Mistletoe Kisses

“That’s right.”

"What does that mean?” I demand, my curiosity growing. “Like, you’ll assign extra reading and writing assignments for me in addition to my normal coursework?”

“That’ll be part of it. I’m going to teach you a lot of things, Noelle. Your perspective is noticeably limited by your narrow range of experience. You’re far too comfortable in the tiny box you live in. You’re an intelligent girl and you’ve got plenty of talent, but you always play it safe. You never leave your comfort zone, and outside of it—that’s where true brilliance lives. Your work is technically good, but it’s cowardly. Boring. Uninspiring. You’re capable of much more.”

I swallow, that sick feeling in the pit of my gut opening up again and threatening to swallow me whole. “I didn’t think my paper was boring. I spent a lot of time working on it, trying to… make it clear and concise…”

He pulls his credit card out again and passes it to the cashier, who I’d forgotten about while he detailed my inadequacy.

"I read the book three times, I don’t see how..." I bite my lower lip. I don't like justifying myself, but I know I did a thorough job on that paper. "But if you say it wasn't good enough, I guess I have to believe you. After all, you’re the teacher and I’m the student. Surely you know things I don’t."

Mr. McLaren’s sensual lips tilt up and he gives me a look that feels almost suggestive. “I know plenty you don’t, Miss Harper.”

I swallow, ignoring the way my heart races in response. “Then teach me.”

“I will,” he assures me.

The cashier puts our drinks on the counter. Mr. McLaren opens a straw and sticks it in. Without waiting for us to find a table and take a seat, he leans forward to taste his shake, his lips wrapping around the straw.

A jolt of arousal takes me off guard as his slate gray eyes land on me. I feel so skittish all of a sudden, it’s all I can do not to run off and leave him here.

God, even watching him drink out of a freaking straw is getting me all hot and bothered.

He straightens and adds, "I'm glad you're open to trying new things. With a little constructive criticism and some new experiences, we’ll level you up before you head off to college."

I can’t for the life of me remember what he’s talking about. All I can think about are those lips wrapped around that straw, his intense eyes on me, the bagful of lingerie in his other hand...

Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into?

"I think you’re being a little rough on me." I look away, flushed from all these confusing—and decidedly uncomfortable—feelings. "I'm afraid my skin isn't as thick as I'd like it to be."

"That skin of yours can be worked on," he assures me. "We'll build up to it. It might hurt at first because you’re still very tender and new, but push past the boundaries you’re used to and you’ll soon find your responses change. You'll end up seeking it out. Loving it. Craving it.”

His words are so full of double entendres, I'm forced to hide my heated face with the gigantic milkshake cup as we head to a table.

It takes a few minutes for my coloring to return to normal. Mercifully, Mr. McLaren doesn’t do anything else to infuriate, humiliate, or arouse me. We share a companionable silence while I gather my bearings and suck down half of my strawberry shake before he finally remembers I didn’t want strawberry.

"Didn't you want to try the vanilla?"

I’m sorely tempted to tell him no thanks and keep drinking my own shake, but his words from a few minutes ago echo in my head, accusing me of never wanting to be uncomfortable and always taking the safe road.

I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to spend my life terrified to step outside my comfort zone. I want to know what’s out there. Maybe I want someone like him to show me.

I nod my head.

He passes me the cup. "Here you go."

I wrap my fingers around it, taking the straw between my carefully glossed lips and sucking until the milky drink hits my tongue. Fluttering my lashes, I moan with pleasure, then look at Mr. McLaren the way he looked at me, my tongue peeking out to lick the straw. "So good, Mr. McLaren."

He watches me silently, his eyes dark and hooded as I pass him the drink back, licking my lips.

For a long, tense moment, the only sound is that of my heart pounding in my ears. Mr. McLaren doesn’t utter a word, he just sits there, staring at me.

Finally, he breaks eye contact. His gaze drifts to my lips, then flickers to the straw hanging out of his milkshake.

“A little sloppy,” he says. “You got lipstick all over it.”

My face flushes more shades of red than the panties in that godforsaken shopping bag. Well aware of the innuendo he’s making, I draw my own milkshake closer and tell him, “Just be thankful I didn’t use my teeth.”