So Wrong (Heart of Hope 3)

“Tessa.”

“Fuck me, Dylan.”

He growled. “I’m going to hell for sure.” He pushed his dick inside me just a little bit, and I moaned as the sweetest sensations radiated from my pussy.

“Yes … so good … more.” My pussy was screaming to have all of him.

He withdrew and I was about to complain, when he pushed forward, this time sliding a little further until he hit a barrier. My body wanted this and at the same time resisted him.

“You’re so fucking tight.” His eyes squeezed shut. He took in a couple of deep breaths. This was it. He was finally going to give me exactly what I’d wanted from the day I’d met him. His gaze met mine. I nodded, letting him know I wanted this. I wanted him.

Then his eyes looked away, and my stomach clenched. He pulled out of me. “I’m sorry…I can’t.”

1

Tessa—Thursday, A Week Earlier

“And then Little Bear hugged his mama bear.” I held up the picture book showing the last page of the story. The group of twenty-two enraptured kindergarten students looked up at me from where they sat on the floor. My year as a student teacher was nearly over. While I liked the fact that I was halfway done with my Masters in Teaching program, I was going to miss seeing these little faces every day.

“I hug my mama,” little Sara Larson said.

“Me too,” several other students chimed in.

I looked at Maisie Hyatt, the one student in the class that didn’t have a mother. Well, she did, but her mother wasn’t involved in her life. Instead, she was raised by her father, who was the epitome of sexy single dad.

“Ms. Bremer.”

I looked up to where Mrs. Anderson called me. “Buses will be here shortly. Perhaps we can remind the students of our party tomorrow.”

I nodded. As Mrs. Anderson’s student teacher, she’d giv

en me a lot of rein to teach the class, but sometimes I got so involved, I lost track of time. “Mrs. Anderson reminded me that tomorrow is the last day of school.”

“Will you be our teacher next year?” Marie Caster asked.

“I don’t know who your teacher will be, but I know you’ll all be fantastic first graders.” The children beamed, and I marveled at how innocent and open they were. A little praise went a long way for kids this age. Plus, they were eager to learn.

I finished talking to the kids and then sent them by small groups to get their things and line up for the buses. Mrs. Anderson walked them to the loading area while I stayed behind to clean up the class and get it ready for tomorrow.

Maisie Hyatt sat at her table coloring as I wiped down the other tables. She always stayed with me after school because I was the one who took her home and babysat until her father got home from work.

“Can we make cookies for tomorrow still?” she asked me.

“Absolutely,” I said. “What do you want? Chocolate chip? Or we can make brownies.”

She looked up at me. “I don’t think I’ve had brownies. Are they good?”

I thought her father, Dylan Hyatt, was a wonderful father, but he was a bit strict with the yum yums. There were no sweets in the house, and Maisie was only allowed to have them on special occasions.

“Delicious. We’ll pick up the ingredients on the way home.” I’d made cookies with Maisie before, but Dylan always sent them home with me.

When Mrs. Anderson returned to the class, I met with her as I usually did to review the day. I thought she was a wonderful teacher and I was so thrilled to have worked with her this year. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to work with her next year, the last year of my masters in teaching program. I’d have another placement, assuming I could figure out how to pay for school. I had terrific parents, but Dad was a cop and Mom was a teacher, so my education funds were depleted during my undergraduate studies. I had taken a few student loans, but since I was planning on being a teacher, a job that didn’t pay well to begin with, I didn’t want to take out more. As a result, unless I got a new scholarship or won the lottery, I wouldn’t be able to afford my last year of school. I had this summer to figure out how to pay for it.

When I was done meeting with Mrs. Anderson, I loaded Maisie into the old Volvo I bought at her father’s encouragement when he hired me to babysit Maisie after school and as needed.

“The old Volvos are like tanks. I’ll feel better about you driving with Maisie in that over another car,” he’d said.

My Volvo looked like a tired old box, but it ran well and insurance on it was low, so I didn’t complain. A man like Dylan, young, ridiculously handsome, and rich, should have been driving a sports car, but he drove an old Volvo too. He lived modestly, belying his wealth built from a chain of gyms and real estate investments.