The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

But now it’s a new week of classes—and for Rachel, a new level of determination. I’ve barely been able to concentrate to speak during this class today, and as the minutes tick by, she isn’t letting up.

From the front row, Rachel spreads her legs lasciviously, licking at her lips as she makes a note on the page in front of her. She’s nonchalant, unbothered even, and at this point, I’m convinced she’s doing it on purpose. I just wish I knew what her endgame was. Like, what’s the breaking point of it all?

I shake my head to clear it and continue with my lecture. “These words are powerful. These words are tragic. These words are romantic. But back when they were written, they weren’t well received. In fact, they were heavily criticized.”

My gaze flicks to Rachel’s sexy legs, and she rubs them together, crossing them and uncrossing them, once again leaving me with a view of her perfect, sheer-pink-mesh-covered cunt.

I spin around to the board, even if I don’t know what I’m going to do there, and grab a black marker, just to get a moment of solace.

I scribble on the board as I talk, and I’m pretty sure all I’m doing is writing exactly what I’m saying. “Writing is personal and subjective.”

I put the marker down and turn back to the class, gathering my thoughts as I walk toward my desk and lean a hip into the side. My students’ eyes might as well be ping-pong balls this morning, following me around the room as I bounce from one spot to another. If I had ADHD, I imagine this might be how I’d teach all the time.

“Even rejection isn’t finite. Perhaps, in fact, rejection is just an indication that you’re ahead of your time.”

Craving a change of pace, Rachel’s burning eyes and open legs calling me to look upon them once again, I jump up on the corner of my desk and crack open Wuthering Heights. After this many years of teaching this class, I know the novel backward and forward, though. I know what pages to look for, where the climax of the story happens, how many characters there are in each chapter. I know the rhythm and cadence of Emily Brontë’s writing, and I know the parts that resonate most with an undergrad class of freshmen.

They like sex. They like scandal. They like the occasional use of “bad words” by their teacher. And I’m okay with that. If my putting a “cool” twist on classic literature makes this generation care about it, I’ll give my lecture on a fucking hoverboard on TikTok while singing a song of swearwords.

Because hell, I like sex and scandal too. I’ve built a whole personal life based on sex. But the mixture of active sexual arousal and class time? Safe to say, I’ve never done it before.

I look back at the front row momentarily to see Rachel removing her sweater. She’s wearing a silk shirt underneath, and I can see her pert nipples through the fabric as though there’s no fabric at all. All I can think about is tracing them with my tongue.

Damn, Rachel, what are you trying to do to me?

I’m used to class. What I’m altogether not used to is one of the sexiest women alive, sitting in my front row of seats, taking notes and spreading her legs open so I can see up her skirt.

And those panties—I know those panties. They’re the panties. Sweet God Almighty.

“So, if you’ll turn to page…to page…” I clear my throat and will myself to look away from the space between Rachel’s legs and back to the fucking book. Come on, Ty, get it together.

“If you’ll turn to Chapter Nine, you’ll see Catherine’s first moral dilemma. To love or to do what’s expected by society.”

I look to Rachel and the sex rolling off her, despite her relation to a man I’ve respected and admired for years, and then bow my head back to the book.

Sometimes it’s scary how much literature applies to life—especially classic literature to modern life.

“We can all relate to facing a moral dilemma at least once in our lives. Should you sleep with your best friend’s girlfriend, even if she’s willing and you think she’s one of the hottest chicks on the planet?”

The class goes up in a roar, and I bite my lip and smile. That one always seems to get them stirred up. Eighteen-year-olds, by and large, are still trying to calibrate their moral compass. They’re the perfect case study in would versus should.

“Or should you use a part of your body that isn’t an appendage and maintain loyalty to your friend?”

I scoot off my desk and pace the floor at the bottom of the classroom’s stadium seating, keeping my eyes pointedly away from the front row in an effort to concentrate.