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“What do you mean?” I ask. “You shouldn’t be talking to a teacher like that.”
“You’re not teaching me right now. And you probably shouldn’t be speaking to a student in a bar like this.”
I long to quip that she’s not my student right now, but we both know that’s a lie. A student is always a student, even after they’re graduated. It’s one of the biggest taboos in human society. Even if I’m not a real teacher or human, I still can’t go there with her.
“What did you mean, I wouldn’t give you the time of day? And how the hell am I a misogynist?”
“To explain myself. About what happened in class. You dismissed me by turning to Bhodi and asking him what happened – which was a load of bullshit by the way—”
“Did you just swear?”
“Not at you. I wouldn’t do that. I’ve been raised right, even if I think you’re an arsehole, I’d never call you one.”
My lips twitch in amusement.
“And you’re a misogynist if you somehow think that Bhodi’s version of events is more important or accurate than mine just because I’m a woman and he’s a man.”
“Trust me, I am not a misogynist,” I state firmly. If only she knew I gave my entire life to serving a queen and worshipping a goddess.
“Well, you would bloody say that, wouldn’t you? It’s not exactly something you proudly display on a pin badge, isn’t it?”
Okay, now I see why this girl gets under Bhodi’s skin. She’s feisty, challenging, and sexy as hell when she’s drunk and on a rant. Amusing too. I want to drag her into the nearest bathroom to prove I’m no damn woman-hater by worshipping her body until she’s screaming my name.
But she’s my student.
I’m going to need to get that tattooed on my forehead as a reminder. Because I’m longing to shut her up by kissing her, and I’m in a room full of witnesses who could easily have me arrested. Or at the very least, fired.
“And the grade you gave me on my essay was bullshit,” she finishes angrily. Her hands are on her hips and she’s staring at me expectantly like I’m going to deny it, but I’m too busy staring at her heaving chest and wondering what her nipples will feel like in my mouth.
Fuck.
It’s true. The grade was bullshit. I don’t even know why I flunked her. I hated her line of argument but there’s no denying it was valid. I probably shouldn’t have been marking it after I discovered who she is and downing half a bottle of scotch.
“I’m not going to discuss school with you now, Miss Van der Zee. It’s the weekend, and I’m off duty.”
She scowls at me and downs another two, three, four shots. Jesus. She won’t be on her feet for much longer.
“Yeah, well, there’s nothing I can do about it now anyway, but I can say this: that essay was stellar and we both know you screwed me over with it. Your comments were harsh and non-constructive, and your handwriting sucks, even for a leftie. But I do really like your laces. And your dimple.”
She stares at me for a moment, frowning, then seems to say to herself fuck it before throwing back another shot.
She turns away from me and before I can engage my damn brain, my hand has shot out and grabbed her wrist.
We both react. She gasps and my eyes widen in shock. Electricity courses through me. The hairs on my arm stand to attention and I freeze. Huge brown eyes stare up at me intently. Her gorgeous pouty lips are slightly parted, silently begging me to kiss them.
I’m an idiotic split second away from hauling her into my arms and kissing the shit out of her, or dragging her somewhere private to spank the shit out of her for her audacity…even if she does like my dimple.
I drop her wrist like it burns, turning away from her and draining what’s left in my glass. I slam it down on the bar too hard, and feel her wince in my periphery.
Then I’m gone.
Fucking haunted by the feel of her soft skin against mine, her scent branded in my memory, and her face – her beautiful angelic face that was begging me to kiss her – seared into my brain to torment me forever.
