Mistletoe Kisses

I swallow, taking a step forward, then stop. Looking back at him, I ask, “What if I say no?”

Mr. McLaren leans back in his chair, spreading his arms and lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Then I’ll call you a coward again, but I can’t say I’ll be surprised.”

Anger sends a bolt of stubbornness straight through me. I tip my chin up, my jaw locking, my fists clenched at my sides. I hate when he puts me down that way. I hate when he calls me a coward.

So I guess I have to show him I’m not one.

Despite my mind rising to the challenge, my body feels a little shaky. I ignore the way my legs feel weak, walking around his desk like I don’t have a single insecurity. I lean back against the hard edge, feeling it press against my ass, then I brace my palms on the surface and lift myself.

The gleaming desk is cool beneath me, which comes as a real relief because my body is on fire. Mr. McLaren is the one who set it alight, and he throws more fuel on as he drops his arms and leans forward again. He’s so close that I start to tingle in highly inappropriate places.

Even though I feel exposed up here, Mr. McLaren’s gaze remains locked on my face. He’s sizing me up, making some new judgment about me, or maybe revising an old one.

“Good girl,” he says, finally.

I tingled between the legs when I sat up here on the desk for him, but when he says that, it triggers something primitive within me and I throb with want.

Shit, I am in so much trouble.

I swallow, then try to lighten the mood. “Glad you approve, Mr. McLaren.”

“Sir,” he corrects.

My eyes widen slightly. “Sir?”

He nods. “In class, I’m Mr. McLaren. While we’re having private lessons here, you’ll call me Sir.”

I narrow my eyes, some of the skepticism I felt yesterday when he told me my paper was trash and I needed tutoring—me, an honor student at the top of my class—resurfacing. "Okay..."

"It's yes, Sir."

"Yes... S-Sir," I stutter.

"Good girl,” he says again. His tone is firmer now, but better somehow, like he’s more comfortable with praising me now that I’ve obeyed every order he’s given.

Another rush of heat consumes me. I'm tempted to fan myself, but instead I just stay glued to the spot, flushing deeply.

Mr. McLaren bends and reaches into the shopping bags beside him. For a moment I’m horrified, remembering all the lingerie he bought, but when he straightens again, he’s not holding a lacy thong or a push-up bra, just a book.

Except… it’s the Angel Young book.

I watch uneasily as he smiles, his eyes dancing with light amusement. “Your textbook, Miss Harper.”

I swallow, reaching for the book, shifting my gaze to the cover so I can get a break from looking at him for a moment. Even when he’s joking, he’s so damn intense, it’s hard to look at him for too long. I can’t find the words to ask what he wants me to do with this book, though, so I have to look back up at him.

Sensing my lack of comprehension, he offers further instruction. “You're going to start reading to me.”

“To you?”

He nods once. “The first chapter, then we’ll go over it together.”

I can’t breathe. I flip open the book to check out the first chapter, and immediately see a whole string of words I cannot possibly say to my teacher. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I state, shaking my head. “I can’t. I’ll die.”

His lips curve up faintly. “You won’t. You’ll survive it, I promise.”

“You think that now,” I say, accusingly shoving the book at him. “Read the first sentence and tell me again how everything’s going to be just fine.”

He flips open the book, goes to the page I was just on, and his eyes briefly scan the page.