flaws and meting out punishment makes me harder than I could have thought possible. If I don’t get some relief, I wouldn’t be surprised if my pants pulled an Incredible Hulk around this incredible hard-on, made worse by her top teeth sinking into her bottom lip and her nipples gathering without me touching them. She’s as turned on as I am by the idea.

She’s settled into my touch and I take the opportunity to pinch her clit, dragging another squeal from her, but the pitch and urgency are different. Maybe she likes it. I tug, and instead of a wordless squeal, I get an “Oh, god, Shep.” Her hands ball into fists by her sides to keep from touching me.

“Good girl.” I pinch harder for a split second before I let her go, stroking again. Her chest is heaving. File that away under things that make Erin crazy. I let her come back down before I try something else, flicking at her with a fingernail. She yelps. Ah, something to be endured, but she doesn’t tell me to stop. Not at first. I try it again and she controls her response better but her breath is hard and fast. Again, again, I flick at the slick nub and after a dozen times, she whimpers. “Please, Zach. No more, please.”

“Are you going to come?”

“I, I don’t know. I— Oh, please!”

“Please what?” Making her come like this wasn’t in my plans, but if I can, so much the better. I flick harder to emphasize my demand. “Please what?”

“I, I…”

I flick at her harder and she yelps again. My dick pulses, harder when she moves to close her legs.

I close my hand with a vise grip on her thigh, pushing it farther out than it was before, and the blood in my cock surges. I love it when she obeys, but goddamn is it fun when she can’t. “Don’t you dare. I say when we’re finished, and you’re not done yet. You’re going to come for me like this.”

She moans and halfheartedly thrashes as I pick up the pace, tormenting her most sensitive place. I pinch her again, using my nails this time, and then take a chance and twist hard. The sound she makes is primal, lungfuls of lust coming to a head, making her whole body convulse, her head pressing hard into the pillow. I release her clit, stroking with a finger, wringing every last aftershock out of her until she’s lying limp in front of me, a flushed, giddy puddle.

“Please, Zach. Please stop. After, it’s too sensitive. I can’t. Please.”

Someday I’ll force half a dozen more orgasms out of her for saying she can’t, but for now, I’ll let her off the hook. I slick my fingers over her one last time and take them in my mouth, tasting her. Maybe not my best-laid plan. It makes me want to bury my head between her legs and make her come until she cries.

I lie down next to her and fold her warm body against mine. She’s trembling, so sensitive. I hold her tight against me, tucking her head under my chin and draping a leg behind her thighs and pulling her close. She likes that sensation of containment, of being held still. I can’t wait to get her into some serious bondage.

When she’s settled, she pulls back a little. Her big brown eyes blink up at me and she smiles. The corner of my mouth nudges up in return. I fucking adore this girl. I brush my knuckles over her cheek and study the uneven flush that creeps all the way down to her breasts.

“Did you like that?”

“‘Like’ is an inadequate word. When you were… I didn’t think I liked it at all, but when you kept going and it… Oh, god.” She buries her head into my chest and the sweet scent wafting up from her hair makes me inhale deeply. I want more of everything about her.

Pride rushes through me, and relief. If everything else goes to hell at least I made her come like a bottle rocket. Speaking of, my dick is so hard every time she brushes against me I swear it’s bruising. At one particularly aggressive rub of her hip, I groan. I’ve been turned on at the club before, but it was easy to get distracted by work. Here there’s not that luxury. It’s just Erin’s body curled against me, as pink and willing as I’d ever pictured it.

I don’t want to shove my dick in her and pump the three strokes it’s going to take me to come. Okay, I kind of do, but not more than I want to make her happy, make this good for her. It would be really fucking awesome to acquit myself with some dignity instead of splooging in her after less than a minute like some fucking adolescent who can’t control his own cock.

I squeeze her again before loosening my grip. “Undress me.”

Her eyes light up like a girl who’s never won anything before being handed the keys to a brand new car. She comes to her knees beside me and I lace my fingers behind my head so I don’t touch her while she works. But when she leans over to unbutton my shirt, her soft breasts brushing against my chest, and she gives me that saucy innocent look that looks so well on her, I’m a split second away from indignity. And as she swings a leg over my hips to straddle me and brushes her pussy I know to be sopping wet, with heat I can feel on my dick through my pants, the hair trigger that’s been cocked for the last half hour snaps. I come, my release shooting through me.

Shit. I was worried about three strokes and now I’ve blown my load without even one. For fuck’s sake.

* * *

Erin

Shep’s scrubbing his broad hands over his face, into his hair, and cursing prolifically under his breath. Wow, does he know a lot of bad words. I think— I think he… Oh, dear. I lay a hand gingerly on his chest but he doesn’t scold me.

“Zach?”

“Get off me, Erin.”

His tone is sharp, stabbing into the place he’s laid bare. I slink off of him and across the bed. I curl up, hugging my knees to my chest, my ankles crossed so he can’t see every part of me. Not that he’s looking. He’s pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and a steady stream of what I’ll assume is still cursing is hissing from between his lips. A dark spot on the front of his pants confirms my suspicions.

Tears bubble up and my chin starts to tremble. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want him to snap again, but I need to know he’s not going to leave, that I haven’t ruined everything.

“Shep? Are you— Are you angry at me?” My voice is choked with tears and I hug my legs on the last word when I can’t keep my voice from cracking.

An audible “Fuck me” escapes him, an epithet of disappointment, and I burst into tears. Seconds later, he’s pulling me into his lap and petting my hair.

“Don’t cry, Erin, please. I’m sorry.”

He’s sorry?

“I’m not angry at you. I couldn’t be further from angry at you.”

“But you sn-snapped at me.” My horrible, halting sobs make me stutter and I fight to get control of my breath.

“That was unfair. I apologize. I’ll do my best, but I’m not going to be perfect all the time. I’m angry at myself, not you. Do you understand me?”

“No.”

He laughs, a short incredulous sound. “Erin.”

It’s his commanding tone and I respond to it like I always do, looking up at him. His face is flushed but with amusement, not anger. “Are you serious?”

Now I feel foolish. “Yes?”

He hugs me so tight I can’t breathe.

“Most women wouldn’t be thrilled when their boyfriend comes in his pants.”

I tip my head in consideration. Yeah, okay, I can see that, but… “Am I supposed to be anything but flattered that I turn you on that much?”

“No, lamb. But one of the things I’ve promised you is control. If I can’t control myself long enough to have you take my clothes off, how are you supposed to trust me to take care of you, too?”

A giggle escapes me. “You’re twenty-two. You’re hot and smart and an athlete. You worked at a kink club. I can’t imagine women haven’t been throwing themselves at you all that time. And yet, here you are, never having slept with any of them. If that’s not self-control, I don’t know what is.”

Another laugh. “Yeah, okay. You’re the sweetest little thing, you know that?”

He kisses my temple and I turn my head to offer him my lips. He accepts, pressing his mouth to mine. It doesn’t take long before he’s hard against my hip and I smile against his mouth.

“Can we try again?”

It’s forward of me, but he’s not being strict at the moment. He nudges me off his lap and stands. “I’ll be right back.”

He’s gone for five minutes, during which I hear the shower turn on and off. Anticipation winds like a ball of yarn in my belly, the scratchy string of excitement snapping when he comes back to my room in a towel and nothing else.

Oh, my. Droplets of water are beaded in his hair and on his shoulders. There are probably more on his back, the places you miss when you’re drying yourself. If he was tempting four years ago, he’s mouth-watering now. Of course I never saw this much of his skin then. The way it clings to the fine planes of his muscles and the veins that stand out on his forearms even in rest is drool-inducing. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my whole life. Seriously, how did he avoid getting laid?

When he drops the towel, I’m really not sure.

“Lie back, hands off.”

“Yes, Zach.”

I ease myself onto my pillows, not taking my eyes off him. He climbs onto the bed, looking me up and down, and his cock jerks. I may be the one following orders, but oh, my, this is a heady sensation.

He straddles my thighs and sits back on his heels. “Condoms?”

“Top drawer.” I indicate the nightstand on the left with my head.

He leans over and the freshly washed warmth of him starts me pining for him. He’s ripped the foil packet and is rolling the latex down his length, and then he’s ready. Hovering over me, his eyes scrape over me again and he reaches between my thighs, urging my legs to part. His finger slips inside of me and I moan. To have something inside me…

There’s a strangled sound from above me, and his face is taught with strain. “Are you ready for me? I don’t want to hurt—”

“Yes.” I’ve been ready for him for years and I can’t wait to have his body joined to mine.

He doesn’t hesitate, moving first one leg and then the other between my thighs, and then he’s bumping at my entrance. The angle is weird and though I’m soaked for him, he’s having trouble penetrating me.

“Spread yourself for me.” His voice is rough, raw. My hands move lightning fast, not bothering to be self-conscious, spreading my lips and angling my pelvis to give him better access. I watch as he grips the base of his cock and directs himself to my opening, finding the way our pieces fit together. When the head breaches me, I moan and he claps a hand over my mouth. “Pinch me if I hurt you, if you want me to stop, but I can’t…”

He trails off, his eyes closing. I can see him fighting against the building tension. I don’t mind him gripping my jaw, hard. It’s possible I more than don’t mind it, have to keep from flexing my interior muscles, because that would surely set him off. He inches into me, slowly, torturously, pausing so often I want to scream. Instead I stay still, not daring to breathe, staring at him, his eyes shut so tight he must be seeing stars behind his lids. My hands are clenched tight in the bedclothes at my sides so I don’t reach for him, but my body wants so badly to be closer to him even my nipples are hard and straining toward him.

When he’s finished his slow but steady assault, he shudders and I panic. I only care because I don’t want him to berate himself again, but there’s no pulse of a male orgasm inside me. No self-control, my butt. This man is the definition of self-control.

He pulls out a few inches, sucking a breath into his lungs as he does, and then slides in again. I mewl and his eyes fly open. I don’t want him to stop, please don’t stop, so I nod as well as I can behind his palm, willing him to know I’m okay. His eyes bore into mine and he smiles before kissing my forehead. He withdraws again and my whimper of protest is silenced by a hard thrust. Holy sweet hell.

He finds his pacing and though it’s faster than I’d like, I catch up quick, tilting my hips in time to meet him. He’s asked me to stay still but I can’t anymore. I don’t care about punishment. I want to be…fucked. Yes, fucked. My fingers rip out of the sheets and I find his shoulder blades, gripping him, grasping him as he pumps at me.

It hasn’t been long, nor technically brilliant, but I’ve been waiting for this for so long, I don’t need more. I plead with him through the fingers muzzling me, my pleas coming desperate and fast. Though they’re garbled, he doesn’t need translation, saying: “Yes, Erin, come for me.”

I buck underneath him, making the last few contacts with my clit I need to come. I explode, clutching him closer as my orgasm rips through me. He follows not far behind, his body jack-knifing above me and in his convulsions, he head-butts me. I’ve bitten my tongue and tears well in my eyes at the impact but I’m laughing, too. And still enduring the aftershocks of my climax. It’s an overload to my systems and the act of breathing is about all I can handle, made difficult by Shep’s heavy body collapsed on mine.

I nudge at him with my shoulder and run my fingers down the few square inches of skin I can reach, pinned as I am. He doesn’t respond and I squirm more emphatically to get his attention.

* * *

Shep

My brain has gone blank, white-washed with pleasure. I knew I’d been missing something, but I never expected the heat of her surrounding me, the thrust of her hips because she wanted more of me inside of her. It’ll get better, too, when we can ditch the condoms, but for now I’m grateful for the thin layer. It will let me practice and not embarrass myself quite so much next time. The creep of shame hauls me back over the edge. Fuck.

Erin’s struggling underneath me. I must be crushing her. I rip my hand away from her mouth. How could I have been so thoughtless? She must think I’m an animal. And I… Ow, my forehead hurts. I have this vague recollection that I clocked her. Real suave, Shepherd. For fuck’s sake. Poor Erin.

I pull back to see her face and she’s pink-cheeked and laughing. Beautiful. I put some of my weight into my arms, not wanting to pull out quite yet, enjoying being buried in her warmth. I brush some hair out of her face and I can’t help but kiss her. When I do, there’s the faint tang of blood. Blood? Did I do that? I don’t think I bit her, but Christ—

“Are you okay?”

She nods and smiles. “I just, I bit my tongue when you—”

“When I head-butted you?”

Her smile dissolves into giggles and her pussy tightens around my dick. Okay, I need to get out of her before I shag her raw.

I pull out, making sure the condom stays on as I do until I can get rid of it. Cleaned up, I want to set on her all over again, laying there mussed. God, she’s pretty. Despite the epic failure of my first time—who head-butts the girl they’re having sex with? That’s so much worse than a rookie mistake—she seems pleased. I lie down next to her, pull her in close and draw a blanket from the foot of the bed over us. The heat of the moment is draining out of our bodies and I don’t want her to be cold.

“I am so sorry, Erin.”

“For what?”

“That couldn’t have been awesome for you and then I— Oh, god…”

Head-butt. If we were in college and Erin was the type to kiss and tell, that would be my nickname. Forever. The great virgin head-butter. This is going to give me nightmares.

“You’re too hard on yourself, Shep. I don’t know many guys who can say they made their partner come the first time they had sex, so kudos to you. I’ll think of you fondly every time I see the egg on my forehead. I hope it goes down by the time the boys get back though. I don’t want to explain how I got it, especially if you’ve got a mirror image one.”

“You little brat.” I seize the opportunity to tickle her, making her laugh until tears are squeezing out of the corners of her eyes and she’s begging me to stop, breathless. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to do as she’s asked, but she’s probably close to crashing. It’s been a stressful day for her. Tiredness is overtaking me as well, so I rearrange the blanket over us, wrap my limbs around her until she’s snug against me and tell her to go to sleep.

Her whispered “Yes, Zach,” gives my dick ideas all over again, but my brain has better sense and holds off long enough for us to fall asleep.

When I wake, the sun is setting. Erin is still slumbering in my arms, her thumb tucked in her mouth and it pulls at something in me. She needs safety, security, so badly and I want so much to be the man to give that to her. I hope the form I can offer it in is what she wants, what she needs. She thinks she wants this and so far everything’s been great, but what if she can’t, if what I want is too much for her?

My thoughts are bleak and a chill runs through me despite having this lovely girl putting off a sweet-smelling heat in my arms. I can’t think about that. I should focus on everything that’s gone right. And what I’d like to do to her next. My dick perks at the thought. Oh yes, what am I going to do to her next? She is due for punishment, after all.

Touching without permission, one of the rules I love when she breaks. But no matter if I don’t mind. She’s broken the rules and she’ll pay the price. Perhaps a basic, solid hand spanking. I’d love to get my palm good and ringing from making that round little ass the same shade as her cheeks when she’s embarrassed. Spanking’s not too scary. She might even laugh when I suggest it, but she won’t be laughing when I’m finished. Hand spanking it is.

It’s getting late and she needs to eat before I put her through her paces again, so though I’d like to keep her tucked against me for the foreseeable future, I rub her forehead with my nose. “Wake up, lamb.”

Her thumb is dragged out of her mouth, making a soft popping sound on exit, even before her eyes open. When they do, they’re soft and unfocused with leftover sleep. Seeing me, her perfect bow mouth curls up into a smile. I want to wake up to that adoring gaze every day for the rest of my life. Hope swells in me that I’m not wrong about her, that those tics and habits I’ve picked up on are but the surface of a genuinely submissive personality.

She snuggles against me, finding any space between us and closing the gaps, leaving no room for the proverbial Holy Ghost. Good thing neither of us are Catholic.

“It’s time to get up. It’s time for dinner and we need to take care of your accounting before bed. House rules.”

Her mouth opens, maybe to protest, but she thinks better of it and snaps it shut. “Yes, Zach.”

“That’s a good girl,” I say, pleased, and she glows.

Chapter 19

Erin

It’s spring break and the last several weeks have been bliss. Shep traded his night off with Dan so we have two weeknights together instead of one. Even though we have to say good-bye at the end of the night, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me to be able to spend so much time with him. I’m going to miss him next week when he heads down to Florida with the lacrosse team. This week, I’m a mix of thrilled and terrified.

Caleb is coming.

I’m excited to meet Shep’s brother. I’ve seen pictures and Shep’s told me all about him, but I can’t wait to see him in person. Mini-Shep! Though I know he’s nothing like Shep, I’ll go digging for ways in which they’re the same because they must be there. I was worried Caleb might not like me, competition for his big brother’s affections, but Shep had eased my fears one night while we were watching a movie on my couch.

“You want to know the secret to winning Caleb’s heart?”

I’d nodded, vigorously. Yes, yes I would.

“You bake that kid a batch of your cookies and he’ll be eating them out of the palm of your hand.”

What? “Cookies?”

“Yup.”

“Cookies is all it takes? Man, you Shepherd boys are easy.”

“You’ll have us both on our knees.”

I’d laughed at the idea of Shep on his knees. He’s done it twice and I hope to see him do it once more. Some day. Otherwise, I much prefer to be the one begging.

“I can do cookies.”

And I have. Half a dozen batches of three different kinds. I needed to do something while I was waiting for them to get back from Shamokin. Shep left crazy early this morning for the six-hour drive. They’ll stay for lunch and then make the six-hour drive back. He’s going to bring Caleb straight to my apartment because I’m cooking dinner. Shep had told me I didn’t have to. “He’ll be just as excited about delivery pizza, Erin, I promise. Maybe more.”

But no. If he’d like cookies, he’s going to love meatloaf. I hope.

I check the clock for the zillionth time. Seven-thirty. They should be here any minute. I pace my hall. Is there anything I forgot? I reserved a bunch of museum passes from the library and I’d been heartbroken to learn Major League Baseball doesn’t start until April. When there’s a knock at my door, I almost expire from nerves. They’re here.

