Hot, wet, passionate kisses press onto her soft, supple lips, hands gripping and smoothing and cherishing sticky, smooth skin - bodies pressed together, entwined, seeking passion - pleasure - release.
He has her under him, moaning, writhing, gasping and kissing, eyes closed, nose letting out short, baited breaths, her hands wondering over him, scratching his skin as the intense pleasure builds up and up and up in both of their bodies, their minds dazed, their senses hyper aware of this intense feeling and the sound of the bed squeaking lightly from under them is mixed with moans, skin slapping, and heavy breathing.
And then stars seem to be forming in his vision, he's taken over the edge as he pulls away from the kiss burying his head in her neck, letting the act of him sucking on her pulse point drown out his loud grunt of release. She follows shortly after, because a loud feminine moan is let out into the room, and her nails dig painfully, but gladly welcomed, into the skin of his back. He slows his movements, until he brings them to a halt, pressing a soft kiss to her neck before slowly pulling out of her and rolling to lay by her side. She sighs and turns to face him, smirk present on her lips.
He'd met her at a bar. She'd been drunk with a bunch of friends, he'd been drowning his sorrows and ranting to Killian (the owner of said bar and his close friend), and she'd sent him glances, then he'd bought her a drink, admiring how hot she looked in that little black dress, and then one thing lead to another and suddenly he was kissing every part of her, enjoying every moment of having her body on his, under his, moaning out his name.
That was three weeks ago.
She'd left her number on his pillow, neat, italicized handwriting scrawled onto what he still assumes is a bubblegum wrapper, a red lip print kissed onto it next to her name, and he'd called her a few days later of course; he just couldn't get this seductress out of his head, this beautiful, mystery of a women, with an equally beautiful name and the ability to make him forget everything else. The divorce, the arguments, the stress of transferring jobs. It all seems to disappear when she's with him.
He still doesn't know much about her. He knows her age, had found out the second time they'd done this. Eighteen. And he wasn't impressed, because a nine year age difference made him feel strange - even though it's legal - but he'd soon gotten over it, had been too addicted to let go, had been reassured by her that she was comfortable with him. She wanted this.
He also knows that her mother is a bitter, pretentious, snob, who makes his sweet distraction - his beautiful bed fellow, feel like utter crap, and that her father died two years ago - car accident, and very sudden, and she has a sister, older, who lives in England - had been sent there almost ten years ago for reasons unknown. He knows her mother remarried to another wealthy businessman, who makes her skin crawl and makes him equally tense - and she has an annoying, but sweet, step sister, who is a little over a year younger than her. That's about all he knows. Her first name, her age, and her messed up family life, which is actually what had led her to the bar on that precious night.
Oh, and that she's amazing in bed, she's incredibly intelligent, and she has this awful habit of self loathing.
"You're thinking too loud," she sighs, pulling him from his own mind as she always does, chocolate brown eyes boring into his.
"You're gorgeous, you know that?" He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She chuckles quietly and it makes his stomach flip.
"So I've been told," she bites her lip, and he keeps his hand resting on her cheek because he likes touching her. Being near her.
"Who's been telling you that?" He teases, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh... just this amazingly hot guy I happen to know..." she replies, and he lightly swats her on the arm. "The only one I have eyes for," she whispers, raising her body so she can climb and straddle his lap. His hands land on her hips instantly, and she leans down for a kiss.
"I hope you're talking about me," he breaths between hot, lazy kisses, "otherwise I'll have to have a word with this 'amazingly hot guy'" he smirks, flipping them so that she's under him once more.
"Down boy," she whispers, "of course it's you."
He presses his lips to hers again, sucking and biting, his hands wondering over her soft skin, the skin he's grown so accustomed to touching and kissing. He doesn't know what this feeling is - the feeling he has when he's with her. It's strong, and passionate, and his heart leaps when she's with him, when she smiles, when her eyes meet his, when her mouth lets out that melodic sound that most call talking.
He wants more than this, though. More than heated nights of passion, and lazy mornings talking. He wants more than seeing her every few days, and more than late night text conversations.
