Page 73 of The Headmaster’s Rule

“You look beautiful,” I murmur.

Her eyes shimmer with pleasure. “Thank you.”

She bites her lip, letting her gaze meander over me. I chose dark chinos and a charcoal button-down, rolling the sleeves to the elbows. It’s a home date, so anything more would have felt too stiff. But as she scrutinizes me now, I wonder if I should have gone with the shirt and tie again. The sharp look she’s used to.

“You look…” Her voice comes out husky, and she trails a finger down my chest, my stomach, setting off fireworks under my skin. “Really good.”

I swallow thickly at her words, relief flickering faintly inside. “Yeah?”

“You always look good, Theo.” Her finger teases my belt buckle, eyes darkening as she gazes up at me. “It was an effort not to touch you when you stopped by my classroom today.”

Fuck.

I lose the battle to keep my hands to myself. Grabbing her by the waist, I haul her close and crush my mouth to hers. She whimpers, soft and pliant in my arms, mouth opening readily, mine for the taking. Blood rushes to my cock, and she feels it, arching into me with a moan. I love how willing she is, that she’s as eager for me as I am for her.

But tonight isn’t about me. It’s about making her feel special.

I pull away with an agonized exhale, turning toward the kitchen. “Wine?”

She trails after me, taking a seat at the kitchen island while I pull the bottle from the fridge.

“Yes, please.”

I pour two glasses with my back to her, willing my dick to settle down and get the damn message. Then I hand her one, clinking my glass to hers, and she takes a long, slow sip.

“Mm,” she murmurs, her full, beautiful mouth curving in a satisfied smile. My gaze fixes on those lips, wanting nothing more than to kiss them again.

Wanting them wrapped around my cock.

Jesus Christ.

Instead, I focus on preparing the dinner, simmering onion and bell pepper on the stove, before adding ground turkey. I can feel her gaze on me while I cook, and my chest feels light and buoyant.

“What are you making?”

“Turkey pumpkin chili,” I say, adding tomatoes and pumpkin to the dish. When I glance back, her eyes are dancing.

“I thought you’d be sick of pumpkin after today.”

I chuckle. “It inspired me.” I watch her for a moment, wanting to tell her how much she inspires me, but I don’t. Don’t want to scare her.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” she asks, as I season the dish and reduce the heat to let it simmer.

I send her an amused smile. “I’m a grown man.”

“Yeah, but—” She snorts a laugh. “I know plenty of grown men who can’t cook.”

I lift a brow, turning to lean back against the counter. “You know plenty of men?” I tease.

Her cheeks color, and it’s adorable. “No, I mean…”

I laugh, answering her question to put her out of her misery. “I’ve always been able to cook, but my skills really improved when Juliana bought me cooking classes for my birthday last year.”

“When is your birthday?”

“June 12th.”

She smiles to herself, looking down at her wine, and I can tell she’s filing that information away for later. I already know her birthday—April 6th—from her file. It occurs to me that I hadn’t intended to memorize the date, but I know it. I learned it on the first day of school.