I call “Come in” from halfway down the hall and by the time I’ve reached the door, they’re inside, setting down a familiar duffel bag and an unfamiliar backpack by my door. Shep is his normal delicious self, a little road worn. Standing next to him, skinny and long-haired, is Caleb. They’ve got the same dark blue eyes, but Caleb’s hair is lighter and his features more delicate. Shep claps him on the shoulder. “Caleb, this is my girlfriend, Erin.”

Caleb holds out a hand that’s too big for his body. I should take it, but I can’t help myself. I hug him instead, flinging my arms around his scrawny neck, and I still have to come up on tiptoes. I panic when he goes stiff and unresponsive, but then his arms wrap around my ribs and he gives me a squeeze, quick and awkward. I take it the Shepherds aren’t much for hugs.

I let go and step back. “Hi, Caleb. Sorry, I’ve been waiting for you since your brother said you were coming. I’m glad you’re here.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. I cooked. I hope you like meatloaf.”

Shep ruffles his kid brother’s hair. “She usually makes me peanut butter and jelly, so this is a big deal.”

Did he have to say that? I mean, it’s true, but… Oh, no.

I run to the oven and when I open the door, smoke billows out. No! I open the windows, hoping the smoke alarms won’t go off. Nothing could possibly be more embarrassing. “Well, I tried to make you meatloaf.”

* * *

Shep

Poor Erin. Her sweet, crestfallen face. I bet she forgot all about setting a timer because she’s been so excited about Caleb coming. I told her this was too much but she was determined. Now she’s heartbroken and she might cry. I walk over to where she’s frantically trying to wave the smoke through an open window with a dishtowel.

“Hey.” She’s still flailing the damp cotton flag of defeat and her eyes are welling. I grab her above the elbows and she slumps, giving up. “It’s all right, lamb.”

“It’s not. I wanted to do something nice and now I’ve screwed everything up. Caleb’s going to think I’m an idiot.”

“No, love. He’s going to think you aren’t a very good cook and I’ll have to agree with him.”

She chokes a pathetic laugh and looks up. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I know how to make this all better.”

“You do?”

“Hey, Caleb.” He glances up from where he’s still standing at the door, toeing a too-worn sneaker into the welcome mat, dark eyes under hair that needs a cut. “How do you feel about cookies for dinner?”

“Cookies?”

“Yeah, just don’t tell Mom, okay?”

His face breaks out in a huge grin. “No problem. What kind of cookies?”

Just like that, the night is saved. Erin wipes her eyes and heads over to pick up a couple of plates piled high with her day’s work. “I made chocolate chip, pumpkin, and sugar cookies. I didn’t know what kind you’d like.”

Caleb’s eyes have gone the size of softballs at the sight of the feast before him. “Do you have any milk?”

“Of course.” She sets down the plates on the table and goes back to pour three glasses of milk. When she gets back, Caleb’s already thrown himself into a chair and is stuffing a sugar cookie into his mouth with one hand and picking up a chocolate chip with the other.

“God, Caleb. At least wait for a plate.”

But Erin’s not appalled by his terrible table manners. She looks delighted as she hands out plates for us to devour our dinner over.

* * *

Erin

It’s a good thing I made so many cookies. Caleb ate half of them. No wonder—he’s too skinny. One of my goals is to fatten him up while he’s here, even if I have to do it with takeout. I’m never going to cook anything again.

When I’m confident Caleb’s wolfed down enough cookies to feed a small village and they’ve told me about their trip, I excuse myself because along with forgetting to set a timer for the meatloaf, I also forgot to use the bathroom.

When I’m coming back, I hear them chatting from the hall. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help but slow down and listen to them. Their voices are so similar, but Shep’s is deeper, slower, tinged with knowing while Caleb’s is bright and fast, the not-quite-broken of a thirteen-year-old’s.

“I like her.”

“Good. Me, too.”

“I could tell.”

“Yeah? You an expert?”

“No. But I’m not clueless.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You told me she smelled like flowers.”

My heart melts at his insulted insistence. Shep’s told him about me? That I smelled like flowers?

“She does.”

“Yeah, but she smells like cookies, too. Cookies and flowers. You’re a lucky man.”

I clap my hands over my mouth to keep from laughing. It’s the same urge I get when any of the boys say something that adult that earnestly.

“I am.”

I can’t take any more; I’m going to die of happiness listening to them so I finish my trip down the hall, making my feet fall louder than I usually would. “Could I interest you boys in some Wii bowling?”

The rest of the week is a similar mix of disaster and wonderfulness. In all honesty, when Shep had told me Caleb was coming for the first week of spring break, I’d been peeved. That was supposed to be our week of decadence and debauchery before he had to leave for Florida, and his brother would definitely put the kibosh on all that.

But getting to know Caleb and seeing how happy he is to get some attention and affection, not to mention endless food, is something I’m more than willing to trade a week of frustration for. He horks it down like a kid who’s never quite had enough to eat. It occurs to me one night while he’s on thirds of over-cooked spaghetti, sauce from a jar, and meatballs from the freezer, that maybe he hasn’t. I knew Shep’s family didn’t have a lot of money, but maybe it was direr than I thought.

* * *

Shep

On the last night of Caleb’s visit, he’s passed out in a beat-up recliner I’d snagged at Goodwill and I’ve got Erin tucked under my arm on the couch.

“Have you talked to your dad again?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

She doesn’t sound optimistic and she shouldn’t. “He said no. Again. I’m glad I didn’t mention it to Caleb.”

“There must be something you could—”

“There’s not. Not unless I want to get involved in a big court case. I don’t have the money or the time or the inclination to drag my family through that.” By family I mean my mom and Caleb. Caleb’s always been sensitive to conflict. He wants everyone to get along. If he thought everyone was fighting because of him, he’d never forgive himself. Not to mention the harder I push, the more blowback there’s going to be, and it’s not going to fall on me.

I’ll be here on a manicured campus with my pretty girlfriend and a job I love, not thinking about whether the food is going to run out or if the lights are going to go off while my dad will be going ballistic on the people I was trying to protect.

“But—”

“Stop it, Erin. There are things at play here you don’t understand. Not because you aren’t smart enough, but because I don’t want you to. So let it go. He’ll be fine.”

I cross my fingers the words I’m saying are true. I need them to be true.

The next day when we tromp down to my car at the ass crack of dawn, Caleb bleary-eyed and still in pajamas with his duffel slung over his shoulder, it’s to find Erin propped against my car with a big smile plastered on her face and a fresh box of donuts.

“Thought you boys could use the company. It’s a long drive.”

I want to tell her to go home, get out of here. I don’t want her to see Shamokin. I don’t want her to meet my asshole father or my dishrag mother. She should mind her own fucking business. But I told her I would be her family and she’s trying to be mine. Trying to protect her blew up in my face already; I spent four months I didn’t have to without her. I may not be very bright, but I’m not a fool, either, so I swallow my objections and lean down to give her a kiss.

“Thanks, lamb. I’m glad you’re here.”

Caleb sleeps for most of the trip, his head resting on one of the three Tupperware containers of cookies Erin made for him. When he wakes up, they talk about books. Turns out when she’s not reading kinky smut, Erin likes YA. They compare notes on their favorites and she promises to send him The Maze Runner trilogy and Graceling.

I told her not to spoil him and she’s been respectful, but there’s no way I’m going to tell her not to send him books. Especially books he seems interested in reading, unlike whatever they’re trying to shove down their throats at school. The closer we get to home, the more uneasy I become. I hate coming back here and the duller and dingier everything gets the more I wish Erin weren’t here. She grew up on the Hill and in swank apartments and hotels all over the world. Shamokin is going to look gritty and gross by comparison. I don’t want it to rub off on her.

By the time I pull into the driveway of my parents’ rundown house, I’m aching not from the long drive but from tension. Every ounce of me is screaming, Get me out of here. The three of us linger in the car, no one in a huge hurry to walk up the cracked cement path to the front door. But then the storm door with the pane of cracked plastic bangs open, and there’s my mom.

She’s wearing a dress that’s at least ten years out of style, but it’s clean. It’s probably the nicest thing she has in her closet. There’s a recoil in my chest like I’ve been hit by the butt of a rifle. She dressed up for Erin. I’m thankful and horrified at once. I’m glad Erin wore a pair of jeans and a sweater, no jewelry. But she still looks unbearably clean and shiny against the backdrop of my childhood.

“Come on in, guys. Lunch is on the table.”

Caleb’s already climbing out of the back, slinging his bag over his shoulder and tucking his stash of cookies under his arm. I thread my fingers through Erin’s as we walk up to the house and when we reach the front door, I make introductions.

“Mom, this is Erin. Erin, this is my mom.”

Erin holds out a hand and offers a big smile, so genuine I want to squeeze her and then smother her with kisses. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Shepherd.”

“Oh,” my mom says, wiping her hand on the threadbare apron she’s tied around her waist, “Christy, please. There’s no ‘Mr.’ and ‘Mrs.’ around here. I hope you like potato salad.”

“I do.”

My mom ushers Erin into the house, asking about the drive down, and I follow behind, feeling like I’m on the wrong side of a tug-of-war. My mom brings us into the kitchen, where there’s a bowl of potato salad, one of coleslaw, a plate of corn fritters, and a Jell-O mold with mandarin oranges frozen in it set out on the table.

She went all-out. I wonder how pissed off my dad is about this. I get my answer when he staggers into the kitchen from the living room, where some talk show is blaring. He dumps himself into a chair at the table and spoons food onto a plate, spilling as he goes because his hand is unsteady. For fuck’s sake. At least let him be pass-out drunk instead of mean drunk.

“Doug, why don’t you let our guest help herself first?”

My dad blinks up at the four of us, still standing, as if he’d forgotten we were here.

“Siddown and help yerselves.”

We sit and pass the food around. Erin tucks in like it’s the most delicious food she’s ever had. That half-grateful, half-horrified feeling kicks in again. I can’t wait to get her out of here. She chats with my mom and tells her the food is really good. This is comfort, special-occasion food to me, but I don’t expect Erin to actually like it. She should be eating filet mignon and smelly cheese and things I don’t even know I don’t know about.

It’s been half an hour of awkwardness. We might get out of here unscathed, but that’s when my dad comes out of his food-consuming trance.

“So this’s yer girlfriend, Zach?”

Erin flinches the tiniest bit and I lay a hand on her thigh under the table. “Yeah, Dad.”

“She looks familiar.”

“I don’t know why, you’ve never met.” I’d made sure of it, steered my family away from any teachers or coaches or friends I could at graduation. It hadn’t been hard; only Caleb had wanted to be there. My mom had been awkward and intimidated, my dad angry and resentful. No, they haven’t met before.

He takes another bite of Jell-O. Maybe he’s let it drop. But then he looks up and points his fork at Erin.

“I remember you. Yer a teacher at Zach’s school.”

“I am.”

“No, you were.”

Erin blinks and I want to drag her out of here by the hair.

“This why you wanted to go back there, Zach? You could’ve been anything and you wanted to be a fucking teacher. Or, maybe, you wanted to fuck a teacher? S’that it?”

“It’s not like that.” I tighten my grip on Erin’s thigh and stare straight ahead, my voice quieter and less steady than I’d like it to be. A lifetime of my mother telling me, Stay out of it, Zach, it’s not your fight. Go to your room and don’t make it worse floods back to me.

“Yer not stupid, Zach. Or at least that’s what errybody’s always telling me. You never seemed that fucking smart to me. Specially not if you managed to get pussywhipped into going back to that school. You could’ve been something, done something, but look at you. And trynna drag Caleb into it. Shame on you. Here I was, thinking you went to a faggot school. You think I’m gonna let you take the only son I have left and turn him into a prissy-ass cocksucker like you? No fucking way.”

My mom’s been spluttering over herself, apologizing to Erin and trying to get my dad to shut up. I want to shove Erin out the door and haul my brother back to our room to wedge ourselves between the beds until the fighting stops. I knew this was a bad idea. I never should’ve let her come here. I’m trapped and I can’t protect her. I’m a kid again and I can’t even protect myself. My dad rages on but I barely hear him. I’m too busy trying to figure out how to crawl under this table. Then there’s the most surprising sound in the world.

“Mr. Shepherd, Zach is a really fine man. He’s a wonderful teacher and a great coach. The boys love him, and he works hard. Hawthorn is fortunate he came back.”

“You would say that, Mrs. Fucking Robinson. Were you fucking my son while he was yer student? I should have you arrested for statutory rape.”

He’s stumbled over the word “statutory.” For some reason that brings my blood to a boil but I’m frozen.

“Of course not. Zach and I, we never—”

“Is that why yer so hot to have Caleb come up there? Zach getting a little old for your tastes?”

“Stop. Stop. Stop it. Stop it.” The words are coming out of my mouth but not loud enough for anyone to hear them. I can’t believe I’m letting Erin fight this battle all by herself while I stare at the tablecloth with the faded stains my mom’s never quite been able to scrub out.

“Zach wants Caleb to come to Hawthorn for the same reason he wanted to come to Hawthorn. Because it’s the best boys’ school in the country. Having a diploma from there will open doors for him. Doors that won’t be open if he stays in Shamokin. He’ll get into a good college.”

“So he can be another fucking teacher?”

“Maybe. If he wants. Or maybe he’ll want to be a lawyer, or a stockbroker or an architect. But in the meantime, he’ll meet a lot of important people. He’ll get a really good education. And not for nothing, but he’ll always have as much food as he can eat. He won’t want for anything. Zach is in a position to give that to him.”

That’s when my dad loses it. He knocks his chair back from the table and leans over, meaty palms planted on either side of the half-empty bowl of coleslaw to yell in her face. “Get the fuck out of my house, you uppity little bitch. You come into my home, eat my food, fuck my son, and you have the nerve to say I can’t provide for my family? Fuck you, you fucking cunt.”

That shakes me out of my stupor enough to grab her hand. “Erin, come on. Let’s go.”

“Zach—”

“No, it’s not worth it. He’s never going to change his mind no matter what you say. Or what I say. I can’t take this anymore. Please, let’s go.”

The stubborn set of her chin and the fire in her big brown eyes tells me she’s ready to go another few rounds with my asshole father. In that second I know I’m going to ask her to marry me.

My beautiful, sweet, supple girl with a spine of steel. She wants to stomp her tiny foot and scream back at him, but it would end badly, so I say quietly, “Come on, lamb. Be a good girl for me and let’s go.”

The emotions rage behind the soft curves of her gently upturned nose, her pink cheeks, and her pretty mouth, but she reins it in and then squeezes my hand. “Yes, Zach.”

My father is still ranting, something about calling off my attack bitch, but I don’t care. “Mom, I’m sorry. We gotta go.”

She nods tightly. “Probably best.”

I’m turning the key in the ignition when there’s a knock on my window. Caleb’s standing there, scrawny arms crossed over his narrow chest. I roll down the window and he leans in, his hair brushing the roof. “I wanted to say thank you before you go. It was fun.”

“When this blows over, I’ll see if you can’t come up for a couple of weeks this summer, okay? I’m sorry. I know what he’s going to be like when we leave, and I—”

Caleb shrugs. “I’m used to it. Besides, it was kind of awesome.”

“Awesome?”

“Yeah, I thought Erin was going to punch Dad when he called her a cunt.”

“Caleb!” We’ve both shouted at him and he smirks.

“I know, I know, I won’t say that word again. Promise. Thanks for the cookies, Erin. Bye, Zach.”

He scrubs a hand through my hair in a weird reversal of our usual roles and I watch him walk back toward the house, wishing I could throw his lanky frame in the backseat and drive off. Instead I grip the wheel and back out of the driveway, onto my street, through town and onto the highway.

Erin doesn’t say anything during the ride home, but keeps a hand above my knee; a reminder she’s still here and has no intention of leaving no matter what she saw. When we get back to campus, I park behind Sullivan and we trudge up the stairs to her apartment, where I strip her naked and bury myself in her until I forget my name.

Chapter 20

Erin

Now I know. How Shep grew up, how Caleb is growing up. Why Shep is so quietly desperate to get him out of there. Blue-collar living doesn’t bother me, but the way his dad talked to me? I’m a stranger. I can’t imagine how he must talk to his sons. Or their mother. And for how long? How a man like Shep came out of a house like that, I don’t know. The chances of Caleb coming out as well are a long shot, but those Shepherd boys seem to be defying the odds.

Shep’s been so quiet since we got back, barely getting out instructions last night. Sometimes he was rough with me, but more often it seemed like he wanted to lose himself and forget everything. I don’t want him to forget everything. I want him to remember his life here, with me, but I’ll do whatever I can to help him bury the rest, leaving a trail of cookie crumbs should Caleb be able to follow.

Shep has to leave tonight for Fort Lauderdale and today was supposed to be one long play session I’ve been looking forward to. It’s hard enough to steal time to be together at all, never mind to find the time and space for him to do rude things to me that—despite my fears about the translations of fantasy into reality—I’ve really enjoyed.

But after yesterday… He’s wrapped around me, still asleep after a fitful night. I slide a hand from the cut of his hip, up the muscles of his back, and grip the top of his shoulder. I kiss his neck and he stirs, holding me tighter.

“I’m so sorry about yesterday—”

I hush him with a finger over his lips. “I don’t want to talk about it. Can we have our day like we were planning to? Pretty please?”

The corner of his mouth tugs up and I trace the curve with my fingertip. “Since you’ve said pretty please, how can I say no?”

We eat breakfast and then Shep guides me to the bathroom, telling me to strip and get in the shower. “Are you coming, too?”

“Yes, I’m coming, too.”

I climb under the spray and wet down my hair before Shep pushes the curtain aside and steps in. He leans against the far wall and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Go about your business. I want to watch you.”

“Yes, Zach.”

I soap up my hair, rinse it out and then slather on my conditioner and rinse that out, too. When I wipe the water that’s streamed over my face from my eyes, Shep’s pressed against the tiles, but his arms aren’t crossed anymore. Oh, no. Instead, he’s closed a fist around his…his cock and he’s stroking himself idly.

