“I will!” he shouts back.
“Have a good day, Mrs. Hart,” I state.
“You do the same. Have a glass of wine. You deserve it. Lord knows I’ll be doing the same after today,” she says vaguely.
“I sure will.” Mrs. Hart scurries after the rambunctious Jace. She’s got to be well into her sixties and has all the pep in her step in the world. I don’t know how she does it, but as I think about her saying she needed wine after today, it does make me wonder if Asa got into some kind of mischief. It’s hard not to be in the know when your students have no problem telling you everything they can. Children really are like sponges—they soak up every word you say, process it, and sometimes repeated it in the worst of times. It especially happens with the quieter kids, who seem to be that fly on the wall, watching and waiting, sometimes going unnoticed while adults talk about, well, adult things.
It doesn’t take but a few minutes to clear the classroom. Having a line of communication with parents has helped tremendously. Instead of them asking me about their child’s grade at the door, they know they can call or email me any time. Usually, I reply pretty promptly, unless it’s in the middle of the day and I’m surrounded by students.
I’m left with nothing but silence and disarray in the classroom. My fault, really. We usually pick up after the last lesson of the day, but my students were having so much fun and getting involved that it wasn’t on my list to even think about having them clean up, and honestly, it’s saving me from myself today. I’d like to think that spending the weekend with my grandparents, helping them out in their yard, picking weeds, laying mulch, and then working on the vegetable garden would keep my mind from drifting to Keller. No such luck there. I’ve always been lucky with my grandparents. They didn’t pry while I was there. Sure, I could feel the looks they exchanged, but for the most part, they didn’t say much. My grandparents know me, know that I unfold much like an onion, one layer at a time, but it takes time before I’ll budge, and something tells me it won’t be too long before I sit with my grandmother on her bed, head in her lap, one of her hands combing through my hair like she’s always done, a book in her hand with a half-naked, long-haired, and muscular man on the cover while I talk about all the things that have built up inside me.
If only I could get the thoughts of how Keller would hover above me out of my head, both of us slick with sweat, the light hair on his chest rasping against my breasts, nipples tightening with every push and pull of his body. The tug of a smile slipping, showing me how much he enjoyed holding my legs up and over his forearms, spreading me open, keeping me exactly where he wants me, the slide of his cock tunneling in and out my center, the tingling that traveled from the tips of my toes to my brain, where my senses are on overload.
“Let go, Lana, take my cock.” I can still feel the way I clenched around his cock while he came in spurts inside a condom.
“Keller,” I moaned. My eyes stayed open, watching as his head tipped back in rapture. The only time Keller seemed to let his guard down was in my bed, the night heavy with darkness, with no one else around. God, what I wouldn’t give for one more night with him. Too bad that doesn’t look like it’ll ever happen. So, with that last thought in mind, I return to cleaning up my classroom, getting things set up for tomorrow, and then head home to do it all over again the next day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
keller
“So, we going to talk about you being all googly-eyed for your son’s schoolteacher?” Those are the words my older brother, Tanner, greets me with after being set up at home the past day or so, my arm in a sling and being forced to take painkillers like a damn baby.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I clear my throat from sleep, groggy as hell. I don’t care what garbage my mother spouts, I’m not taking those pills again.
“Oh, I think you know. It seems to me you are practically begging for her in your sleep.” I rub my eyes, thinking this has got to be a damn dream.
“That doesn’t mean I’m willing to talk about it,” I respond as I sit up gingerly, trying not to jostle my broken collarbone. I’m shirtless with my arm in a sling, which is uncomfortable as fuck to sleep in.