He wants her. Wants to be with her all the time, wants to see her face when he wants, wants to kiss her and hug her when he wants. But he doesn't know where she stands. He knows it's risky, due to the age difference, because her parents are difficult, he knows that, and he knows he'll be starting his new job soon, and won't have time for her - the time she deserves. So he'll have to cherish these moments while they last, these kisses, her moans, her scent under his nose, and he'll pray that soon they'll have more.
Although the cherishing doesn't last long, because her ringtone is blaring through the room, and she continues the kiss for a few more seconds but pulls away with a groan a moment later.
"Damnit," she mutters, reaching her arm up from under him, blindly looking for her phone on his bed side table. He reaches over and gets it for her, seeing 'mother' written on the screen, and then hands it to her. "Mother?" She sighs, laying her head back onto the pillow and putting a hand to her forehead as he hovers above her, playing with her hair. "Yes, I know it's after six, mother," she rolls her eyes, "okay, fine. I'll see you in about thirty minutes."
She hangs up the phone and closes her eyes, and Robin presses a quick hiss to her lips. He loves doing that. "What'd the hag say?"
She snorts and opens her eyes, "I have to go."
"For fucks sake," he grips her hips tightly from under him, reluctant for her departure. "Babe, don't leave me."
"Robin," she groans, placing her warm, soft hands over his on her hips and detaching them. "Don't make this harder than it is. I have many preparations for something on Monday, and I'll likely be busy the whole week... but I wanna see you - again. You have my number and you know I'm always on my phone. Call me whenever you want. I'll make time for you, I swear."
Robin let's her scoot from under him and he stands from the bed also, pulling on the dressing gown that he'd thrown on the floor that morning. She's already pulling her blue dress on, covering up her luscious body and then meeting his eyes. She smirks and stands, and then finds her pumps by the bed.
"I'll try to make time for you too... it's just, you know I'm starting work in a few days and I'm gonna be busy also."
She walks up to him, placing two hands to his cheeks and planting a kiss on his lips. "Don't sweat it, babe, we'll find a way," she holds his gaze. "Meanwhile, I've got an impatient mother waiting on me to get home. Leo probably let Mary cook again, and everyone just has to tell Mary how amazing she is," she snorts, pulling away from him.
He nods and finds her hand, walking her down the stairs to the front door. "Text me when you're home, and come over whenever you want," he says, opening the door to his house. He knows she lives around twenty minutes away - had worked it out from the time difference between her texts of 'I'm coming over' and her arrival at his front door.
"I will. And I will," she closes her eyes and purses her lips, her request of a kiss which he gladly grants.
And then she's getting into her car, putting her key into the ignition, and blowing him a kiss before driving off. He's left with that overwhelming feeling of infatuation that sits in his heart every time she leaves.
"Regina, stand still," her mother mutters from the corner of the dressing room, harsh eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "Johanna needs to size you for your uniform, stop fidgeting."
"Mother, this is ridiculous. We don't need to be measured to adjust our uniforms," she gestures to Mary Margaret, stood beside her on her own measuring platform awaiting her turn. "Can we not just show you that they still fit? I'm pretty sure I know my size."
"Do not be absurd, Regina," her mother spits, fire burning in her gaze. "Spring break is over, and we will not just abandon the tradition of sizing you for your uniform at the start of each term. You're lucky this school gives you three weeks off for spring break, rather than one, or you would've spent that whole week preparing. Mary follows the rules just fine, why do you insist on being such trouble? Misthaven is one of the most prestigious private schools in LA, and I will not have you just throwing away standards. Now stop fidgeting and let Johanna take your measurements," she rants and rants and rants.
Regina sighs, and looks down, wondering why on Earth so many preparations always have to be made before school each term. Equipment shopping, tutors coming in to remind them of last semesters curriculum, health checks, fitness checks, (because God Forbid she takes any absence days) revision timetables made, clothing measurements for uniform adjustments, pre buying all textbooks needed for classes, and of course, already making ideas for her prom dress (which she'll probably have no choice over). She knows that this is an important term, since it's her last four months at Misthaven, but her mother often goes overboard about everything, and Regina can't deal.
She'll be out soon, anyway. That's the only thing keeping her sane - keeping her calm. She'll go to Harvard, move away from this crazy, overly controlled lifestyle, her stupid family and she'll make her own choices, and more importantly, her own mistakes.