“You’re so pretty, Erin. Did you know that?”

It’s not something many people have said to me but I don’t want to sound like I’m fishing for compliments, either. “You’ve said so, Zach.”

“I’m not the only one who thinks so. You have beautiful eyes and the cutest nose. And your mouth…” He sucks a breath between his teeth and grips himself harder, sliding faster. “Every time I look at your mouth, I think of you sucking me off.”

That’s what I’m thinking of, too, watching him. I’m jealous of his hand. I want to smack it away, hold it behind his back so I can be the one making him feel good. I drop to my knees and reach for him, but he stops me by gripping my shoulder, pushing me back on my heels. “Not yet. I’m not done. You have these perfect breasts, and the way you react when I play with your nipples…”

His head drops back and he fists his cock harder still. Such rough strokes. All the times I imagined this, this is so much better. And worse because I’m aching for him and he won’t let me touch. I whimper and he looks down. Smiles. He must know how hot I am for him, how wet, how desperate.

“I love how you’re so soft. It’s like an invitation.”

I’d scrawl calligraphy on the wall with my bar of soap if I thought it would get him to give in sooner. “Please, Zach.”

“Hands behind your back, naughty girl.”

He may as well have run a finger over my clit. His words have the same effect, a tightening, heaviness, and I weave my fingers together.

“Has anyone ever fucked your face, Erin?”

I squeak. God, could I be any less sexy? But I close my eyes and take a breath. “No, Zach.”

“Have you ever sucked cock before?”

“Yes, Zach.”

“Did they come in your mouth?”

I shake my head tightly.

“Did they come on you?”

Again, a shake of the head. It had been foreplay, not the main event. But this talking, the dirty words, this is foreplay and it won’t take much to set me off. He’s slowed down his pace, loosened his grip and reaches out to stroke my cheek.

“I’m going to teach you to take my cock down your throat and then I’m going to come on your perfect tits. Would you like that?”

My clit is throbbing with want, so yes, yes. “Yes, Zach.”

“Open your pretty mouth.”

He directs his cock between my lips and I slick my tongue over the tip, tasting a drop of moisture that’s leaked out. He grunts as I lap at him, and I hold my hands tightly. “That’s nice, lamb. But you’re going to stop and let me tell you what to do.”

Though I want to keep licking, sucking—and having something in my mouth that I’m not supposed to do anything with is torture—I stop and look up, the head still between my lips, warm, smooth and heavy. “Good girl. Breathe through your nose and relax. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. If you get scared, tap my leg and we’ll stop.”

I give a lick in response and he cradles the back of my head, his fingers twining with my hair, his palm at the nape of my neck. He draws me forward. I take more of him in my mouth, closing my eyes and trying to breathe. Using his other hand, he strokes my neck, tips my chin up and starts to edge into my throat. I choke and he eases back. “Relax, Erin. You’re doing so well. I’m so pleased with you.”

I blink my eyes open and it’s true. It’s written all over his face. “Try again.”

He rocks back into my throat and this time I’m ready, expecting the brief airlessness. It doesn’t scare me, though I still gag and my eyes water. After a few more strokes, he thumbs the few tears sliding down my cheeks. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

Then he withdraws from my mouth, leaving me wanting. I stare hungrily as he fists his cock, pumps a few times before his release hits me in the chest. The density is different, thicker, than the spray of the shower pelting my back. It’s hotter somehow, and slides over my skin like gravity doesn’t affect it the same way. His other hand is planted on the tiles, fingers spread and tensed, and he hangs his head, spent. A low glow of pleasure spreads from my chest knowing I was the one who made him lose control.

When he comes back to himself, he studies me where I’m kneeling, hands clasped behind my back, evidence of his pleasure still visible on my chest and across my breasts. He grabs a washcloth, soaps it up and runs it over where he’s marked me. Though it washes away, it’s like the strands are still hot on my skin. When he’s finished he leans back against the tile. “You’ve had your show, now I’d like mine.”

I blink at him, uncertain, and wait for him to be more specific.

“I want you to get yourself off, lamb. Show me how you touch your pussy. Go on, I want to watch while you make yourself come.”

I release my hands from behind my back and slip one hand around my hip and he grins.

“What?” I’ve frozen in panic. Is he laughing at me? Am I doing this wrong?

“I was right. You do masturbate with your right hand.”

All the air in my body makes a break for it as blood rushes to my face. “You’ve thought about me…”

“Yeah. Lots of times.”

“And that…”

“Got me off? Yeah, lots of times. I want to see it for real.”

My fingers inch forward and when I reach my mound, I tease myself with a press of the heel of my hand and rock against it. I close my eyes and find my clit, circling slowly at first and then faster, harder, grinding against my palm. I’m driven on by the idea that when I open my eyes, Shep is going to be standing naked in front of me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s getting hard again from watching me.

I touch myself for another minute before I let myself look at him. There he is, like I thought he would be, but he’s taken himself in hand again with slow, leisurely strokes.

“Holy fuck, Erin. Do you put your fingers in your pussy when you jerk off or just play with your clit?”

“It depends.”

Sometimes I want penetration and sometimes I don’t. Right now, I do, so I slip a couple of fingers inside. I moan and layer my other hand over the one inside me, giving me more to rock against as my hips buck and my cheeks clench.

“That’s right. I want to see you finger-fuck yourself. Did you ever think of me while you were doing this?”

“Yes, Zach.”

“Are you thinking of me now?”

“Yes, Zach.”

“Will you come for me, Erin? I want to see you come all over your own hand while you think about how hard I’m going to fuck you as soon as you’re finished getting yourself off.”

I nod desperately, thrust my hips harder, wishing he were fucking me now, and change the angle of my hands to give better contact with my clit. That’s when it hits me.

“Oh, oh, god…”

“That’s a good girl.”

Then Shep’s on his knees in front of me, his hand covering mine as I rock the rest of my orgasm out. When I’m done, I rest my head against his shoulder. He rubs my back before helping me ease my fingers out of my body. Then he brings my hand to his mouth and sucks the fingers that were inside me.

“You taste so fucking good. When I get back, I’m going to strap you down on your bed with your legs spread wide and I’m going to lick your pussy until you come.”

I whimper, because the idea of coming again is overwhelming.

“But for now, I’m going to get you cleaned up so I can get you dirty all over again.”

And he does.

* * *

Shep

The next week in Florida with the guys is torture. I miss Erin like crazy even though I talk to her every night. Sometimes in the morning, too, if I wake up early enough.

It’s hard to tell from fifteen hundred miles away but she sounds unsettled sometimes and not just from missing me. I couldn’t quite put a finger on what might be wrong until I remembered Will used to go on Model UN trips. If the guy couldn’t keep it in his pants while he was on campus, I’m pretty sure he didn’t even try while he was in a different time zone. I wish Erin would trust me more than that because I’d never cheat on her, but I get it. Will did a lot of damage and it’s going to take time to repair. I’m totally up for the job.

So I tell her about the grueling three-a-day practices, making sure the guys don’t get into too much trouble in their off-hours, shutting down a food fight in the making at a steakhouse, and what goofballs they are in the hotel pool. It makes her feel better to hear how busy I’ve been. Our conversations aren’t all work and no play, though. Oh, no. I gave her a homework assignment while I’m away. Every day, she reads one of her books and finds something she’d like to do. When I call at night, she reads it to me. She’s less shy about it than when we’re face-to-face and by the end of the week… Let’s just say Mordecai would be impressed.

She’s under strict instructions not to come while I’m away, and it’s killing the poor thing. I’m a terrible, horrible, very mean Master. She’s told me so. I delight in the pouty pleading and can’t wait to get home and put her out of her misery. Her horny, horny misery.

Also while I’ve been away, I called Headmaster Wilson to tell him Caleb wouldn’t be coming in the fall.

“I’m sorry to hear that. It would have been nice to have another Shepherd on campus.”

Yeah, it would’ve been. I thank him again for the opportunity and throw my cell hard against the bed, wanting to hurl something through the air but knowing I can’t afford to replace it. Especially after the present I’d given Erin right before I left. Caleb had helped me pick it out after we’d gotten him new sneakers at the mall.

She hadn’t want to accept the box I’d given her when she was dropping me off at the airport. “It’s too much,” she’d said.

“I want you to have it. It’ll make you think of me while I’m away.”

“I’ll think of you anyway.”

“I hope so.”

I’d looped it around her neck, fastening the clasp, and she’d sighed. Despite her protests, I think she liked it.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.” I know I didn’t, but I’ve pictured her fingering the silver lock on the chain while worrying her bottom lip with her teeth and pressing her thighs together while she’s doing her homework. That’s more than enough in exchange.

“You’re welcome. I’m allowed to treat my pretty baby once in a while. I won’t do it often, I promise.”

She’d smiled her sweet smile and kissed me. Her eyes had welled with tears when she whispered, “I’ll miss you.”

I’ve missed her, this plane ride interminable. She’d wanted to pick me up at the airport, but she has a meeting she can’t miss. I don’t mind hitching a ride on the school van picking up the guys from Logan. When I flick my phone on after landing, the voice mail icon is blinking. After I enter my passcode, the polite automated voice tells me I have three messages. Three? The first one I delete as soon as I hear the unnerving voice on the other end. The second one is Erin, telling me she hopes I had a good flight, and she can’t wait to see me. I plug my ear over the racket of people hauling their bags out of the overhead bins and listen to it three times. Her bright voice has that same moonlike effect on the blood pumping through my body it always does; pooling, pulling like the tides.

I hadn’t denied myself the way I’d denied her, but I’m aching for her like I had. I save her message—an audible reminder of good things in this world—and go on to the next message.

“Zach. It’s your mother. Call me when you get this. Love you.”

My mom’s not one for rambling, but this is short for her. I could wait until I get back to school to call her, but the only thing I want to think about when I get back is Erin.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, hi, Zach. I didn’t know how long you’d be. How was your trip?”

“Fine. What’s going on?”

“Your father and I have talked it over and we’ve decided if you’re still willing to have him, it would be in Caleb’s best interest to go to Hawthorn next year.”

I’m stunned speechless. This doesn’t make any sense. I was pretty sure they’d never let Caleb visit me again, never mind live up here and go to Hawthorn.

“Zach?”

“Yeah, Mom, I’m here. What the hell—”

“Language, Zach.”

“You know for Caleb to go to Hawthorn you’ll have to make me his legal guardian. He can’t just come live with me.”

“Yes, I know. That’s what we’ll do. I told you. We talked it over.”

Talking’s never been my dad’s strong suit, nor my mom’s. I shouldn’t care and it’s not my business, but curiosity compels me to ask. “What did you say?”

“I told your father if he didn’t let Caleb go to Hawthorn I’d divorce him and take Caleb up there anyway. He could lose Caleb to a better place with more opportunities where he’ll be well provided for or he could lose us both.”

Holy shit.

“Mom, I—”

“It’s not too late, is it?”

“I’ll call the Headmaster as soon as I hang up with you.”

There’s a sigh of relief on the other end. “You tell Erin I say hello, and thank you.”

“She loves Caleb. It was no trouble—”

“Not for that, although he’s been raving about her since you left. It was seeing her stand up to your father. I’m sure you don’t remember because it was a long time ago, but I used to do that. Somewhere along the line, I got tired. I got tired of fighting and tired of his bullying and I figured if I could lie down in front of him, he wouldn’t be able to get to you boys. Not enough to do real damage, anyway. I stopped pushing back. I held him where he was. But when Erin was here, I remembered some things are worth fighting for. You boys are worth fighting for. You never needed my help much, but Caleb does. So I fought back.”

I duck my head and mash my palm against my chest because it aches, but she’s not finished.

“Or if that’s, what do you kids say, TMI? Just tell her the cookies were delicious.”

“I will.” I’m choked up and my neighbor is looking at me funny. We’re going to be able to walk off the plane soon, so I should go. “Look, Mom, I’ve gotta go, but thank you.”

“No, thank you, Zach. You’re a good man, like Erin said. I’m proud of you and I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Then I click off my phone and walk off the plane in a daze. Caleb’s coming to Hawthorn.

Chapter 21

Erin

Spring is crazy. My allergies are back, although not as bad this year. Maybe I’m building up some desperately needed immunity? Shep’s been buzzing like some heat-maddened fly. Paranoia whispers horrible things in my head, that maybe he’s feeling guilty for something he’s done. But that’s so unfair. It’s echoes of Will that I hear, not Shep. And running into Lana Davis at another dance last weekend hasn’t helped matters. The way she looks at him…

No. I won’t let that distrustful part of me take over. He deserves more than that from me. He’s just overwhelmed, that’s all. Half with being super-busy with wrapping up classes and coaching and half with excitement that Caleb’s going to start here in the fall. Caleb’s going to come up a few weeks before the rest of the boys get in so he can get settled. We’re going to take him school shopping and let him have some fun before he has to buckle down and work his butt off as Shep’s told him he’ll have to. A dozen times.

“He knows. Give him a break. If you keep talking like that, he’s going to stay in Shamokin.”

“I don’t want him to think he’s going to be walking on easy street because I work here. I can send him home at the drop of a hat.”

“Don’t you dare say that to him.”

“I won’t, you know I won’t. Because I wouldn’t. But that makes it all the harder to put the fear of god in him.”

“I think fear of disappointing his older brother is enough.”

I push at the chicken marsala on my plate with my fork and it takes Shep a few bites of his veal picatta to notice I’ve stopped eating.

“What’s the matter, Erin? Is it not good? Do you want something else?”

“No, it’s delicious. Everything here is always delicious.”

We found this Italian place right off Main Street in Hawthorn. It’s small and cozy and not too expensive, so we’ve become regulars.

“So what’s wrong? You’ve been distracted all through dinner.”

I could say the same to him. For more than dinner. He’s been distracted all spring and that paranoid voice inside my head tells me it’s not just about Caleb coming or his heavy faculty load. But Shep’s given me no reason to doubt he’s faithful so I try my best to silence the irrational fears Will left in his wide wake. Shep loves me, worships me, belongs to me, and I love being his. I’ve never been so at peace. Everything seems easier now that we’re together, like how life should be.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

I wrap my ankles together under the table, pulling at them, and fiddle with the fork I’m holding. “About applying for the Chair of the department.”

Shep had mentioned it months ago and it’s been gnawing at the back of my brain since then. If there was an obvious candidate, I probably wouldn’t dare, but with Dan’s departure, the math department is split a bit oddly: Skip Connelly and Elliott Gunderson will be retiring in the next year or two, and Matt Brinkley has made no secret that he has far more interest in being the head coach of the football team than anything else. That leaves Shep and me, and Shep just got hired as faculty.

“I think that’s a great idea.”

“You do?”

“Of course. You love the department and I know how much help you’ve given Dan this year and probably before that. You do half the work already. You should get the title and the pay bump, too.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be sure?” He smiles and I purse my lips, nudging his foot under the table. If Shep is anything, it’s confident. Of course he’s sure. But has he really thought this through?

“Because I would kind of be your boss.”

“You wouldn’t kind of be my boss, Erin. You’d be my boss.”

I flush and something flutters in my chest. “You don’t have a problem with that?”

“What we do behind closed doors has no bearing on our professional lives. You can assign me four sections of calculus and I won’t blink as long as when we get home I can tie you up and paddle your ass until it’s bright red because you didn’t follow protocol before we left the apartment. And then fuck you until you beg for mercy, of course.”

“Of course,” I mutter, turning precisely the shade of red he’s talking about, I’m sure.

“You getting a job you deserve shouldn’t impact anything we do. If it does, we’ll figure it out. You’d be a great Chair.”

I toy with the napkin on my lap, twisting it between my fingers. “You don’t think it’s too…ambitious? I haven’t been here for long, and I don’t want—”

“There’s nothing wrong with ambition. If Headmaster Wilson doesn’t think you’re ready, he won’t give it to you. Simple. Do you want this?”

“I do.”

“But you’re afraid?”

I nod and he reaches across the table, palm up, waiting for me to slip my hand into his.

“I know, love. But I think you should do it. You do, too. You just need a nudge. So will you promise me you’ll apply?”

I roll my lips between my teeth and bite down. If I make a promise and don’t follow through, there will be consequences. But maybe that’s what I need. I haven’t gone after too many things I wanted because I spent too much time talking myself out of them and no one ever bothered to talk me into them.

“I promise.”

“Good.” His satisfied smile makes me glow inside and wish for the millionth time we didn’t both live in the dorms. But then we wouldn’t be on the Hill and then we wouldn’t be together. That fit of pique loses its steam very quickly.

That aside, what I do wish is for Shep to make me his forever. He’s young and for that matter so am I, but I want to come home to him every night, curl up in the same bed as a matter of course and not just on special occasions when the boys are away. I want to wear his ring on my finger and have everyone know I belong to him. It’s possible I’ve had to shred more than one piece of notebook paper on which I’d written Mr. and Mrs. Zachary Shepherd, Zach and Erin Shepherd, Erin Elizabeth Shepherd and pretty much any other variation you can think of.

I hadn’t taken Will’s last name when we got married, but I never felt like I belonged to him. Shep and I? We belong together.

When we’ve finished dinner, we take a walk down to a little gallery that opened a few weeks ago on Main Street. It’s not much to look at, just a couple of white-washed rooms with some track-lighting aimed at local artists’ work hung on the walls, but it’s fun. We hold hands as we move from piece to piece and I ask him to tell me about them. It’s hot when he talks art.

After he’s explained chiaroscuro to me, I nudge his side. “You should see if they’d put some of your drawings on display.”

Shep shakes his head. “I’m not an artist, Erin. I’m a math teacher.”

“And you’re a lacrosse coach. And a hockey coach. And a soccer coach. You don’t have to be just one thing. Your work is just as good as theirs. Maybe better.”

