Teacher's Pet Wolf

And before Aspen—before the attack that turned me into a hungry, horrible thing who literally transforms into a monster every month—maybe that painful yearning could have pushed me out of that safe zone. Maybe I’d have bought that plane ticket.

But six months ago, everything changed. The three thousand miles between us aren’t keeping me safe.

Those miles are keeping him safe from me.

I’m gobbling down a third sandwich when a notification pops up on my laptop screen.

Ranger: You there?

I freeze mid-chew, my heart thumping. He’s early. Sort of. At the beginning of the school year, he always called at this time. This is my free period, so we’d connect almost a half hour before my biology class started. But after I was mauled during winter break…I began putting Ranger off until the last few minutes before class. Because I healed quickly from the attack and didn’t miss any days at school, yet I still felt this huge and horrible change inside me. Some of that must have shown through, because Ranger’s fierce intensity began looking more like fierce concern. I didn’t have any answers to give him, though—and I couldn’t bear lying to him and I couldn’t bear talking about it. So I just cut our conversations shorter and shorter. And it was like cutting out a part of my heart, every time.

Ranger: If you’re in a staff meeting again, tell them to fuck off. I need time to talk with you before the class starts.

Time to talk…to say goodbye for the summer?

Or to say goodbye forever?

I don’t know yet if we’re doing this again next year. A few weeks ago, I told him that I hoped we could, because my students love him. But Ranger didn’t give me much of an answer. Just that he wasn’t sure yet whether he’d still be stationed in the same district.

So if this is goodbye…I need more time, too.

Alicia: I’m here. Just finishing lunch. Give me about three minutes?

To brush off any crumbs, apply lip gloss, and fluff my hair. But Ranger doesn’t wait three minutes. He doesn’t wait three seconds. A notification for an incoming call pops up. Hurriedly, I brush and fluff, check my teeth for stray bits of lunch, then click Accept.

For a moment, only the blurry image of a short black beard, thick tanned throat, and khaki shirt collar is visible on screen. Then Ranger backs away from the camera and his face comes into focus, and it doesn’t matter that I just devoured three big sandwiches. Suddenly I’m starving all over again. Need rips through me, a full body hunger that has nothing to do with my stomach, a craving that grips my lungs and clenches deep within.

Travis Ranger isn’t a pretty man. His features are too bold, too rough. Heavy black eyebrows shadow intense dark eyes, and his face could have been carved from stout oak with a serrated blade—and all that blunt, craggy darkness makes him look a little mean. If he were ever cast in the movie, he’d be the villain.

The villain that everyone writes dirty fan fiction about.

Because he’s not handsome, but he’s sexy as hell. And despite his surly demeanor, he’s not mean to the kids. But he also doesn’t put up with any shit. A few times when they’ve been bratty, he shut them down with a single look…as if they can feel that gaze from three thousand miles away.

Just like I can feel his gaze devouring me. “Good morning, Miss Simmons.”

My breath shudders, heat flushing over my skin. God, his voice. Rough and smoky, like a campfire burning low, all crackling embers and black soot. He sounds the way I imagine a man sounds waking up late on a Sunday morning, not while standing in a field of wildflowers with Denali’s snowcapped peak behind him. A small window in the corner of the screen shows me how I look to him, so I know he can’t see my nipples poking out or the way I’m squirming a little in my seat. But I swear, he knows anyway. Probably every woman he talks to squirms when they hear that deep, smoky voice coming out of his mouth.

“It’s too late for a good morning here, Ranger Ranger.” The time difference means we hit ‘after noon’ an hour ahead of him.

His firm lips quirk. “But was it a good one?”

“Better now,” I tell him honestly and those eyes darken.

“You having trouble, Miss Simmons?” As if he might do something about it.

“No, it’s just…the last days of school always feel like I’m teaching to a blank wall. The kids are just done.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I’m not done. I’m using every second to pound that last bit of learning into their skulls.” When he grins at that, I smile with him—then sigh. “But don’t be surprised if you can’t get them to pay attention today. You’d think that plant reproduction would be a popular subject among horny eighth graders, because there are so many opportunities to slip their little innuendos in. But their eyes glaze over in seconds.”