Lessons in Sin

That left scrubbing floors.

Or corporal punishment.

Slapping.

Spanking.

Flogging.

Choking.

I couldn’t. I shouldn’t, for ten thousand reasons all amounting to one.

I want it.

I wanted to put my hands on her so badly, and if I did, if I physically punished her, it would be irrefutably, uncontrollably, gloriously sexual for me.

I’d only touched her one time. Four weeks ago, I’d let my thumb brush her lip. That single, featherlight touch had unfurled a surge of twisted, desperate cravings from the darkest corner of my mind. Since then, I’d kept my hands to myself and forced my black thoughts into nonexistence.

But if I touched her again, if I introduced her to my favorite pastime, it was all over.

As it was, watching her crawl across the floor on her knees teased the hell out of my sadistic nature. The flagrant sexual symbolism in the act wasn’t lost on her, either. She called me out on it every time, asserting that no student should kneel for her teacher because it was perverted and sexist and played into the fantasies of predators.

It was a wasted argument. If she kept her disrespectful mouth shut, she wouldn’t be on her knees. Period. The choice was hers.

I checked my watch and paced through the classroom, grinding my teeth.

She was late again.

Closing my eyes, I prayed the Hail Mary to calm my temper. As I finished and began the prayer again, the sound of sprinting footfalls broke out in the hall.

Shoes squeaked against wood as Tinsley tore around the corner and burst into my classroom in a fit of wheezing, spluttering breaths.

“I’m here!” She bent at the waist, a hand in the air and the other on her knee, choking. “Good thing I’m fast.”

“You’re late,” I snarled, torn between kicking her out and giving her something substantial to choke on.

“Oh, come on.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Only two minutes late. Are you seriously going to be a vagina about it?”

“A vagina?”

“The fleshy pink canoe between a woman’s legs.” She panted, trying to catch her breath. “I know it’s been a while since you paddled one, but surely you remember what it is.”

“I do remember. Quite fondly.”

“Yeah?” She grinned, raising her eyebrows.

“Which is why I’m confounded to hear you use that part of the female body as a derogatory term. Given your infernal feminist tongue-lashings, I would expect you to use the word vagina as a compliment rather than associate it with weakness.”

Her mouth hung open, and she made a strangling noise.

“You’re so right.” She smacked a hand against her forehead and groaned. “I’m an idiot. I wasn’t thinking and… Gah! There’s no excuse for it. What I said was offensive and ignorant, and I’m sorry.” She straightened her spine and met my eyes, looking so irresistibly, gorgeously shamefaced. “I’ll kiss the Jesus or scrub the floors or whatever you decide. No resistance. I’m a total shithead.”

One of the things I’d come to adore about Tinsley Constantine was the ease in which she could be so genuinely humble and wryly deflating of herself. Rarely did she care about other people’s perceptions of her, but for whatever reason, she didn’t want me to believe she was superficial or weak-minded.

She had no idea how far removed she was from those traits, and that only made her more beautiful, more desirable, harder to go unnoticed. She was unlike any eighteen-year-old I’d ever met.

None of that changed the fact that she was my student, half my age, and completely, irrevocably outside my preferences.

Yet she had enough sex appeal to hold my attention for eternity.

Shut it down, Magnus.

“You’ve been gone for forty-five minutes.” I prowled a circuit around her. “Breakfast ended five minutes ago.”

I knew where she sneaked off to every day. I wanted her to admit it.

She touched her chin to her shoulder, regarding me innocently. “I had to pee.”

I laughed. “That’s the direction you want to go with this?”

“No. I mean, I did have to pee, and I took care of that.”

“Good to know you’ve learned one lesson in four weeks.” I paused before her. “But that’s not why you’re late.”

Her blue eyes lifted to mine, sparking with fire and worry. She didn’t trust me with her secret, and why would she? I had no compassion.

For a spoiled rich girl, she was selflessly devout about protecting vulnerable, unlikable animals. I didn’t understand it and didn’t give her an inch. No assurance whatsoever as I glared at her, making her squirm.

Ruthless, down to the marrow of my despicable soul.

“Magnus…” Her voice pleaded. She used my first name. Her hand reached for my chest.

My brain didn’t know which deviation to rebuke first.

As bold as she was with her tongue, she’d never been brave enough to touch me. Even now, as her fingers made a slow, jerky climb toward my shirt, she trembled with uncertainty.

I caught her wrist before she made contact, my hand closing mercilessly around delicate bones. She whimpered but didn’t try to pull away. Instead, she drifted closer with her whole body, her gaze never wavering from my face. Hypnotic. Stirring. Intoxicating.