My gaze darts involuntarily to a sizable watercolor featuring frogs that I hope was done by a local kid but the little placard underneath hadn’t indicated anything of the sort. I catch Shep eyeing the same painting and we laugh.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence but I don’t think so. Even if I wanted to it’s not like I have time to put anything decent together.”

That’s fair. He doesn’t have a ton of leisure time to sit around with his paints and brushes or even his pencils and paper. He hasn’t given it up entirely, though. I’ve seen his supplies on a shelf in his bedroom even if I haven’t seen him use them. I still think he should do it but I’ll let it drop for now. Maybe over the summer when he’ll only be working at the lacrosse camp Hawthorn hosts, and not teaching, too. There’s no way he’d do something if he can’t give it his all, and I love that about him.

“Fine.” I tow him over to a picture that’s been drawing me in since we got here, probably because it reminds me of Shep’s work. It’s a kitchen still life and the artist did a really wonderful job showing all the different textures and materials: brass pots hanging from a wrought iron ceiling rack, wood cutting boards resting on a stone countertop and a window you can practically feel the sun pouring through. “Then tell me how they made this look like glass.”

* * *

Shep

Good. Erin’s going to apply for the Chair. I’ve mentioned it a few times, hoping she would. She’d be great and there isn’t anyone better suited. She’s young and relatively new, and if the department weren’t so small she’d have a rough go of it, even if she is the best fit for the job. But as things are, there’s no way she won’t get it.

She’s worried about being my boss, but honestly I find it sexy that she’s so…organized. Administrative tasks don’t appeal to me. I’d rather teach an extra class or tack an hour onto practice than deal with all that paperwork. But I love how she sets out all her color-coded Post-its and pens, making her tidy notes with that handwriting: pretty, round and neat, like her. It does something to me.

Office supplies sexy? Yup, total perv, right here. What I could do with those binder clips…

But we’re back at school and the guys are all wandering back to the dorms from study hall, so there’s no privacy for a kiss, never mind what I’d really like to do to her. I pull my car up behind Sullivan and walk her to the entrance, taking the chance to slip my little finger around hers at the door before the guys see.

“Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Go work on your application. It’s due by six on Friday, right?”

Her cheeks go pink and the hand not linked with mine clutches her skirt. “Yes, Zach.”

She’s such a tease sometimes, and the devious smile on her face tells me she knows it. Two of the guys are approaching and I lean down to threaten her mildly before they get too close. “Your ass is going to look so pretty with my handprints all over it this weekend.”

“Yes, Zach,” she whispers as she slides her finger out of my grip and turns to open the door, her skirt twirling out and showing a few inches of thigh. Christ. I know what I’ll be doing when I get back to my apartment. But I have one more stop before I get there.

I drop off my car behind Meyer and walk across campus, keeping away from the lit paths and sticking to the shadows of the trees and buildings. The guys are all in their rooms, but it’s not them I’m hiding from. Erin’s got a good view of the quad from her apartment and I don’t want her to see me.

When I’ve reached my destination, I rap on the door and it opens a few seconds later. I’m expected.

“Shep. Come on in.”

A few minutes later, I’ve taken a seat in a green leather wingback chair and Mrs. Wilson has foisted a glass of brandy on me. I’ve never had brandy and I’m not in a hurry to start, but I take a sip to be polite and to sand off the sharp edges of anxiety digging at my stomach. I’m not a nervous person and I’m dead certain about what I’m about to ask for, but it doesn’t stop my lungs from feeling too small, like I can’t take a deep enough breath.

Headmaster and Mrs. Wilson are both staring and I should speak up, say something, but I’m overcome by the memory of eating pot roast in this house after being with Erin at the hospital. They exchange a glance and then the Headmaster clears his throat. “You wanted to speak with us?”

I take another sip because my throat’s gone dry.

“Is this about Caleb?”

“No, sir. It’s about Erin.”

“Is she all right?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. She’s good. Really good. She’s going to apply for the department Chair.”

“Good, I was hoping she would. I’ll expect her application by Friday evening. I don’t think that’s what you came here to talk about, though.”

“No, sir.” Come on, Shepherd, man up. “I guess you know Erin and I have been spending a lot of time together.”

“I had noticed that, yes.”

“I’d like to spend even more time with her. Like, forever. I…I’m going to ask Erin to marry me.” I’ve already started thinking of how I might do it. It needs to be something that’ll make her bubble over with bliss. I’d want to do something special anyway because I love her and I want to make her happy any chance I get, but it’s a little selfish, too. I want this to feel miles away from when she had to marry Will.

Headmaster Wilson, on the other hand, does not seem excited about the prospect at all. His white walrus eyebrows have drawn together and he’s frowning. Fuck.

“She’s not—”

“No, she’s not pregnant. You have my word. I’m not asking her because I have to. I’m asking her because I want to. I want to be with her, every day, for the rest of our lives.”

“You’re young for that, aren’t you, Mr. Shepherd?”

Oh, we’re back to “Mr. Shepherd.” But I’ve come prepared for this particular question. “Aren’t you and Mrs. Wilson celebrating your fiftieth wedding anniversary this year?”

He settles back into his own wingback and takes a sip of brandy, looking so much more at ease than I feel here. “Touché. And you’re here because?”

“Because you’re the closest thing Erin has to family and I’d like your blessing. I’m going to ask her whether I get it or not, but I’d like your support.”

“Why do you want to marry Erin?”

Something inside me roars to life, but I smother it. I don’t need to protect Erin from the Wilsons. They love her like a granddaughter and that question is way more about me than it is about her. “Why wouldn’t I want to marry her? She’s smart, she’s sweet, and she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. She loves it here and I do, too. I want to build a life with her here.”

“I don’t disagree with you. She’s a wonderful young woman. But she’s also sensitive. Since she’s not here to object or be offended, I’ll also say fragile. She needs someone to look after her, take care of her. Are you prepared to make that kind of commitment for the rest of your life? It’s not easy.”

“I know.” I do. It’s not always easy. She needs a lot of reassurance, a lot of affection, care, control. But what I get in return? That adoring look like I’m the only man on earth, how she loves me and cares for me in her own way, her sweet and willing submission? I absolutely get the better end of the deal. “She deserves someone who wants to be that for her, and I do. She needs me and I…I need to be needed.”

“Well, Mr. Shepherd—”

“Oh, hush, Rett,” Mrs. Wilson scolds before she turns her elfin gaze on me. “I think you’re going to make Erin very happy. If you don’t, you know who you’ll be answering to.”

Tilly Wilson is very shrewd and far more intimidating than her much taller husband. I don’t doubt for a second that she could make me very sorry if I hurt Erin. “Yes, ma’am.”

On my way back to Meyer, I start planning out the details. I want to ask her on graduation, but in private. Neither of us would want to overshadow the guys’ day. They deserve all the applause and attention and I’m not going to step on that. I’ll do it after, maybe in her classroom, because that’s where I kissed her for the first time. I got down on my knees then, too, and this time I hope her tears will be happy ones.

Chapter 22

Erin

When I get home on Good Friday, Shep is sitting on the couch, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s supposed to be down at the gym, overseeing movie night for the boys who haven’t left campus for the holiday weekend. He hadn’t been able to find someone to trade, but something must’ve changed. I suspect I know what something is.

I didn’t send in my application for the Chair and he must’ve found out. Maybe Uncle Rett mentioned it? They’ve seemed unusually chummy this week.

I ease the door shut behind me and lock it before getting on my knees and crawling to him like I do whenever we’re alone and off-duty. When I reach him, I kneel between his feet, looking down at the ground. I am in so much trouble.

He sits up and takes my chin in his hand, tipping my head back until I could meet his eyes if I looked straight ahead. But I don’t. I keep my eyes as low as I can. My breastbone caves into my chest, and my chin quivers under his fingertips.

“Look at me, lamb.”

I close my eyes for a second and open them to his. He doesn’t look angry. Good. I’m expecting consequences, but I don’t want him to be angry. I don’t think I could stand it. Punishment I can handle.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go into the bedroom and you’ll get your punishment. When we’re done, you’re going to sit at the kitchen table until your application is finished. Headmaster Wilson has given you an extension until midnight, and you’re going to turn it in, understood?”

“Shep, I…”

“I know you’re afraid. But that’s not a good reason not to do this. You’re going to apply, you’re going to get the position, and then we’ll work it out.”

“But—”

“No. You promised me you would do this, knowing there would be consequences if you didn’t follow through. If that’s not something you want, we need to have a conversation about it. But unless you’re prepared to safe out, and that’s always your prerogative, that’s what’s going to happen. I care about you too much to allow you to let this opportunity slip through your fingers. I want to see you thrive. If it takes a beating, then that’s what I’m going to do. You’ve got a choice. The next words out of your mouth are either going to be ‘Yes, Zach’ or your safeword. Your call.”

The tears slip from the corners of my eyes where they’ve been pooling, making my lashes stick together and my sinuses get stuffy. I sniff and swallow while his eyes stay steady on mine.

I want to be the head of the department. I love teaching here and I want to make the school the best it can be. I’ve already got ideas of how to make it better. But it’s going to be awkward. So awkward. I’ll do my best to be fair but I’ll get accused of favoritism. If I don’t, it’ll be because I’ve been too hard on Shep. I don’t want to do that, either. He’s a fine teacher and a better man. I hate the idea that decisions I’ll have to make could make him feel any different. But he’s said we’ll work it out. He won’t let me down again. I don’t know how he’s going to pull it off, but that’s not my problem. The only thing up to me is the next two words out of my mouth.

“Yes, Zach.”

* * *

Shep

I let go of Erin’s chin and stroke her cheek, wiping some of the tears away. I like the way the salty tracks look, glossy and wet on her soft skin, but there’s going to be plenty more tears tonight. When she’s done, I’ll make her forget.

I pull her collar from my pocket, a simple black one I gave her after the disaster at my parents’ house, wrap the leather around her throat and fix the buckle. She’s taken to it like a fish to water and I love how she softens as soon as it’s on. I take off the silver lock on the simple chain she wears around her neck during the day and put it on the table before I take up her leash. Clipping it through the silver D-ring that hangs at the base of her throat, my fingers brush against her collarbone and she shivers.

“Come on, love.” I tug at the leash to move her to the side so I can stand and start down the hallway. I’m glad her bedroom’s at the end of the hall, away from the guys’ rooms. No one should be around tonight, but she still worries. She follows a couple of paces behind me on her hands and knees and I pace myself so she won’t have to scramble on the runner.

When we reach the bedroom, I have her stand up and leave the leash dangling between her breasts. The leash has been a struggle for her—more than anything else I’ve asked—but in the end she’d accepted it. I think it hits a perfect sweet spot of embarrassment and pleasure.

I strip off her clothes, leaving her naked except for her leash and collar. The sight of her, pretty curves wrapped in smooth skin that will turn a nice red under my belt in a few minutes, is enough to drive me crazy. But I can’t give in. I have to do what’s best for her, what’s best for us.

I put on her cuffs, too: ankles and wrists. This is going to be hard for her to take. The more I remind her she’s mine, the easier it will be. Which is why I’m going to gag her, too, though she’ll think it’s for the noise.

I hand her one of the clean bandanas that’s also kept in the drawer and loop her leash around her neck so it won’t make her stumble. “You know what to do. On your knees, go.”

“Yes, Zach.”

She sinks prettily to the floor and takes the folded square of cloth between her teeth, returning a minute later with the damp cloth in her mouth.

“Kneel down.”

She sits back on her heels, hands resting on her knees. This is familiar and she’s settled into the routine, the expectations. I reach for the cloth and she lets it go, tonguing a drop that had settled by her mouth. From that tiny act, I’m hard as hell for her. Not that I haven’t been throbbing with want for her since she came in, but goddamn, her mouth. I hadn’t been sure how I was going to have her after this, but her lips wrapped around my cock is going to be a good start.

I shake out the damp cloth and then roll it into a ball, telling her to open up. When she does, I press it between her teeth.

“Okay?”

She nods and her fingers flex on her knees. I take another bandana and knot it in the middle, laying it over her mouth and tying it snug behind her head. She leans into my hand as I stroke her cheek when it’s in place.

Show time. Her shoulders have settled down and though her fingers are curled on her knees, she’s not panicky. Until I reach for my belt.

It’s like I’ve turned headlights on a deer in a driveway. Her eyes go big, her chest collapses and her fingers dig into her thighs. I’ve unclasped the buckle and as I slide the leather through the loops, her eyes follow every inch, getting wider until the end slips through the last loop. But she hasn’t cried out, there aren’t any tears, and she hasn’t moved an inch to make her safe signal. Such a sweet little obedient thing.

I unwrap the leash from around her neck and tug her toward the bed.

“Bend over.”

She stands and drapes herself over the side, toes grazing the floor, arms framing her head as she’s been taught. I direct her to lift her head and place a pillow under it. She hugs it gratefully. Someday she’ll be able to take a strapping without it, her palms and fingers resting flat on the duvet, the chair arm, the dining room table, wherever she’s being punished. For now I’ll give her this comfort. I drape the leash so she can see it and she squirms, earning a slap to her flank I don’t have to explain.

When she’s settled I run my fingers over her back, making my strokes firmer until she’s calm, supple under my hands.

“You’re going to get half a dozen strokes, Erin. You were supposed to apply to be the Chair. We decided together and you broke that promise. I take the commitments I make to you very seriously and I expect you to do the same. When you don’t keep your word, it tells me you disrespect me, that I can’t trust you. I’m disappointed in you.”

Tears are leaking from her eyes. She’s had enough. I want to make a point; I don’t want to crush her.

“You’ll take your punishment, you’ll finish your application and send it in. Then this will be over. Are you ready?”

A nod shakes a tear off the track running down her cheek and the first blow falls. I warm her up with a light spanking and she settles while her skin pinks up and my palm starts to tingle. The tears have stopped and her eyes are glossy. The tears aren’t far away, but this is soothing, not scary. When I’ve got her ass a nice, even shade, I run the leather of the belt over her cheeks and she shivers, clutching the pillow tight under her head.

“Hold on, lamb.”

I press a hand into the small of her back before I step away, wrap the clasp end of the belt into my palm and lay into her. The first crack of the leather makes her jump and shriek behind the gag, but she doesn’t let go and she doesn’t use her signal. Another stripe with the same result and she closes her eyes. By the time I’m done, her rib cage is heaving. If that pillow were alive when I started, she would’ve crushed the life out of it.

Her ass is the nicest shade of red. I hope I’ve hit her hard enough to leave an unpleasant sting on her cheeks while she’s finishing her application but not so hard there’ll be much bruising. I’ve got a good measure for these things but I haven’t used a belt on her before and her skin is so sensitive.

“That’s six, love. You’re done.” I run my hands over the wide welts and then up her back, soothing her. I untie her gag and pull the wadding from between her teeth. When it’s out, I can feel and hear her sobbing. I climb up onto the bed, lean against some pillows, and tug at her leash. She double-times it into my lap, straddling me, throwing her arms around my neck. Then she buries her face between my neck and shoulder, the wetness of her tears hot on my skin, which is flushed with a small amount of effort but mostly desire.

I talk to her while she cries. I don’t tell her to hush—she needs to get it out, that catharsis she’s never been allowed—but I comfort her, let her know I’m here, tell her how well she did while I massage her jaw that must be sore from having been gagged. When the storm raging inside her has blown itself out, her sobs turn to sniffles, and I pet her hair.

“Better?”

There’s a beat of silence and she stiffens under my hands before she holds me tighter. “Yes, Zach.”

“I know.”

That’s when she rocks against me. The motion is like the striking of a match and my blood is gasoline. My body goes up in flames for her. The second press of her pussy spread wide against my cock, even through two layers of fabric, is hot. I can’t take it anymore.

I disentangle her from around me and order her to the floor. She hasn’t wiped her tears away and her face is flushed and wet when she settles back on her heels and looks up. “What do you want, lamb?”

“I want… I want…”

“Speak up, love.” I toy with her leash while she works up the nerve to say it out loud, every passing second making me harder for her. She’s going to say it. She’s going to say it for me.

* * *

Erin

“I want…your cock. In my mouth. Please, Zach.”

The approval that lights up his face is reward enough, but when he tugs on that damn leash and says, “Then take it,” I almost die. The shame of the words leaving my lips and the pull at my neck is smothered by the hot satisfaction of having pleased him. It’s all rolled up together into one incredibly heady sensation. My fingers are clumsy with the torrent of emotion I’ve been experiencing since I stepped in the door, but I manage to get the button free and the zipper down so I can reach into his boxers and draw him out. He’s hot, hard, and stiff in my hands and pleasure pulses through me. I did that. He wants me that much. All the control he has, and it’s been leveled by me.

I let the soft skin slip through my fist, grasping harder and pumping him a few times before clasping my hands behind my back and taking him between my lips, humming from the high I get from the taste of him. Human, manly, rich on my tongue, silky and hard under my strokes. He lets me play, tasting him, teasing him, enjoying him until there’s a thrust of his hips I’d like to believe is involuntary.

“Stop.”

His tight command is proof and I try to hide my smug smile by bowing my head when I let him go. He reaches past me and into the drawer again. I have a guess about what toy he’s taking out. His next order—“Open”—confirms and I obediently open my mouth wide enough for him to slip the ring between my teeth. It’s not comfortable having my jaw stretched open so far, but it doesn’t hurt. His hands slide into my hair to fasten the buckle of the strap, and I forget any discomfort.

When he’s done, he places my hand on his leg above his knee. I’m to pinch him if I need him to stop. He directs his cock through the ring and I taste him again. I sigh before he gets too far and lap at him while I have the chance. A tug at my hair tells me to be still, to relax, and to take what he’s giving me, what’s being fed through the metal ring propping my mouth open for him to use. I concentrate on my breathing, being open for him, available and soft. Little by little, he presses into the tight channel of my throat.