"You're the same as you were four months ago, miss," Johanna concludes, and Regina has to resist letting out a smug snicker.
"May I go to my room now, mother?" She asks, pulling her silk robe on to cover her underwear clad form. At her mothers nod, she makes a brisk exit to her room, shuts the door and finds her cell.
Two messages from him.
Him who she can't seem to get out of her head. Him who consumes her every thought. Him who makes her feel things beyond what she thought was possible. Him.
'Just checking how you are, gorgeous lady ;)' and 'what's this thing you've been occupied with preparing for since Friday evening?' light up her screen, and her heart sinks.
She still hasn't told him.
She can't tell him. What they have and what they've been doing will end instantly, and she can't handle that. Can't take that.
She hasn't seen him since Friday, and now it's Sunday night, and he's been subtly trying to get information from her for a few days. She knows he's probably just worried, because she knows he's been cheated on before, but if he can't trust her - even though they're not actually together anyway - then that's on him.
She just has four months. One quarter of a year, and then she can stop lying to him. She can hide it from him until then, right? He doesn't need to know that she's a high school student. She's eighteen, and what they're doing is legal, but if he knew she was a high school student he would probably freak out, because twenty eight year old's don't date high schoolers. She thinks he assumes she's turning nineteen soon, rather than just turning eighteen on February first (exactly two months ago), and therefore thinks she left high school last year. She'd always avoided this conversation, though, kept it private.
Kept it from him.
Sure, she feels bad, but he doesn't share much either. She knows he's divorced, his ex wife is a bitch, he speaks to his parents in England rarely, and he's starting a new job. What job exactly, she doesn't know, and where in England he's from, she doesn't either, and to be perfectly honest, she doesn't think he's ever mentioned his ex wife's name. But she knows he's smart - really smart. And he's charming and honorable and perfect. And she knows she likes him - a lot, and he likes her and she really, really wants to keep it that way. And so she has no choice but to work her way around his question.
'Still gorgeous, I hope... and how are you, handsome?'
His reply is almost instant, despite the fact that his first texts were sent over thirty minutes ago.
'Still handsome - or is that copying your line? And I'm prepping for work tomorrow. I didn't quite catch what has you so busy for tomorrow, though?'
Regina groans and flops into the chair at her vanity, biting her lip to think up an excuse. A lie.
'Wouldn't you like to know ;)'
'Maybe I do... unless you've got somebody else keeping you company, and you don't want to tell me?'
'Never,' and 'it's not a who, it's a what. I promise xx' are her next replies.
He doesn't reply for the rest of the night, and it has her worried. Telling him the truth could ruin what they have, but lying to him might too. How did she get herself into such a mess? Why is what should be a relaxing night before the first day back after spring break, a stressful, restless one in which she cannot sleep?
She'll go see him after school tomorrow, she decides, laying in bed. She'll come home, get changed, and then go see him, have a few hours with him, talk to him like she always does. Only she won't tell him. She won't need to.
It's morning.
When was the last time he'd been up at such an hour?
The hour that claims to be morning, yet is dark, dreary, and extremely quiet.
It's 6:45am.
6:45am and he needs to be at work for 8am to have a tour, get a timetable, a map of the grounds, have a word with his boss and of course, to prepare. That's one hour and fifteen minutes to shower, change, eat, get mentally prepared and then get into his car and drive. Well, if he's being technical, he has forty five minutes to do all of that, because he should be in his car with thirty minutes to spare, since it's a twenty minute drive, and he can't chance traffic or closed roads. Not on his first day.
He grunts, groans, stretches, peels his duvet from over his body and shifts one, two legs off of the bed and onto the plush, cream rug sprawled on his floor. He wipes sleep from his eyes, and stands to make his way to his en suit.
As usual, the water takes just under three minutes to warm, and then an extra two to stay at a level temperature that won't scald or freeze his skin. He stands under the spray, cleaning and wiping and leaning on the tiles - running hands through his hair in sudden thought. He feels bad for ignoring her yesterday. Regina, that is. He feels bad for being worried about what she seems to be keeping from him. She has no loyalty to him. They're not dating, they're not exclusive, and they certainly don't tell one another everything - but he's on edge. What isn't she telling him?
By the time he's dressed, sat at his table munching 'Lucky Charms' and scrolling through his phone, she sends him another text. Two, actually.
