Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
The one who left me needy and wound up last night. And that neediness has now festered into a full fledged sickness.
I grab a paper towel and pat my face, staring at my bright eyes and flushed cheeks in the mirror.
That queasiness in the pit of my stomach churns as I think about seeing Asher. He did this on purpose. I thought it was a torture to male wolves to meet a mate and not claim her, but somehow, he’s turned the tables on me.
He’s gloating right now over what he did last night. Nipping and sucking up my inner thigh, putting his hot mouth directly over my core.
I clutch the sink as an orgasm runs through me. It’s completely unsatisfying though. The kind that only builds my need and heat.
Just get through sixth period. Then you can shift and run.
I push off from the sink and walk on shaky legs to the door. My spine stiffens as I march out of the faculty bathroom and into my classroom.
The bell rings, but Asher and his entourage don’t stop their goofing around in the back of my classroom.
“In your seats,” I snarl with more force than the situation calls for. The class goes silent, everyone staring at me curiously as those who hadn’t sat down now slide into their seats.
“Who pissed in your Cheerios?” Asher mutters to his friends. They snicker in reply.
I bite my cheek so hard it bleeds. I make them all suffer in dead silence as I take attendance. Even after I’m done, I fix them with a stony stare for several long moments before I clip, “Work on your self-portraits.”
I disappear to the corner of the studio where I’ve set up two giant canvases as a partition for my privacy when I paint. I don’t usually go here during class—it’s unprofessional to leave the class unsupervised, but I need a moment. I kick off my heeled sandals. I’m too wobbly to navigate walking with them.
Get it together, Lotta. Don’t show weakness. Don’t let Asher think he’s won.
After drawing several deep breaths, I grab the mason jar, muddy with yesterday’s paint and brushes, and carry it back out in the classroom to the sink.
The volume in the class has steadily grown. Somehow everyone realized I won’t be teaching today, and they’ve clearly decided not to work. Or rather, they’re pretending to work as they talk.
A wave of heat rolls over me as I swish the brushes in the thinner. I immediately understand why. The hulking form of my worst student has appeared beside me. Asher pretends to look through the stack of magazines I have out for multimedia work.
“Your smell is off.” His voice is low—barely audible to me, which means no one else in the room should be able to hear him, shifter hearing or not.
“You did this to me,” I whisper-snarl. I don’t look his way. If anyone glanced over they would see our backs angled away from each other. Two people near each other but not interacting.
He edges a little closer, reaching above me to open the cabinets above my head. His cedar and soap scent assaults me. The tension rippling through my body is too much. My fingers close in a fist around the mason jar, and I accidentally crush it in a superhuman grip.
I gasp as the glass shatters, jamming into the fleshy part of my thumb. Half of the pieces fall into the sink, the other half fall over my bare feet.
“What the fuck?”
Before I can even move, Asher picks me up by the waist and plops my ass down on the counter beside the sink.
“Why are you in your bare feet?” He sounds angry, like I’m giving him personal offense by showing my toes. But who knows what’s going through his mind right now. He probably hates the protectiveness his wolf would display over me getting hurt.
“Somebody clean that glass from the floor,” Asher orders and four students scramble to comply.
I move to hop down, my face flaming. “You don’t pick up a teacher, no matter how chivalrous you think you’re bei—Oh.” I suck in a sharp gasp. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Asher rips his T-shirt off, and he holds it beneath my hand, using it as a rag to soak up my blood. There’s nothing wrong with that instinct, per se, except that it leaves his torso bared to me.
And his chest is magnificent. The strong, sculpted pectorals are lightly dusted with golden curls. His flat nipples are taut. His scent is everywhere now, coating my face. I can’t breathe any air that doesn’t smell like him.
He bends over my hand to take a closer look, and pulls a shard of glass from my bleeding flesh.
The room tilts and spins. The air feels thick.
He’s touching me. This is what I needed. What I’ve been needing since the moment he walked out my door last night.