My eyes water and I gag, but he backs off until I can breathe and cradles my head in his hands. “Again.”

Then he’s in my throat again, withdrawing when I choke, but forcing himself inside over and over again with a warning each time, until the tears are streaming down my face but I’m not gagging anymore. His thumbs wipe away the hot salt of my tears, and drool leaks around the gag. Then the hot thickness of his release is in my throat, his hands tight in my hair.

“Fuck, Erin. Oh, Jesus fuck.”

He withdraws quickly, taking the gag from my mouth so I can swallow properly before he drops to his knees and kisses me. The taste of him is still on my tongue. He doesn’t seem to mind the vague tang of his own release as he plunders my mouth, and his hands roam all over me, grippy and demanding. I squeak when he squeezes a handful of my still-stinging behind and he lets go to slap the same spot before soothing it with a rub. The combination of sensations tweaks my desire for him and my pussy that’s been wet and wanting is flooded.

He pushes me to the ground and I watch from my place on the rug he strips, dropping his clothes in a heap next to him.

“Feet flat on the floor.”

I get into position and he pulls my ankles wide apart, exposing every part of me to his gaze. He’s already getting hard again. He looks at me for long enough I get self-conscious. That’s when he touches me, feather light on my clit. It makes me clench my whole body tight so I don’t buck my hips. His other hand strokes my hip and he looks at me—those eyes that have enchanted me since the first time I saw him—and smiles.

He dips a finger inside of me and I want more than anything to close my eyes and sigh, but I don’t. I keep eye contact and I’m rewarded by a second finger slipping in. He strokes me a few times, pressing against the borders of my pussy, stretching me, warning me before adding a third finger.

A harsh inhale on my part gets his attention and he soothes me with a touch of my thigh.

“That’s it for today.” His fingers are easing in and out of me while he speaks and my muscles are tight with strain from trying to keep myself under control. “But someday I’m going to fist you.”

He presses my clit with his thumb and the contact electrifies an idea I’d expect to terrify me. But I’m greedy, so greedy. I’d want all of him inside of me if there were a way, so the idea of him working fingers, a thumb, his hand, slowly, gently, but inexorably up into me? “Please, Zach.”

“Please what?”

“I need to come, Zach. Please.”

His eyebrows twitch and a smile breaks across his face. “You like that idea? Me working a fist into your tight pussy?”

His thumb is circling my clit, his fingers thrusting harder. “Yes. Yes, Zach, I do. Oh, please, Zach, please.”

I’m trembling with need. If this were any other day, he’d push me over the edge, scold me for coming without permission and then take my bad behavior out on my ass, or maybe my breasts, or… Oh, dear, thinking about punishment isn’t helping. But he’s already taken his belt to me, so instead of denial I get blessed permission to give in to the inevitable.

“That’s right, lamb. Come for me while you think about my whole hand inside you.”

That’s it, the last tap on the glass of my arousal, and I shatter underneath him. My nails scrape the weave of the carpet, my toes curl and my hips rise. A sound like need is ripped from my throat, and my eyes squeeze so tightly shut I see stars. My chest is heaving, my breathing ragged when he leans over me and presses his cock into my still spasming pussy. I thrust up to meet him and he weaves fingers through my hair, tugging so hard I open my eyes with a gasp.

“You’re going to come again with my cock in you, aren’t you, naughty girl?”

“Yes, Zach,” I pant. Oh, yes. If this makes me a naughty girl, being so hot for him while he’s got a fist in my hair, pounding into me, my red ass being rubbed raw by the friction on the carpet—so be it. I’m meeting him thrust for thrust and I can tell he’s getting close, but I need something if I’m going to be able to come before he does.

“Play with your tits while I’m fucking you, you dirty girl. Twist your nipples the way I would. I know you like it hard, you greedy little thing.”

My hands fly to my chest to obey his orders, taking my breasts roughly in hand and my nipples between thumb and forefinger. It’s not as good as when he’s touching me, but if I close my eyes and pretend…

“Go on, you horny little slut. Come for me. Come on my cock.”

His hot, nasty words are all it takes to shove me off the cliff, crashing into the cold shock of my sudden orgasm. I squeeze around him and his thrusts speed up until there’s one so hard it makes me moan. Then he’s still, his hard body taut above me. His breath blows out in a groan and he collapses, his weight heavy on top of me.

I take the opportunity to wrap my arms around him, holding him close and threading my fingers through his hair, kissing and licking the side of his throat while running the sole of my foot up his leg. I wish there were more of me so I could touch more of him. After a minute, he pushes up on his elbows and frames my face in his hands.

He studies me, my eyes blinking slowly and my cheeks no doubt red. “I love you, Erin. You know I love you, right?”

“I do. I love you, too.”

He kisses me sweetly; once, twice, three times before he runs his nose alongside mine. “I always want you to feel loved. If I ever make you feel anything but loved—”

“I’ll tell you,” I say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Pinky swear.”

He props himself up on one side and twines his little finger with mine. “Pinky swear.”

He kisses me once more before he pulls out and hands me his discarded undershirt to wipe up, which he takes when I’m through. I skitter to the bathroom and when I come back, he’s under the covers, leaning up against the headboard. He holds the quilt up and invites me inside. “C’mere, lamb. I want to hold you.”

As much as I enjoy the rough stuff—and I do—I love this the best. Being in his arms, his warm, solid body circling me, his sweet words being set loose to wander around my head, pooling like drops of oil in water until my brain is swimming in his slick, precious thoughts.

Chapter 23

Shep

Erin sat naked at her kitchen table and finished her application. When she was through she asked me to read it over before she sent it in. Which I did, before I had her again. Aside from a single typo, it was perfect. She’d clearly thought about it, put some serious time into it, and then lost her nerve at the last minute. I should’ve checked in with her earlier, should’ve known she’d need a final push, but I’ve been distracted.

With the final press of classes, the lacrosse team being a lock for conference finals, the string of performances and ceremonies that is the end of the school year at Hawthorn, planning my proposal to Erin. And with Lana Davis.

She’s been calling me since the winter dance. Even though I’ve been clear that I’m not interested, she won’t give up. I have no clue how she got my cell number. I sure as hell didn’t give it to her. I haven’t mentioned it to Erin because I don’t want her to freak. The look on her face when she told me about Will and Lana broke my heart and there’s no way I’ll put it there on purpose. Lana’s been the source of enough hurt for Erin and she’s got so much going on, I don’t want to pile on. I keep hoping if I ignore Lana she’ll go away, but that hasn’t been true yet.

I wish she were a too-aggressive member at the club who Mordecai would pull aside and set straight. Or even some too-flirty girl at Northwestern I could steer toward one of my decent teammates. But it’s just me and I’ll need to come up with a different strategy to get her to go away. Soon, because I don’t want Erin to know.

It’s the night before graduation and the guys have all crammed into the athletic complex for one last night together after the final concert of the year. They’re going to be rowdy, obnoxious, and out of control. My plan is to man the laundry room door half my class snuck out of to smoke up, and turn anyone who shows up right back around. Sorry, guys, I know your tricks. They haven’t changed much in four years. But first, I’m going to grab a few things from my apartment.

I vault up the stairs, humming off-tune. I can’t wait for tomorrow. Everything is set up, down to the last detail. The little black velvet box in my bedside table is burning a hole in my brain, and tomorrow I’ll get to slip the ring on Erin’s finger. I’ve had a few twinges of panic—What if she says no?—but mostly, I’m excited. I’ve wanted her since the day I saw her and now she’s going to be mine.

Everything is going so well: I’m going to ask Erin to marry me, Caleb’s coming to Hawthorn next year, I have a good feeling about Erin being named Chair, and I’m taking over John Phelps’s place in the math department and as the JV coach for soccer and hockey. Life is good. It’s really fucking good, and starting tomorrow it’s going to get a whole lot better.

I grab my toothbrush and a few other things that will make tonight tolerable and when I open my door I curse.

“What are you doing here, Miss Davis?”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Zach.”

Hearing her call me Zach gives me the creeps, as does the way she looks me up and down like I’m a piece of meat she’d like to sink her teeth into. She’s doing her best to look edible in a short black trench coat I’d bet money on she doesn’t have much underneath, and bright red on her mouth and her pointy, succubus fingernails. No, I don’t like this at all.

“You shouldn’t be here. How did you even—”

She lifts an eyebrow and her lips twist into a predatory grin. “I have my ways. Most Hawthorn boys don’t play quite as hard to get as you.”

“I’m not playing. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you period. I’ve tried to make that very clear. If you show up here again—”

“What’re you going to do? Report me? To whom?”

Goddamn English teachers and their fucking whoms. “I’ll call campus security, and if you don’t stop harassing me, I’ll file a restraining order. I don’t want to get either of our employers involved in this, but I will if I have to. Schools don’t like teachers having a record.”

There’s a flash of anger across her sharp features before it melts into a faux coy that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

“Is this about that uptight pedantic prude? What is it about Erin Brewster men find so alluring? She’s not a dumbass, I’ll give her that. But she’s too…wholesome.” She sneers like it’s a dirty word. “I bet after Will got her knocked up, she hasn’t let anyone else in her pants since. I bet she hasn’t even let you get to second base. A chaste kiss here, some handholding there. You’re a red-blooded American boy, Zach. You must be horny as hell. Why don’t you let me take care of that for you? You can keep dating Betty goddamn Crocker if you want, but I can give you what you actually want, what you need.”

Lana, you have no fucking clue what I want, what I need. She might play along and, hell, she might even like getting spanked once in a while, but she wouldn’t mean it. Her submission wouldn’t be genuine. It would be another layer of manipulation. I’ll take Erin’s earnest, innocent delight in pleasing me over Lana’s cynical handling any day.

“My relationship with Erin is none of your business, but if it’ll get the message across, I’ll tell you. I love her. I’ve never loved anyone but her. She’s beautiful and sweet and smart. I will not be unfaithful to her. Ever. Especially not with you.”

* * *

Erin

After I say good-bye to Shep when the concert’s finished, I head over to check my faculty mailbox. I don’t check it often, probably once a week because there’s rarely anything inside. School business is mostly done online and it’s not like I get a lot of personal mail. I’m far more likely to get an Evite or a text than something with a stamp.

But today when I go up on tiptoes to peek into the narrow wooden slot, there’s something inside. I have to reach to pinch the edge of the thin envelope but I manage to extract it, trying not to let anticipation get the best of me. It could be anything. It’s not anything, though. It’s an official Hawthorn Hill School envelope, its scarlet and royal blue crest winking at me from the corner.

They don’t bother using the fancy stationery for regular faculty correspondence—most of that’s done over email. No, they break this out for big important things. Things like announcing promotions or awards, like the one Shep got when he’d been made a full faculty member.

The letter is vibrating between my fingers because my hands are shaking. I should go back to my apartment in case this is bad news—I don’t want anyone to see how upset I am if I’ve been passed over. But the idea of waiting the five minutes it’ll take me to make my way back to my apartment is intolerable. Instead, I duck into an alcove and make a quick wish before ripping open the envelope.

When I unfold it I have to clap a hand over my mouth to mute my squeal—I got it! I’m going to be the new Chair of the mathematics department at Hawthorn, effective June first. It comes with a raise of several thousand dollars, too, which is great, but, ah! I’m too excited to think much about what that means. Maybe Shep and I could go on vacation before school starts. He’s never left the country. I can’t wait to tell him. He’s going to be so proud of me.

I run down the hall and burst out the doors before I come to a halt. I don’t know exactly where Shep is to give him the good news. The possibilities comprise a pretty short list, though, so I set off at a jog toward the athletic complex. But when I get there, Skip tells me Shep went back to his apartment to grab a few things before settling in for the long haul. So back up to Meyer I race.

I am so out of shape it’s not even funny. I should get down to the gym more often. But running’s never been my strong suit and I’ve been zigzagging all over campus. I haul up the flights of stairs and I’m about to turn the corner when I hear voices.

“Look, Erin cannot know you’re here.”

I freeze. That’s Shep, but who is he talking to?

“I told you she doesn’t have to know.”

Her voice is like an inky black stain on everything good. Lana Davis. I peek around the corner. Shep’s back is against the wall and Lana is leaning into him with her hands on his chest. Vomit rises in my throat as tears well in my eyes while I crush the letter between my fingers. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

He grabs her arms above her elbows and the way his fingers dig into the fabric of her coat…it’s how he touches me. Or should I say, touched. He’s never laying hands on me again. I might have stuck around and been Will’s doormat for years, but I refuse to do it again.

And this. It hurts so much worse than it did with Will. I thought… But why should I be surprised? I shouldn’t be. I was built to suffer and my father’s warned me of it from day one. Fine. I will suffer the ripping of my heart out of my chest, but I won’t let them bat it around and toy with me like two sadistic housecats.

“Get out of here before she finds out.”

To twist the knife deeper, she answers in a syrupy sweet voice, mocking me: “Yes, Zach.”

* * *

Shep

When Lana leaves, I watch her walk to her car, a red Mini with a Union Jack on the roof. Easy to identify. I call campus security and ask them to keep an eye out for her and to please escort her off campus if she shows up again. God, I hope not.

I throw my backpack over my shoulder and head down the stairs. While I’m crossing the campus, I call Erin but she doesn’t pick up. Maybe she’s got her music cranked up and she’s dancing or maybe she’s fallen asleep on the couch while she’s watching TV. As the night goes on and I still don’t hear from her, I’m more and more sure that’s what’s happened. Otherwise, she would’ve called me. She always calls me.

While I’d rather be hearing her ray-of-sunshine voice instead of the crazed whooping of the guys like monkeys in a goddamn zoo, I don’t want to wake her up. She needs her rest; tomorrow’s going to be a big day. She gets overwhelmed with so many strangers on campus, having to make small talk with people she doesn’t know. She won’t show it. She’ll smile and make polite conversation, pulling up details about each of the guys to share with their families, but by the time we go home tomorrow night, she’ll be ready to crash. She can crash into me.

Tomorrow morning, when we get to wake up in the same bed because the guys will be gone, she’ll have my ring on her finger and she’ll be so thrilled she can hardly stand it and I’ll make her mine again and again and again. All summer. The thought of it is what gets me through the long night of keeping the guys in check.

I try Erin again on my way back to my apartment. She doesn’t pick up. She must be in the shower, which is where I should be if I don’t want to be late for the procession.

I scrub up quick, satisfied when I look in the mirror I won’t be mistaken for a student in my grey suit. Probably. The clothes should tip them off because the guys will all be in Hawthorn blazers, but I’m sure some of the parents will do a double take because I went to school with their older sons. A good reminder to keep my hands off Erin until we’re alone.

I join the stream of students, their families, faculty and staff headed down to the playing fields where they’ve set up giant tents for the festivities. I look around for Erin but don’t see her. I hope she didn’t sleep through her alarm. If she fell asleep on the couch, maybe she didn’t set one at all…

We’re all queued up and about to start down the aisle when she shows up and wedges into her place in line. She faces toward the stage they’ve set up and doesn’t look back, not once. Something isn’t right, but hell if I know what it is.

Oh, shit. Promotions get announced around graduation. Maybe someone else got the Chair? Erin was late and that would’ve dinged her chances but I can’t believe Headmaster Wilson would pass her over. She’s so perfect for it, and who the hell else did he get to do the job? I can’t believe they’d hire someone from outside the school if they didn’t have to. But that must be what’s happened: she didn’t get it. Nothing else would have her this upset.

I’m carried along with the stream of other teachers, feeling like any minute someone’s going to turn around and say, “Take a seat, Mr. Shepherd. What are you doing marching with the faculty?” but no one does. When we reach our seats, all I pay attention to is the back of Erin’s head. She’s put her hair up in this shiny twist and there are pearls winking out of it. She’s wearing a white dress with cutouts in it like those paper chains you make when you’re a kid. It should have the opposite effect—her looking all demure—but it makes me want to drag her behind the nearest bush and push her up against one of the brick buildings, finger fuck her until her hands are twisting in the ivy and she’s pleading for my cock.

My hand goes to my pants pocket where the little velvet box is waiting. It feels heavier than it ought to, like my pants have the gravity of Jupiter. It sucks she didn’t get the promotion, but at least this day won’t be a total loss for her.

After the ceremony I try to catch her but I get cut off by one of my seniors and his parents. Darnell was in my calculus class and my first-string goalie on the hockey team. He’s going to Northwestern in the fall so I’ve been talking to him about Evanston and Chicago. I’m not going to shortchange my guys because my girlfriend’s upset. There’s no way Erin would want me to. I’m sure she’s somewhere in the crowd putting on a brave face and talking to families, too, because that’s what she does—my surprisingly tough girl. I’ll find her when the crowds disperse and then we’ll go back to her apartment where I’ll make her forget.

A couple hours later, the celebratory mob has finally dissipated. I search the clumps of stragglers for Erin’s white dress but don’t see her. Maybe she already went back to her apartment? Heaping that amount of disappointment on an already stressful day could’ve done her in. Maybe she’s dancing it out or collapsed in her tub with one of her books. I text her to check but I don’t hear back. Her silence has been pricking me with unease but now I’m getting outright concerned.

I start making my way toward Sullivan to check on her. It takes me a while to get through what remains of the crowd but by the time I reach the dorm, it’s silent. All the boys have packed up and their things have been moved out. It’s weird to have the halls so still and I’m kind of looking forward to the athletic camps starting because the quiet unnerves me, my footfalls too loud on the stairs.

Just in case she’s so wrecked she’s fallen asleep, I knock quietly on Erin’s door before I let myself in. There’s no answer and the corner of my mouth lifts. Poor little thing’s probably out cold on the couch, huddled under her blanket. But when I open the door, I’m not met by Erin’s soft, even breaths, the shape of her body curled up and dreaming. No. Instead I almost walk into a stack of cardboard boxes piled haphazardly by the door.

Chapter 24

Erin

“I’m sorry. I won’t accept this.”

