Bad Boy Blues

“They made the effort.”

“What?”

“I had tutors. They taught me. Or tried to.”

Okay. That’s good, right? I mean, I thought he never received any help, judging by his handwriting. “And?”

“I didn’t want to learn.”

“What? Why not?”

I’m so exasperated and confused right now. Why wouldn’t he want to learn?

“What is this? Twenty questions?”

Gah.

I’m so mad. Why does he have to make everything so difficult? I’m trying to show him that he can do it. That he can read and rise above whatever bullshit his dad has spewed on him and made him believe about himself.

But he has to put up a fight.

“Do you know Art has no parents?” I begin instead. “His parents died when he was two. In a car crash, like mine did. Maybe that’s why I feel so connected to him. Not to mention, he’s being bullied at school. My sweet guy has no friends except you and me. And his grandmother is getting on in age. On top of everything, he had an accident. Do you know how lonely he is? Do you? How can you not come through for him? How can you live with yourself, Zach? He’s the cutest little guy with blond hair and green eyes and he worships you. Are you going to let him down?”

“Are you done with your sob story?”

I glare at him.

Then, with a long-suffering sigh, he asks, “What time do you want me there?”

“What?”

“I’m not going to repeat myself.”

“Seven,” I blurt out on a relieved breath.

“And what about if someone sees me going into your cottage? What’ll happen to your little job?”

I bite my lip because holy shit, he’s right. People might talk if they see him going in and out of my cottage. I mean, once was okay. Art was with us but if he continues to visit me, people will talk. And rumors are how these things start.

“Didn’t think about that, did you?”

I shake my head guiltily.

Another sigh. “You’ve got a back door that leads out to the woods, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there.”

That just makes me smile. That makes my whole body smile. Him taking care of me like that.

He goes to move away. “Now, get lost.”

“Wait. One more thing.”

“What?”

There’s tension in his frame. His shoulders appear tight and his stomach looks like a hard slab of rock. A rock with ridges and all.

I’ve upset him. I’ve made him agitated.

But I want to smooth out his rough edges now.

Under his burning gaze, I drop the towels I’ve been clutching onto the bed by my side and step closer to him so I can touch him.

With my chest.

My breasts press into his ribs and a sigh of relief goes through me.

Even though the front of my uniform is kind of damp from holding on to the towels, the wetness of his chest still seeps into the fabric, beading my nipples. It’s remnants of his shower and the heat of this town. Heat of us being together.

His pecs move with a long breath and I breathe with him.

My hands find purchase on the hard globes of his shoulders. “You didn’t give me what I wanted last night.”

I’m looking at his tense face; it has become dark with lust and his cheekbones jut out.

“You came. Like a fucking hurricane while your cunt was spasming on my mouth, trying to catch my tongue. You didn’t want that?”

I blush and my lips part with a stuttered breath. I drag my breasts along his body as I go on my tiptoes, my eyes fluttering shut at the friction.

“I wanted you to kiss me,” I say to his lips.

Perfect and thick, bisected in the middle with a cupid’s bow. They are mine. I’m taking them today.

“And I did.”

I glance up into his eyes, swimming with lust. “On my mouth.”

“I don’t kiss on the mouth.”

“Why not?”

“Let me rephrase that: I don’t kiss you on the mouth.”

A week ago, this would’ve offended me. I would’ve retaliated with cutting words and maybe even a prank.

But now, all I can see is that Zach peeks out his tongue and traces his lower lip, as he watches mine. Like he’s imagining kissing me but for some reason, he won’t do it.

So my retaliation’s going to be a little different.

Namely, this:

I push to my tippy-toes, my nipples scraping against his chest and get close to his lips. “Tough luck, Zach. Because right now, I want to kiss you on the mouth.”

And then, I do it.

I kiss him.

I pucker my lips and start with a dry one. One smack dab in the middle of his mouth. The second one on one corner and the third on the other.

Slowly, my hands creep up to his wet hair and I fist the strands as I keep kissing him, giving him little pecks.

Just when I gather enough courage to taste his skin with my tongue, his hands grip the uniform at my waist. He hauls me toward him, clashing our fronts together, and forces my mouth open with his.