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The scent of vanilla surrounds me as soon as I step into the master bathroom, and I feel some of the tension melting out of my shoulders.
My tub tray is set up with everything I could possibly want—wine, water, headphones, and the guest of honor, my vibrator.
I sink into the steaming water with a grateful smile.
Pre-bedtime story Avery is a genius.
The knots in my back start to loosen as the hot water and bath salts start to do their thing.
I love the chaos of working as a pastry chef. It’s fun to be somewhere where every day brings something new to work on. I even enjoy talking to the clients and helping them create their visions—when Henri lets me, that is.
What an asshole. I know he only lets me meet with the more complicated clients because he wants me to fail.
I feel my face twist into a scowl as his face pops into my brain.
All the knots that had left my back come rushing right back in.
He never says anything even vaguely complimentary to me unless he’s putting on a show for Mr. Macklin.
If I wanted to spend a full day having a man tell me I’m worthless, I never would have left my husband.
I growl in frustration and sink lower into the tub. I’m supposed to be relaxing, and yet here I am, obsessing about Henri.
You know, if you had a humiliation kink, Henri would be the perfect guy to picture right now.
My job really would be an ideal setup if I were into that. I’d be able to save plenty of material for later. That man has no idea how to talk to women.
I can’t help but laugh at the thought.
Then a wicked little voice pops into my head.
There is someone you’ve met recently who knows exactly how to talk to women.
Against my better judgment, my thoughts drift to a tall man with glasses and a lean runner’s body. I think of long pianist’s fingers wrapped delicately around a chess piece, intelligent eyes, and thick, dark hair with just a touch of gray at the temples.
I shake my head trying to clear those thoughts from my head and pull up the audio book I’d borrowed instead. Unlike my teacher, those men aren’t real, so fantasizing about them isn’t in any way unethical.
Unfortunately, when the romantic scenes come up, I keep picturing Phillip instead.
After several attempts to redirect my thoughts, I give up and chuck the headphones across the bathroom with a frustrated cry.
It’s no use. No amount of steamy scenes—no matter how well-written they are—are going to be able to push him out of my thoughts.
Phillip is my teacher and he’s going to be for the next sixteen weeks. There really isn’t anything more off limits than that, but my brain refuses to see sense.
“I’ll teach you far more than that, Avery. You have my word.”
His words echo through my head, but in my sex-deprived brain, they take on an entirely different tone.
This time when he says it, his hands are gripping my hips and pulling me flush against him. His lips crash into mine with an urgency that speaks of passion and a clear awareness that we could be caught at any moment. The door is unlocked and the blinds aren’t drawn, but we’re too far gone to care. His lips find my neck at the same time his fingers start undoing the buttons of my blouse.
Phillip growls when he sees my barely there bra and caresses me over the lace.
The feel of my own hands on my breasts jerks me back to reality.
Am I really going to get off to my teacher?
I really shouldn’t be, but maybe if I just scratch that itch, so to speak, I can get over it and be normal.