Rage and frustration bubble out of my ears. They’ve been building all morning as I packed while everyone else was celebrating outside. I’ve been sitting in this living room for an hour, waiting for him so I could do this and now all of it spills out. “You don’t get to decide about this. I’m handing in my resignation and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Uncle Rett looks down at the typed letter in his hands, his bushy eyebrows creasing and his forehead wrinkling before he turns to Aunt Tilly and spreads his hands helplessly.

“Erin,” she says, taking my arm and steering me toward a settee I’ve always loved. “What’s going on? Why are you doing this? Is this about the Chair? Do you not want it after all? Too much responsibility? I have complete faith in you. Everyone on the committee agreed you’d be wonderful. And if you really don’t want it, there’s no need to leave. I’m sure we could—”

“It’s not about the Chair.” The letter’s sitting on my kitchen table where I’d cried over it for hours last night. I’d turned it over and over in my head, trying to figure out what I was going to do. I’ve always wanted to come back to the Hill—more than anything—but after everything that’s happened here, I can’t help but wonder why. Maybe my father was right to leave. Maybe there’s nothing but heartbreak for me here. Will, my miscarriage, and now Shep. “I just can’t stay here anymore.”

“Can we talk about this more? I don’t—”

“No. I’ve already packed. I’m leaving and there’s nothing you can say to talk me out of it.”

I’d stayed up all night, folding up clothes and putting them into suitcases, wrapping my dishes in newspaper and torn-apart magazines. After the worst of the crying was over, I’d scrubbed the tears from my eyes and tried to think logically. When Will and I had gotten a divorce, I’d told him he could stay and I meant it. It wouldn’t have been fun and I was glad he chose to leave in the end, but I could’ve managed seeing him wander the campus day in and day out. It would’ve stung but I could’ve done it. Shep, though… There’s no way I’d be able to stomach seeing him every day. Especially if, now that their secret was out, he started bringing Lana around campus. The very thought had made my stomach threaten to empty all over my kitchen table.

I’d thought about telling him to go. Up until now, he’s been a decent enough guy and I bet I could guilt him into doing it if a simple request didn’t work. But then I’d thought of Caleb. What would happen to him if Shep had to leave Hawthorn? It’s possible Shep would get another teaching job at some other school for the fall. But it’s also possible he might not. Or if he did, maybe they wouldn’t take Caleb. I may want to gouge Shep’s eyes out with my non-existent fingernails but Caleb shouldn’t have to pay for his brother’s transgressions. He needs to get out of that house, away from his dad. So I’ll leave and hope to find someplace I haven’t already drained all the good memories from.

A weight sinks the other side of the settee and a big hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “I’m not sure what’s going on and I don’t know if there’s anything we can do but I wish you’d talk to us, Erin. I know you’ve had a hard time of it since your grandfather died and you’ve had more than your fair share of bumps in the road since you got here, but I think it’s rash of you to leave. Kent would be so proud of you and everything you’ve accomplished here. I really wish he would’ve lived long enough to see you back on the Hill.”

I thought I’d cried all the tears I had to cry, but I was wrong. When Uncle Rett started talking about my grandfather, my eyes welled and now the tears are about to spill over. I don’t want to disappoint my grandfather but I can’t imagine he’d want me to live with the humiliation of having to see Shep around campus every day. He only ever wanted me to be happy, no matter what or where that meant.

“I can’t stay. I’m sorry.”

A frown draws down the corners of his mouth but then there’s a stubborn set to his jaw. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll hold on to this letter and if at the end of two weeks you still want to leave, I won’t stop you. But please, take some time.”

Aunt Tilly is still holding my hand on the other side and she squeezes it. “Will you do that, Erin? Please?”

“It won’t change anything. He—”

Her dark eyes widen and then narrow until she looks so fierce I think she might snarl. “Is this about Zach Shepherd? What did he do?”

I shake my head. I hadn’t meant to say anything. When Will had turned out to be a terrible choice, I’d kept mum on exactly why and I’ll do the same for Shep. I appreciate my aunt’s loyalty, though. She’s usually a gentle soul but I’ve seen what happens when people have made the mistake of crossing her loved ones, which includes every boy who’s ever passed through this campus. It’s not pretty.

I’m having wishful daydreams about the hellfire Aunt Tilly would rain down on Shep if she knew what he’s done when there’s a pounding at their front door.

* * *

Shep

I’ve searched Erin’s whole apartment. She’s not here. It’s just boxes upon boxes and overflowing trash cans. I’ve started pacing the hallway, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on when I see a glint out of the corner of my eye. There’s something on the kitchen table, where we’ve eaten so many bowls of oatmeal or macaroni and cheese. When I get closer, I can tell it’s Erin’s necklace, the one I gave her. The one she never takes off. And underneath it is a piece of paper. The red and blue crest gracing the corner says it’s a letter from the school. I pick it up and scan it:

Dear Ms. Brewster,

We’d like to offer our most heartfelt congratulations on your selection as the Chair of the mathematics department at Hawthorn Hill, effective June 1st.

It goes on to praise everything she’s accomplished here, everything she’s done for the department and the school, and it’s signed by the entire selection committee, with little personal notes of congratulations, too. Erin must’ve been thrilled, and pride courses through me. I knew she could do it, and she’s going to be awesome. I can’t wait to celebrate with her because this is going to be the best day ever. But that doesn’t explain her behavior today at all.

If she got the Chair, what the hell was she so upset about? Why won’t she take my calls? When did she get this letter? That’s when it occurs to me because I have overlooked every damn clue. She told me she was going to check her mailbox after the concert last night, asked me if she should check mine, too. If she got it last night and wanted to tell me in person…

Shit.

I try calling her, texting her, sending her an email even though there’s no way she’ll look at my messages. Not if she thinks… My heart drops into the bile surging in my stomach. She thinks I slept with Lana Davis. She must’ve come by last night and seen her. I have to explain. I have to find her.

The door to the hallway bangs into the wall because I shove it so hard but I don’t stop. No. I vault down the stairs but when I get outside, I realize I have no idea where she is. At a sprint, I head to the back of the building and breathe a sigh of relief that her car is still here. She’s on campus. Somewhere. Now I just have to figure out where that is.

I crisscross the campus, checking all her favorite places: the playing fields, her classroom, down to the art building. Even the dining hall because one night when we were starving and neither of us had any food in our apartments, she’d showed me that if you jiggle the handle just right, you can open the door even when it’s locked. We’d feasted on cereal and fruit and then I’d taken her across one of the metal prep tables, just like I’d fantasized about. This isn’t a fantasy, though; it’s a nightmare.

Out of breath and sweating, I bang on the Fishburnes’ door because Erin and Ellie have become closer over the spring, but a befuddled and very pregnant Ellie answers the door and tells me Erin’s not there. I even go to my apartment in hopes that she’s left a note, anything, that might tell me where she’s gone. It’s only then that I think to go to the Headmaster’s house. Because of course. Erin’s usually very private about her feelings but if she just couldn’t bear to face them alone, that’s where she’d go. To be with the only people who have been her family.

My fist meets the hard wood of the solid door, barely making an impact, but I hope the muted thud carries. I want to yell her name but I should exhibit a bare minimum of decorum so I don’t appear to have completely and utterly lost it. Which I totally have but the Wilsons won’t help me if I look like I’ve lost my damn mind.

When the door swings open, I’m expecting to be met with the imposing figure of Headmaster Wilson but instead it’s all five-foot-nothing of Mrs. Wilson, hands on her hips, looking like she’s spoiling for a fight. Her brown eyes, which have always regarded me warmly, are flinty and hard.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Shepherd?”

Mr. Shepherd. And if I’d done what she thinks I’ve done, I’d have earned that. I haven’t, but because I apparently have some kind of guilt complex, it still makes me queasy. “I’m looking for Erin. I know she’s here. Please.”

“What makes you think she wants to see you? You must’ve messed up in a very serious way because she’s been crying in my living room for the better part of an hour and trying to hand in her resignation. The only other time I’ve seen her so upset was when her grandfather died. What did you do to her?”

My insides feel like they’re liquefying. Erin can’t leave the Hill. She just can’t. Especially not over something that never happened. “I didn’t do anything. I swear to you. It’s all a misunderstanding. Lana and I, we didn’t—”

“Lana Davis?” I’ve never heard Mrs. Wilson raise her voice and I never want to hear it again. It feels like fingernails on the chalkboard of my bones. “Are you having an affair with Lana Davis?”

“No! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’ve never touched her. She’s made…advances.” The old-fashioned word sounds weird coming out of my mouth but I don’t want to say it any other way. She hit on me? Tried to get in my pants? Wanted me to tap that? I can’t say those things to Mrs. Wilson. I take a hard swallow followed by a big breath and look her straight in the eye. “I swear to you, nothing happened between me and Miss Davis.”

“Swear on what?”

I rack my brain for the most serious pledge I can make, because I’d give anything, everything, to get Erin back. “I swear to you on my place here— No, on Caleb’s place here that I’ve had nothing to do with Lana Davis. She came to my apartment last night and tried to…” A strangled noise comes out of my throat in place of the words and I think I see a crack in Mrs. Wilson’s armor. She believes me. Or wants to, anyway. “I told her no. I told her to leave us alone. That I was in love with Erin and that I’d never hurt her. You have to believe me. Please.”

I fumble in my pocket and pull out the box, cracking it open to show her the ring I bought. It’s not much but it’s what I could afford and I hope Erin will like it. I think she will. Simple and not too big, it’ll be perfect on her hand and it’ll tell everyone that she’s mine.

“I was going to ask her tonight. I had it all planned out. I don’t know if she’ll say yes anymore but I at least have something to show her. Please, Mrs. Wilson. You know how I feel about her. How I’ve always felt about her.”

The confession makes me flush. That might not have been the wisest thing to say, admitting that I’ve been lusting after Erin since the first day I saw her, but Mrs. Wilson doesn’t seem scandalized or surprised. Headmaster Wilson may be the name on the letterhead but Tilly’s the one who knows what’s what.

Mrs. Wilson narrows her eyes. I can’t imagine standing in front of her and telling a lie. I’d shrivel up into nothingness. As it is, I get that same kick of adolescent nervousness.

“What did I tell you about making Erin happy?”

“That if I didn’t, I’d have to answer to you. And I will if she doesn’t believe me. But at least give me the chance to explain. Please.”

“I’ve learned a few things about boys and men in the past forty years. You’ll be a very sorry one if I find out you’ve been sneaking around. And mark my words, I will find out.”

“Yes, ma’am. Understood.”

She gives me one last death glare but then pulls the door open wider and ushers me into the living room, where Erin looks so small tucked under Headmaster Wilson’s arm.

“Erin…”

She looks up at the sound of my voice and the expression on her face slays me. Hurt, betrayal, and anguish. I’ve never seen her so upset. “I don’t want so see you. Get out of here.”

“Erin, please. I know what you think happened. But it didn’t. I’ve had nothing to do with Lana and I don’t want to. I swear.”

The Headmaster’s jaw has dropped open but before he has a chance to yell at me, his wife is grabbing his arm and tugging him off the old-fashioned couch and toward the door. “Give them a minute, Rett.”

When the Wilsons have left, I sit next to Erin, not touching her though I ache to. I want to hold her so badly I can taste it, bury my face in her sweet-smelling hair and soothe her. Though I’m desperate for her warm little body against mine, I won’t touch her. Not until she says it’s okay.

“So Lana didn’t come to your apartment last night? That was all a figment of my imagination?” I hate the hardness in her voice and have to beat back my own defensiveness. Getting angry at her for doubting me isn’t going to help matters any.

“No, she was there. But not because I invited her and not because I wanted her. If I were having an affair with her, why would I be doing it out in the hallway where any of the guys could see? You know if they thought I was cheating on you they’d kill me themselves.”

It’s true. Erin has quite the devoted following among the students and they can be extremely protective of her. Especially the ones she’s taught or have lived in her dorm. And don’t get me started on the faculty. If Erin had let slip anything Will had done, they’d never find the body. These tweed-and-tie types look all civilized, but if you hurt one of theirs, you’d best watch your back.

“Yes, she was there because she wanted to start something. She’s been trying to start something since we saw her at the dance. But I sent her away, told her I’m with you. Erin, I—” If there’s one thing I learned in my English classes on the Hill, it’s that showing is better than telling. I do some quick mental math and make my last-ditch effort. “Fifteen minutes. Give me fifteen minutes and if you’re not convinced after that that I love you and I’d never do anything to hurt you, especially not sleep with Lana Davis, then I’ll leave. You can stay on the Hill where you belong and I’ll find someplace else. You belong here, no matter what else you decide. But I need you to have all the information before you make your choice.”

* * *

Erin

I want to believe him. Every particle of my body is longing to be convinced. But there’s that horrible voice that always nags at me. That’s what he’s been doing every night we weren’t together. Lana probably flew down and spent the week with him in Fort Lauderdale. That’s why he’s been acting so hopped up and weird for the past month. Her.

But all he’s asking for is fifteen minutes. Even if he has been cheating on me, I could give him that. I gave Will years; surely I can spare fifteen minutes for Shep. Fifteen minutes that might get me my life back.

“Fine. But the clock starts now.”

He holds out a hand and that piece of me that so desperately wants to believe him compels me to slip my fingers through his. A distinct expression of relief settles over his features and then he’s pulling me off the settee and toward the door. “Then we’ve got to get a move on.”

Ten minutes later, we’re standing in front of the art gallery on Main Street. The doors are closed, the lights are dimmed and an off-kilter sign hangs in the picture window facing the street: “We’ll be back at eleven!”

He brought me to a closed gallery why?

But he doesn’t look discouraged or disappointed. Instead he draws something out of his pocket and then he’s sliding a key into the lock. Why does Shep have a key to the gallery? He doesn’t stop for an explanation, but nudges me through the door and through the first darkened room, not bothering to turn up the lights. When we turn the corner into the back room, though, he flicks a switch and the space is illuminated, bathed in bright light.

Like most galleries, this one is usually pretty spare. Pieces hung far apart give you the time and space to consider them, but this—drawings and paintings cover the walls from floor to ceiling, a collage of images that’s almost overwhelming. At first I can’t process it, there’s so many of them, but then something catches my eye.

It’s the drawing of my shoes, my heels lifting out of the backs, the constellation of freckles on the back of my calf I’d never paid much attention to but now I find a secret pride in it, knowing how Shep loves the scatter of tiny brown dots. When I slow my gaze to wander over each of the pictures, my breath hitches in my throat. They’re me. They’re all of me. Some I’ve seen, from his senior art show and from the walls of his apartment, but most I haven’t.

The fall of my hair over a pillow, crossed ankles under a table, a hand holding a piece of chalk up to an overflowing chalkboard. In none of them can you see my face but I know in my heart they’re all me. He’s been so careful to maintain plausible deniability, but here they are, love letters hiding in plain sight again. Dozens upon dozens, and each one chips at my doubt. I spin around, trying to take it all in but there are just so many of them.

“Time’s up.”

His soft, low words yank my attention from the walls.

“How did you—”

“I took your advice.” The corner of his mouth is curled up in a nervy, hopeful smile. “They’ve been hanging up here for a week. I’ve had a few offers on some of the pieces but I don’t think I’m going to sell any of them. I…I did this for you. You’re the one who’s always supported me, believed in me, made me believe in myself. Gave me the courage to choose what would make me happy. I wanted to show you that you’re the one. You’ve always been the one. I love you and I don’t want to be with anyone else, ever.”

“When did you even…”

“What do you think I do on the nights I’m not with you?”

Guilt squeezes my lungs because it sure as heck wasn’t this. All this time I’ve had pangs of suspicion and mistrust, and he’s been so devoted that he draws me when I’m not around. Even the particularly stubborn brand of paranoia I’ve been cursed with can’t withstand the prodigious amount of evidence that it’s been me in his thoughts, me in his heart since the beginning, and I’ve never left.

“They’re beautiful.”

“How could they not be? They’re you.”

“Shep, I—”

He silences me with a shake of his head and reaches for my hands. I give them over, gladly. I want his touch.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Lana. The only reason I didn’t want you to know she was here is because I knew how much it would upset you. You’ve had so much going on, I didn’t want to add to your load. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you. Whenever I try too hard to protect you, it bites me in the ass.”

That makes me laugh but I force my features into sternness. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know, and I will. In the future. If there’s still a chance of a future.”

“Yes, I think so.” That’s the understatement of the year. There’s nothing I want more than that. “And I— I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I doubted you. I should’ve talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions. It’s just that Will…”

I close my eyes and sigh. Will poisoned me and I let him for so long, he made my mind suspicious and wary. Even though Shep’s earned my trust, given me the antidote of steady, true and earnest love, it’s hard to silence that nagging voice in the back of my brain. But maybe someday I’ll be able to do it. I want to do it, so I open my eyes and let Shep see the depths of my vulnerability.

What I see in his expression isn’t a mirror of my anxiety. It’s rock-solid, unadulterated promise. “I know, lamb, I know. I’ll try to remind myself you’re stronger than you look. But I want, so badly, for you to not have to be. I’ll always be there for you. I’ll be your backstop when things get to be too much. I love you, and I want to take care of you. Forever.”

The bubble that’s been inflating in my chest bursts because it can’t contain that much happiness. He knows just what assurances to make. “I love you, too.”

“Then maybe, even though I’ve fucked this up, you’ll still say yes to marrying me?”

He reaches into his pocket again—how is it that men seem to have bottomless pockets?—and pulls out a black velvet box as he drops to one knee. It’s the sort of box that makes a certain kind of woman’s heart beat fast and hard. Mine is. When I crack open the box with trembling fingers, there’s a simple ring nestled in its place. A small round diamond on a thin gold band. I couldn’t be happier. I don’t need anything fancy; I don’t even need this.

“What do you say, Erin? We haven’t been together long, but I can’t imagine being with anyone else. You’re better than any fantasy I ever had and I want to make your dreams come true. Say you’ll let me try. Say you’ll be my wife.”

Strangely, there’s a flutter of pages through my head, as if they’ve been blown off the walls by a sudden gust of wind though we’re inside. Pencil sketches and torn-out sheets of notebook paper, the academic detritus of teaching assignments and love notes in plain sight. To weigh them all down with a simple gold ring, nothing would make me happier. So here in this room with his love for me plastered all over the walls, I say it.

“I will.”

He takes the ring from the box. It looks tiny in his hands as he slips it on my finger. When it’s on, I sigh. It looks better there than in the box. I love it, I love him. We’re going to be so happy together, our own little family on the Hill. I can be your family. I can be yours.

Epilogue

Three Months Later

Shep

“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Brewster. Miss Brewster to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.”

I shift in the hard, slick plastic of the desk chair. She’s wearing a close-fitting pencil skirt and it rides up her thigh as she reaches for the class list on her desk. She does roll call and when she gets to my name, her face flushes an incredible shade of red that makes me half-hard. I raise my hand from my seat in the back and barely contain my laugh when her eyelashes flutter and she fans herself with the attendance sheet.

“Right. Well. Let’s get started.”

She turns to the board and starts to write, drawing the graph of a simple parabola to illustrate the concepts of domain and range. It’s a lesson I could give in my sleep but I hold my tongue as she talks through it, hanging on her every word. I love to hear her teach, always have.

While I listen, my gaze skates over those damn purple flats, up the curve of her calf to where her legs disappear into that skirt that might as well be made of flirtation. From there, my study continues, over the curve of her breast visible through her prim cardigan, skimming the drip of pearls around her neck. Wisps of her hair have escaped her bun and curl around her nape and her ears, and she brushes a tendril off her pink face, getting a smudge of chalk on her cheek in the process. That’s when I can’t take it anymore.

I slide out of the chair and come up behind her, stilling her hand and taking the chalk from between her fingers before I press the length of my body along the back of hers until she’s trapped between me and the board.

“Shep, you’re going to get chalk all over my sweater.”

“That’s going to be the least of your problems if you forget your own name tomorrow.”

She giggles and turns her head, rests her cheek against the green surface. “You caught that, did you?”

“I did. Maybe you should try it again.”

She closes her eyes and rolls her lips between her teeth, pressing her hips against me. The pressure against my cock that’s no longer half-hard but full-on ready for her makes me groan. I wedge a knee between her thighs and urge her legs apart. Her back arches and I press into her harder.

“Again. Do it now.”

“Yes, Zach.” She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes while her fingertips graze the white writing on the board, smudging her perfect penmanship. That’s what I’d like to do to her. Muss her all up. “Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Shepherd. Mrs. Shepherd to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.”

Hearing her say the words, the words I’ve longed for, makes me want her even more. Not to mention the gold band that rests snug underneath her engagement ring, the one that tells the whole world she belongs to me, forever. “Fuck, Erin.”

The blinds of the classroom are drawn and it’s pitch black outside. The door to Erin’s classroom is closed and locked and the building is eerily silent, not like how it’ll be tomorrow morning when classes start. The guys are back on campus but they’re occupied with all the welcome-back bluster. No one’s going to step foot in an academic building a second before they have to. Except us.

Tomorrow I’ll have to endure the torture of hearing her say the words through the horsehair plaster and struggle not to get a hard-on while I teach my own class, knowing she’s right on the other side of the wall thinking the same filthy thoughts I am. But for now, we get to indulge.

I lean back far enough to yank the tie from around my neck, keeping her pinned with my hips. Slipping it around her eyes, I don’t fail to notice the hard swallow that ripples her throat. Though I’ve had her blindfolded dozens of times, it still unnerves her. I love the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip in uncertainty before she releases it and takes a deep breath, her shoulders dropping and relaxing into the wall because she trusts me not to hurt her. I won’t. I never will.

Stroking her arm, I lean down and tell her what a good girl she is and she practically purrs. When I tell her to stay, and step back, she stiffens but doesn’t move. Not even when I pull my belt from its loops. She must be able to hear the whisper of leather through cotton but she doesn’t budge, doesn’t protest. And goddamn does that make me want her.

I have half a mind to take the belt to her ass and make it that perfect shade of red, but I want to draw this out, make it last, because this is something we’ve both been waiting for, craving. I could hardly believe it when she’d handed me the box last week.

We’d just finished moving into John’s old apartment. Though we were both dusty and tired, she’d smiled at me in that shy, sneaky way she has and told me to wait on the couch, where we’d collapsed after the last bag had been carried up. She’d handed me this innocuous-looking shoebox, but when I’d opened it I nearly died. One of my Hawthorn ties, a leather belt, an old-school wooden ruler, her pearl necklace, and a box of chalk. She’d knelt in front of me, wringing her hands in her lap. “I thought maybe we could—”

“Yes.” I hadn’t even known exactly what she was going to ask for but I’d been so proud of her for asking, I hadn’t cared. And when she’d mustered up the courage to spell out the details, offering up the handwritten pages from her pocket while she was tomato-red and nervous as hell, I’d been even more on board. Now that it’s happening… Perfection. That’s what she is.

I steer her arms until she’s holding them elbow-to-wrist behind her back and then I use my belt to cinch them together. This is amateur-hour bondage—I’ve had her in much more serious restraints over the summer but it’s just another layer to add to this deliciously filthy cake. And now that she’s bound up and helpless for me, the real fun can start.

The ruler she’d put in the box is sitting alone on the otherwise clear desk and I take it up to run along her cheek.

“Know what this is, lamb?”

“Yes, Zach.”

“Know what I’m going to do with it?”

Since I can’t see her eyes, my gaze is glued to her lips. I swear half the time she doesn’t need to talk because her mouth is so expressive. But goddamn, do I like to make her say things out loud.

“Yes, Zach.”

I grunt at her tease of an answer. “So that’s how we’re going to play today, huh?”

Her mouth purses up like she’s so pleased with herself but trying not to laugh and I have to smile and shake my head. She’s adorable. And is totally earning what’s coming to her. “Yes, Zach.”

“Tell me, then,” I say, drawing the ruler down her neck, slipping it between her skin and her necklace, twisting once so the strand presses into her flesh. She swallows again, the pearls bobbing against her throat.

“You’re going to…” She’s gotten better at saying things out loud but I kind of don’t want her to ever get used to it entirely. I like how it makes her squirm and blush, how she’s all prim and respectable until I’ve driven her out of her mind and then all bets are off. I twist the ruler a little more. Not near enough to cut off her air but enough to make her feel it, and she makes a strangled little noise of horny surprise. “You’re going to spank me with it, Zach.”

“Yes, I am. And won’t you enjoy that, you filthy girl?”

Her fingers curl against her elbows and she presses harder into the board. “Yes, Zach.”

I brace my wrist holding the ruler against her shoulder so I don’t accidentally twist it farther while I work her skirt up around her waist. She wriggles while I tug the fabric over her hips, and I don’t know if she’s trying to help or hinder. I don’t care. It’s a good excuse to slap the cheek I’ve exposed.

“Be still.”

She whimpers but stills the movement of her hips. I’m finally able to wrestle the skirt to where I want it and when it’s there, I’m glad for the struggle. It’s not going to go anywhere while I have my way with her sweet, round ass. I warm her up with a hand spanking, turning the skin I can see around those damn blue lace panties a sweet shade of pink. When I’ve got her all ready, I peel the stretchy lace over the curve of her ass and slide the ruler out of her necklace.

She takes a deep breath and I can see the faint indent of the pearls in her delicate skin. Those marks won’t last long but they’re here for now, whispering Mine over and over, all around her throat. I know what I’ll be drawing tonight, in a sketchbook only the two of us will ever see.

When I’ve disentangled myself, I slant a forearm across her shoulder blades and lean into her, trapping her against the wall. The breath flushes out of her lungs and she makes one of those little sex noises that never fail to make every drop of blood in my body make a break for my dick. But first…

“Ah!” If she thought I was going to take it easy on her, she was sadly mistaken. I hit her again, and again, turning her skin from pink to red in the process. She only struggles a little, a twist of her shoulders here, a turn of her hips there. Just enough to let me scold her for it and take her transgressions out on her butt.

When it’s bright red and hot to the touch, I stop and let myself touch her, loving her pleading noises as I caress and pinch her. And when I’ve had my fill of the soft, warm flesh under my fingertips, I turn her around and direct her to her knees. Her lips are sweetly parted and her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip.

“And what does my naughty girl want now?”

“Your—your cock. Please.”

“Where do you want it?”

“Wherever you’d like, Zach.” My fly feels like it’s about to give out under the strain and I have to close my eyes and grit my teeth. Fuck all, is she sexy.

“Open your mouth.”

I get to watch her, lips parted and wet, waiting for me while I fumble with the button and the zipper, and then I’m inside her. The heat of her mouth and the slick of her tongue surrounding me. I let her play for a little while before I cradle the back of her head in my hand and urge her forward. Her arms are bound, so I won’t go too far because she wouldn’t be able to tell me to stop if she needs me to, but I enter her throat a few times, and that’s all it takes. I give her a warning but then I’m spilling into her mouth and down her throat, bracing a hand against the chalkboard and smudging her neat writing even more because that’s what she does to me, too—makes me a full-on mess, shatters my control.

She licks at me until I tell her to stop, and then I tuck my dick back in my pants where it’ll no doubt get hard again in minutes because we’re not done yet. Not even close.

I help her to her feet and lead her, skirt still around her waist and her panties just below her butt cheeks, over to her desk, where I lift her up and settle her on the edge. Her feet dangle a few inches off the floor so I take the opportunity to take off her shoes. Then I lie her back against the cleared surface of the desk and strip off her panties before having her prop her feet up against the edge.

Her chest is rising high with each breath and her legs are trembling but I’m pretty confident it’s not from strain. I’ve put her through far more than this and she takes everything I can dish out. She’s stronger than I’ve ever given her credit for but that doesn’t mean I can’t knock her off-balance with the unexpected.

“This is not part of the script!”

I have to laugh at her squeaky protest but I silence her by pressing the heel of one hand over her mound and stroking her clit with the fingers of the other. “I’m improvising. Is that a problem?”

“No, Zach.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Dropping to my own knees, I spread her open and dip my head to taste her. She bucks her hips up to meet my mouth and I tsk at her. “You’ll take what I give you, nothing more, nothing less. Now relax.”

“Yes, Zach.”

I don’t think there are many women who would sound quite so miserable when faced with the prospect of their husband going down on them, but this is one of my favorite ways to torture Erin and she knows it. I could edge her like this for hours. Have, in fact, because it doesn’t take a whole lot to get her completely desperate and less to keep her there. Not today, though.

After I work at her for a few minutes, tasting her, licking her and sucking her clit until her back is arched high off the desk, I stop. I’m hard as hell from the taste and smell and feel of her. Now that we’ve completed our little detour, it’s time to get back on track. This is her fantasy, after all, not mine, though there’s a hell of a lot of overlap. But she’s asked me for these things and I’ll give them to her. I always want to be the man she trusts to give her what she needs.

Helping her sit up, I kiss her neck and brush some hair off her face before reaching for the belt and untying her. I rub her wrists and forearms before I slide her off the desk, turn her around and bend her over.

She rests her hands alongside her head and sighs, content but still willing. I can’t stand it anymore. I need to be inside her. So I unbutton and unzip my pants and kick her feet out until she’s wide open for me and then…then I ease inside of her and I have to stop because otherwise I’m going to lose it. Even though I just came, because this girl—goddamn. I knead her ass while I wait and try not to listen too hard to the breathy sounds of protest because that would set me off just as well. But within a minute, I’ve managed to get myself under control so I start to move.

It’s not like I have anyone else to compare her to, but I can’t imagine anyone would feel better than Erin. Not just her pussy—although that feels a hundred different kinds of amazing—but just her. Everything feels better now that we’re together. The diamond on her finger glints at me and I start to fuck her harder. Mine. Mine to do with what I wish, to please and control. Mine to take care of. Mine to love.

“Come on, Erin,” I urge, and wedge my hand between her thighs and the edge of the desk so I can finger her clit while I thrust into her. That’s what she needs, just a few beats of contact. Then she’s pulsing around me, crying out her pleasure while I fuck her on the desk she’ll teach behind tomorrow, the desk that had stood between us while she was my teacher, but not anymore.

I’m done for.

I don’t try to hold back anymore because I don’t have to. Giving in, the climax rips through me and I pour my release inside of her and, damn, does it feel good.

Until we got married a couple of weeks ago, we’d been doubling down with condoms and the pill, but now she’s just on the pill. We’re planning to wait on the whole baby thing until Caleb graduates but if she happened to get pregnant between now and then, it’d be fine. More than fine—I’d be thrilled. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about being a dad because it’s not like I had a great role model, but I feel like that’s something it’s okay to be uncertain about. Besides, there’s no doubt in my mind Erin will be a great mom.

In the meantime, I’m just going to love her like crazy. And tell her so, all the time. Because I do.

Still inside of her, I lean down and rest my chest against her back. I pull the tie from around her eyes so I can watch her lashes flutter against her cheek while she comes down, her heartbeat slowing beneath me. Eventually our breathing evens out and I slide my hand up to where hers is resting on the desk. I curl my pinky around hers and run my nose along the sensitive skin behind her ear. “I love you, Erin.”

My heart is filled close to bursting when she smiles and says, “I love you, too, Shep.”

* * *

Thank you for reading Taming His Teacher, I hope you enjoyed Shep and Erin’s story. If you want more elegant superfilth, you’ll want to one click Alpha in the Sheets. Turn the page for an excerpt. There’s also a sugar-sweet bonus Christmas story for Erin and Shep at the very end of this book, so don’t forget to flip all the way through to “A Hawthorn Hill Christmas.”

Alpha in the Sheets

I like my men the way I like my drinks: tall, stiff, with a few aches the only proof I pounded them the night before.

I don’t do relationships. I don’t do romance. I do kinky AF strangers I never speak to again. Or I did, until Cris Ardmore comes along.

Handsome, charming, and cooks almost as well as he f*cks—which is to say phenomenally—Cris makes me want to break all my carefully cultivated rules. I don’t want to like him and I definitely can’t afford to trust him. Not after what happened the last time I fell in love. The only thing Cris is supposed to be in charge of during our dirty weekends is my body, he needs to keep his too-talented hands off my heart.

* * *

Cris leads me back to the main room and over to the table. Patting the short end, he says “Up you go,” and releases me.

I press up onto the table, leaving my legs and feet dangling over the side. He unclips my hair and runs his fingers through it until it’s flowing down my back.

“I’ll be right back.” He touches my arm on his way past, and I watch him walk over to the chest of drawers and slide one open and shut. When he comes back, he’s got a pair of leather cuffs in his hand. They’re brown and well-used, so they’ll be comfortable and won’t chafe.

“Hands.”

I offer them to him, palms up, and he fastens the cuffs on my wrists smoothly. Yes, he’s well-practiced. When he’s finished, he grips my hipbones and scoots me back on the smooth table.

“Knees into your chest.”

I’m not sure what his game is, but I do as I’m asked. Still sitting, I bend my knees until my thighs are pressed against my torso and my feet are flat on the table. He comes to my side, wraps an arm around my waist, and cradles the back of my head in his other hand. “Back you go.”

Having the bare skin of his chest and forearms on mine is the most heavenly feeling. He’s warm and in good shape, more like from honest physical labor than spending hours in a gym. I like it, very much. I sink into his grasp, and he lays me back on the table. I’m pliant already, comfortable following his gentle instructions. Sometimes it takes me a while to acclimate to a Dom’s style, but this is easy. He slides my cuffed wrists over my head and clips them to an anchor point I can’t see. When he’s done, he takes a step back.

“Very nice.”

I have to agree. He has a very nice body I’m getting to admire more closely. I still haven’t been able to discern what the medal around his neck is, though.

He traces a path from my tethered wrists down to my shoulders and my ribcage before cupping my breasts, stroking his thumbs over my nipples again until they peak under his touch. I arch my back, pushing them into his hands.

“You like to be touched?”

“Yes, sir.”

He starts to knead at me. Gently at first, then harder, the sweet attentions of earlier left behind. I press my feet into the table.

“You’re a responsive little thing, aren’t you? You can close your eyes, kitten.”

Kitten! This just keeps getting better. I mewl to let him know I liked it and take advantage of his invitation. Thank god. Not that I don’t enjoy looking at him—on the contrary—but having my eyes closed makes it easier to behave and increases the intensity of the sensations. A win-win.

He works me over, and as he hasn’t demanded I be quiet or still, I give him cues when he’s done something I particularly enjoy: a groan here, a squirm there. He’s a fast learner, and it’s not long before I’m writhing under his attentions, careful to keep my feet flat on the table. He’s got me pretty riled up when he starts to hush me. I’m not surprised but only a little disappointed. Of course it’s not going be this easy. What fun would that be?

I calm under his gentling and open my eyes. He’s smiling down at me, a knowing, predatory smile. “You’re such a treat to watch. Beautiful. And this is only the beginning.”

I can’t help the moan that escapes at his promise, and he shakes his head. “This time you’ll be quiet.”

“Yes, sir,” I squeak, and I’m rewarded by a hard squeeze to my breasts. This is going to be good. He starts in on me again, picking up the intensity, and I’m glad he’s only asked me to be quiet and not still, too, because he’s driving me insane. His fingers dig into me as he squeezes. It’s only just not painful—precisely how I like it. His fingers grasp my nipples, and he pinches and rolls them before tugging hard. My gasp is followed by a slap to the side of my breast.

“I said quiet.” His voice is sharp, and he doesn’t pause in his torments.

“Yes, sir.”

Fuck am I in trouble, and he knows it. My breathless response gave me away. He teases me before tugging sharply again. While I don’t gasp, I can’t help the strangled grunt he’s forced out of me. My disobedience results in another slap, this time to my other breast, and a warning.

“I said no noise. If you make another sound, it will mean punishment and not the little reminders you’ve been getting. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” I don’t know whether to hope for this or not. First punishments are telling, and I can’t say I’m not curious about what this might mean for Cris. I’ve been caned for less, although I suspect that’s not his style. Not yet at any rate.

He torments me for another few minutes, driving me wild with his talented and sure hands. He’s going to go for it again, so I steel myself and manage to stay quiet. But he’s a stubborn and wily son of a bitch, and he does it again, more sharply, yielding a squeal. This isn’t idle threats and disappointment. He wants to punish me. I get another slap to my right breast, followed quickly by one to my left, harder this time.

His hands are on either side of my ribcage, and he leans over me, his mouth brushing by my ear. “It’s such a shame you’re so badly behaved. I was starting to enjoy myself.”

I whimper in response and get a hand at my throat.

“And how should we punish you, pet?” He poses his question idly, as if he has all the time in the world to compose a dissertation on the topic. “So many ways to pink up your pretty pale skin and help you learn to do as you’re told.”

Click to read Alpha in the Sheets now!

Thank You!

- If you’d like to know when my next book is available, you can sign up for my new release mailing list at tamsenparker.com or follow me on social media (see the full list on my About the Author page).

- Reviews help readers discover books. I appreciate all reviews and the time it takes to share your thoughts.

- You’ve just read Taming His Teacher. Turn the page for a full listing of my books. Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you’ll keep in touch!

Also by Tamsen Parker

The After Hours Series

Alpha in the Sheets

Bound in the Streets

Reclaiming His Wife

For His Eyes Only

A Heart to Keep

Insidious

The Snow and Ice Games Series

Love on the Tracks

Seduction on the Slopes

On the Edge of Scandal

Fire on the Ice

On the Brink of Passion

The License to Love Series

Thrown Off Track

The Inside Track

Hot on Her Tracks (Release Date TBD)

Camp Firefly Falls

In Her Court

Love, All

Standalone Novels

Taming His Teacher

His Custody (Re-releasing Fall 2019)

For Her Own Good (Releasing October 22 2019)

If I Loved You Less

Short Stories and Novellas

Needs

(Originally published in the Winter Rain anthology)

Looking for a Complication

(Originally published in the For the First Time anthology)

Dedication of a Lifetime

(Originally published in the Rogue Affair anthology)

Craving Flight

Anthologies

Rogue Desire

Rogue Affair

Rogue Hearts

Rogue Ever After

Best Women’s Erotica of the Year Volume Four

About the Author

Tamsen Parker is a USA Today bestselling romance writer, with books in the erotic romance, hot contemporary, sports, and now sweet subgenres, and writes about f/f, m/f, and m/m couples falling for each other. The Lesbian Review named both IF I LOVED YOU LESS and FIRE ON THE ICE to their Top 15 Books of 2018, and IN HER COURT as one of the Top 10 Audiobooks of 2018. Her novella CRAVING FLIGHT was named to the Best of 2015 lists of Heroes and Heartbreakers, Smexy Books, Romance Novel News, and Dear Author. Heroes and Heartbreakers called her After Hours series “bewitching, humorous, erotically intense and emotional.”

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Acknowledgments

A huge thank-you to Courtney Miller-Callihan for finding a home for this book and then helping me get it back when the time was right—you’re the best agent a girl could ask for.

Also thanks to AJ and Piper, my beta readers, who gave me the courage to put this weird little story out in the world.

To my friends MTS, LG, EH, and KO for being onboard with whatever I decide to write next, and especially to AJ for putting together the outing that inspired this story. Also a very special thank-you to MRF for being willing to help me with math terms, since I’m far better with words than numbers.

Gratitude to Mr. Parker and Kidlet for dealing with the ups and downs of having a creative professional in the family. We won’t have takeout for dinner again tomorrow, promise! Okay, maybe . . .

To Cindy, Kristine, and the rest of my crew at InterMix, thank you for all your hard work, I’m so glad to have had you on my team for the first iteration of this book when it was released as School Ties.

And, as always, bottomless appreciation to my readers and reviewers. I couldn’t do any of this without you.

A Hawthorn Hill Christmas

Erin

It’s our second Christmas together, and I cannot wait for Shep to wake up. Usually when I get up before him (which is almost always since my husband is not a morning person) I go out to the living room so I won’t wake him with my fidgeting. But I can’t today, because his mom is staying on our couch for a few days for the holiday. Caleb really hadn’t wanted to go home for the month-long winter break and we weren’t about to make him.

Their dad has been better but still not great, so we invited their parents to Hawthorn for the holiday. While Christy was excited, Doug passed. Fine with us. It still leaves me trying my very, very best to be still and quiet even though it is Christmas morning, and there are presents under the tree. Not a lot, but enough that the spread had made Caleb’s eyes go wide when he’d brought his backpack over a few days ago with stuff from his dorm room hastily crammed in. It’s not like he needs to worry if he forgot something—his other room is right across campus.

To prepare for the festivities, I went all out with the decorating—it looks like the North Pole threw up in our apartment, there’s even tinsel in the bathroom—and with the cookies since it’s not like I can provide anything special in the way of Christmas dinner. Luckily, Uncle Rett and Aunt Tilly took pity on us and we’ll be having the afternoon meal with them. Tilly promised to make pot roast for Shep, and I think he might be more excited for that than he is for his presents under the tree.

He shouldn’t be.

I’ve been saving my money for almost a year, and Shep is going to be delighted. Not just by his actual present, but by how much planning and foresight I put into it. He is going to love, love, love it. So much. I can’t wait.

My excitement can’t be contained apparently, because Shep rolls over with a sleepy grunt and flops a heavy arm over my mid-section before snuggling into my side.

“Why’re you up so early, lamb?”

I love his sleep-musty smell, the weight of his warm body, and usually I’d encourage him to maybe start a little something. Begin our morning with a bang. But Caleb and Christy are here, so we’ll behave ourselves. Mostly. We’ll still play our little games, and they’ll have no idea. It’s kind of like being a dirty secret agent.

“I’m sorry I woke you. But it’s Christmas, and I just—it’s Christmas, and I can’t wait to give you your present.”

He huffs a laugh, kisses my neck, and then bites my shoulder. “Are you sure it’s not about getting your present? Because I think you’re gonna like that too.”

Of that, I have no doubt. We don’t have a lot of money, but he always gives me really thoughtful gifts. Things he knows I’ll enjoy, and frequently there are two. One I can show people, tell people about when they ask and another, not so much.

“I know I will.”

He seems to have fallen back asleep so I try to occupy myself so I don’t disturb him again. It’s impossible. I don’t have any work to do for a few days at least, all the presents are wrapped, and the holiday preparations are done. Having to be still is killing me. When I just can’t handle it anymore, Shep laughs in that quiet, adoring way because he knows I’m not the best at being still when I’m excited. It’s something he uses to his advantage when we play.

“There might be a little something under the bed to keep you occupied until Caleb and my mom get up.”

He laughs more when I practically fall out of bed so I can grab what’s waiting for me. It’s flat and wrapped terribly because that is not Shep’s strong suit, but the wrapping doesn’t last long anyway. I rip it off in a flurry, and under the paper is a sticker book. A grown-up one where you can make famous works of art by matching the stickers to the spaces like a sticker-by-number, but a sticker book nonetheless.

I love it.

I scramble back into bed, arrange my pillow so I can sit up and before I dig in, lean over to brush a bit of hair off his forehead before I press a kiss there.

“Thank you, Zach. It’s perfect.”

“Welcome, lamb.”

And while he goes back to sleep, I set to the project he’s given me, content.

* * *

Shep

The smell of bacon frying is what finally rouses me. My mom must be making breakfast, because except for baking, Erin stays far away from our kitchen. I’ve gotten better with some basics, but let’s just say it’s a good thing we eat ninety percent of our meals in the dining hall with the guys.

Cracking open an eye, I half-expect Erin to be gone from the bed since my mom and Caleb are already up—no way my little brother has slept through the smell of bacon. He eats like two horses and the four inches he’s sprung up since he got here proves it. He’s still kinda skinny, but I think that’s just his build. Wiry and lean, he’s not inclined to bulk up. Not that he needs to—he plays squash for his required sport, and the rest of the time he’s in the theater. And on student council. And in Model UN. And on yearbook and the student paper. He’s flourishing here, and Erin is killing it as the Chair of the math department, and basically everything is right in my world.

Which is why Erin is still in our bed, her gift spread across her lap, a look of extreme concentration furrowing her brow.

“It’s ‘sposed to be fun, lamb.”

She turns her head, a shy smile lighting up her face. “It is. I love it. I just don’t want to mess it up.”

My sweet lamb. Well, as long as she’s enjoying it.

“You ready to get up now? Smells like my mom’s making breakfast. Which means Caleb’s up and probably chomping at the bit to open his presents under the tree.”

“Do we have to eat first?”

“Yeah, we have to eat first. You don’t want to hurt my mom’s feelings, right?”

Erin shakes her head, because of course not. She and my mom get along really well, and it makes me happy to see them together. I talked to my mom a bit last night after Caleb and Erin had gone to bed, and things are better with her and my dad. With me and Caleb out of the house, he’s less stressed about money, and she’s convinced him to cut back on the drinking. He’s still kind of a jackass, but he doesn’t yell hardly at all, and that’s a huge improvement. Hopefully he’ll keep getting better and she’ll keep getting happier. And if not, we’ll figure out a way to move her up here. Maybe not in Hawthorn because it’s pretty ritzy but in a town close by.

I stretch and finally manage to set my feet on the floor, pull on a Hawthorn Lacrosse sweatshirt on over my T-shirt, and Erin puts her sticker book aside to get out of bed, shoving her feet into her sheep slippers and looking freaking adorable in her fleecy Christmas llama pajamas.

We make our way out to the living room where my mom and my brother are already seated at our dining table, helping themselves from plates piled high with pancakes and bacon and sausage. I tug the syrup bottle out of Caleb’s hand before he can flood his plate with it. He’s got a stack of pancakes about as big as his head, and I’m sure he’ll have another one before he’s through.

When it’s finally time to open presents, Caleb and Erin make a break for it and distribute the packages to everyone. Caleb gets mostly clothes because he keeps freaking growing out of the ones he has, but he doesn’t complain. It’s nice for him to have things that fit properly and aren’t hand-me-downs. Erin and I also got him a video game that he has to keep here since he’s not allowed to have a game system in his dorm room. I think maybe Erin picked that one instead of one he could load on his laptop because she likes having him around. He comes over a lot during the weekends, and sometimes when I get back from a Saturday away game, I find them baking cookies together in the kitchen or watching a movie. It frigging kills me, how full that makes my heart.

After everyone’s opened everything, Erin and I look at each other. There wasn’t a present from me to her or from her to me. Suspicious. I know why mine couldn’t go under the tree, but what’s her excuse?

“Yours should be arriving any second,” she says, eyes flicking to the clock and then to the door.

“Yours, too.” I narrow my eyes at her, but she just bites her lip and looks like she’s about to burst from keeping this secret. She’s so proud of herself, and so excited. No matter what it is, how happy she is for giving it to me will make it the greatest thing ever.

We weren’t off much on the timing, because there’s a knock at the door and Erin scrambles over to it, not even giving me a chance to get off the couch before she’s flinging the door open, letting Ellie Fishburne in with her squirmy little girl in her arms. Maya is bundled up in a hat and gloves and snowsuit and she is not happy about it.

I take the restless munchkin from Ellie, settling Maya on my hip and pulling off her hat and gloves and zipping her out of her snowsuit before she loses her little mind. I don’t miss the way Erin looks at us, like she loves seeing Maya smile her gummy smile at me, but it also squeezes her heart.

Soon, Erin, soon. I know she wants a baby of our own, and I do too, but we said we’d wait until Caleb goes to college. Kid deserves a few years of having all our time and resources dedicated to him. And it wouldn’t hurt for us to get more established here at Hawthorn, either.

Erin can’t see it, but I think Rett Wilson is grooming her to take over his job as Head when he retires. Has been bringing her to boarding school leadership conferences under the guise of being a doddering old man who needs someone to keep him on task. Yeah, right. He might be old, but that man is sharp as ever. If he really thought he was losing it, he’d step down because he’d never do anything to hurt this school that he’s dedicated his entire professional life to.

Makes me forget for a second that one of the Fishburnes is missing. “Hey, where’s Cole?”

And what Cole is supposed to be bringing over from their faculty apartment across the quad…

Ellie pulls off her own hat and unwinds her scarf while stomping snow off her boots. In a small miracle, we’re actually having a white Christmas on the Hill. “He’s coming. He’s just lugging that, uh, package up the stairs.”

I head to the door, passing Maya off to Erin on my way. She’s only too happy to take the little muffin. Before I can get out to the hall to lend Cole a hand, he’s there in the doorway with a big crate in each hand, looking like he might pass out.

Two crates? I know what one of them is, but…

One of the crates barks, and the other one barks back.

Oh, shit.

* * *

Erin

Maya’s grabbed a hank of my hair, and I’m trying to untangle her tiny fingers without hurting either of us. Shep is still standing in the doorway, frozen. He must know by now what his present is, and not that I can see his face, but his body language doesn’t scream “thrilled.”

I thought he’d be happy. He loves the dogs around campus, and I thought he’d like company when he goes running on Sundays since I sure as heck don’t go with him. And I know he doesn’t like to think about me alone here when he goes away for lacrosse camp over spring break, which is silly since I spend most of the time with Ellie and Cole and Maya or Uncle Rett and Aunt Tilly, but what’s the harm in indulging his more protective instincts?

Which is when I hear it.

One bark I was expecting, but there’s a second one, and now there’s a cacophony of woofing coming from the hallway. A racket that could not possibly be made by a single dog. Did he…

When Shep steps to the side, Cole finally makes his way in, heavy plastic carriers in each hand.

“Next time you want to get each other puppies, you need to pick smaller dogs. I’m thinking Chihuahuas. Teacup poodles. Something like that.”

Ellie smacks Cole on the chest and then turns to me to take Maya, whose little fist I’ve managed to unwind from my hair. Maya’s only too happy to go back to her mom and plants a wet kiss on Ellie’s face. By kiss, I mean she opens her mouth as wide as she can and flops her head onto Ellie’s cheek.

Shep and I stare at each other, bewildered, before Ellie nudges me in the back with an elbow. “Go on, go meet your new fur babies.”

Before we can let the yippy little things—or not so little as the case may be—out of their crates, we both turn to the teenager who’s cackling hysterically on the couch and shout at him in unison.

“Caleb!”

Shep grabs a ball of discarded wrapping paper and chucks it at his brother’s head, hitting his mark easily. “You knew about this? And you didn’t say anything?”

Caleb just laughs more and tries to dodge the barrage of wrapping-paper snowballs Shep is continuing to pelt him with. “What was I supposed to say? You were both so excited about it, and I really like dogs.”

“Yeah, well, I hope you know you’re on pooper scooper duty for the rest of your life,” Shep mutters.

“I’ll be the best puppy uncle you could ask for!”

The thought of Caleb being excited to be an uncle—even to dogs—makes that little fire of domestic bliss in the hearth of my heart burn a little brighter.

“Aren’t you going to let them out?”

Maya gurgles, as if in agreement with Caleb. I look at Shep and he shrugs before taking my hand and towing me over to the crates. We each kneel in front of one and open the metal grate doors and are soon accosted by very enthusiastic fluff balls.

The one that’s licking my face is black as night, and the one that’s jumping all over Shep is a motley blend of black and white and brown because she’s a mix of some kind—probably of a lot of things, according to the woman at the shelter. Judging by her paws though, she’s going to be a big girl.

There’s a lot of barking, a lot of licking, and a lot of furry limbs climbing all over the place. I’m not convinced there are only two of them. It feels more like six. After a few minutes, the dogs settle down, the black one curling up in my lap and the patchwork one collapsing beside Shep and resting her head on his thigh.

I smile at Shep helplessly and shrug while still petting the little ball of love that I suspect will always be a lapdog, even when he’s no longer so little. “I know dogs are expensive, but don’t worry. I already put aside money for her vet bills, and her food, and obedience school and all that. I didn’t want to give you a present that would make you worry. She’s a shelter dog, so she was pretty much free, and she already had her shots, and…”

I trail off, waiting for him to say something, but the way his dark blue eyes are sparkling, I think he’s pretty happy, his big hand resting on her head and using his fingers to rub behind her ears, which she clearly enjoys. I like it when he pets me too, puppers.

“You know I did the same thing? I mean, putting money aside. He’s not a mutt, he’s a giant schnauzer, but I got him for cheap from Ettleman’s mom because she breeds them for show. He didn’t meet her standards, though. Something about his tail. I don’t know, he looked pretty good to me, and I don’t need him to have a perfect tail. They’re supposed to be good guard dogs.”

I roll my eyes fondly, because of course they are. Right now the only way I think the little monster could defend his kingdom is by licking intruders to death.

“He’s the cutest, I love him. Thank you.”

I lean over to give Shep a kiss, and my furball decides he wants in on this action. I hold him back just long enough to give Shep a proper kiss, and we lean our foreheads together for a moment.

“She’s a sweet little girl, we’re going to have a lot of fun together. And she’s going to give my teams a run for their money.”

She sure will, when she gets a little bigger. For now, she’s basically asleep from all the excitement.

“Thanks, lamb. She’s an awesome present.”

“Great minds think alike. Merry Christmas, Zach.”

Our quiet little bubble is burst by everyone else wanting to pet the puppies and asking what we’re going to name them, and Caleb wants to know if he can have some cookies, and it’s all so perfect. Best Christmas a girl could ask for, and it’s all right here at Hawthorn Hill.