'Are you mad at me? I'm sorry x' and 'If it's okay, I'm gonna come see you later?'
He feels even worse, now. Of course it's okay that she comes over, she knows it is, but he's made her feel as if she has to ask him. He has made her sorry.
'Baby, all is fine... I'm leaving for work in a moment - seeing your pretty face later would be nice, though xx'
Her reply comes through has he opens his front door; 'Good, because I've missed your pretty face, too ;).' His morning feels lighter, he'll see her later and though he's promised himself he'll drop whatever it is he's worrying about, he hopes he can get some answers.
He drives to his new work place, makes it with eight minutes to spare, climbs out of his car, clutching his briefcase in nervous hands before looking around him. The building is just beautiful, he notes. It's old, but it's classy, and elegant, and charming. The large exterior made of brick, covered in plants and vines, with paths and gardens, grand doors and windows gracing its beauty in modesty reminds him somewhat of something that'd be in a fairy tale. With a name like 'Misthaven Forest Private School' he should've expected something like this.
"Mr Locksley?" A man with a cane, who he recognizes instantly as head master Gold, calls from the main, oak wood doors to the school.
Robin walks towards him, pressing down the lock button on his car remote as he does, and plasters a pleasant smile on his face. "Mr Gold, nice to see you again," he says when he's closer, holding his hand out for the older man to shake. He takes it, now putting a smile onto his own face.
"Do come in, Mr Locksley, it's a pleasure to have you here. Since our interview I have been looking forward to having somebody of your qualification and intellect teaching at my school."
Robin is led through to a large foyer where two grand staircases face the front doors, the smell of oak, musk and detergent linger in the air. Gold leads him past the foyer, down a grand corridor and then around a corner, where Robin see's double wooden doors with golden handles, Head Master R. Gold printed in gold on the front. He invites Robin in, offers him a seat, and then sits in his own.
"Now, here is a map of the grounds, you'll mark down convenient places when Katherine gives you a tour, here is your timetable, and I've made sure that your first lesson is with the first years, so they're all easy to deal with - especially since you're joining toward the end of the academic year, and students aren't always so welcoming to newcomers. I have some things for you to sign, but if I recall, I emailed the majority of the risk assessments to you, and you've read through the contract," Gold says confidentially, handing Robin each sheet that he needs, "this is your car park pass, and parking space number... and as you see, your classroom is M23, that's middle floor because it's the English and foreign language floor."
Robin takes each sheet, glancing over at them, running his hand over the image of the massive grounds of the school. Then he's given a pen, signs a contract, and soon, a leggy blonde is walking into the room, introduced as Katherine - Gold's assistant, and she's asking if he's ready for he tour.
"Yes, thank you Katherine," Gold smiles.
She nods, and he says goodbye to Mr Gold - shaking his hand on his departure, and then he's following Katherine down the corridor.
The tour is thirty minutes. He sees the classrooms, the gymnasium, the exam room, the teachers lounge, the gardens, the stables, the cafeteria, the library (bigger than his last schools for sure), the car park and even the medical room.
"It's protocol, ensures you know where a kid is going if they're ill, or where to get the medical staff from," she says, stopping outside the door, "there are two sets of toilets on each floor. Children are allowed to go to the bathroom at any point if requested - but only once in a lesson. In the case of a fire drill or a real fire, you'll get your class to stand calmly, follow you out of the room in single file, and you'll lead them to the West field, by the stables," she smiles, "oh - and lunch is at twelve, every day."
Robin smiles warmly back, and he can't help but admire how pretty this blonde is. If the rest of the staff look anything like her, maybe this year won't be so bad. "Thank you, Kathrine - can I call you that?" She nods.
The bell goes then, and she's telling him it's the 8:50am bell, and then she's rushing back to her office, calling behind her that the students will be arriving now, so that they get to class for 9.
He calls back a thanks once more, and then he's heading up to the middle floor where he's already been shown his classroom.
Students are everywhere, already. Lockers being opened, kisses and hugs and "I've missed you!"'s being thrown around, and he likes this part. The part where he gets to see them, happy to be here, excited to learn (some more than others), and talking to their friends, catching up on everyone's spring break. It reminds him of being in school (though London school is quite different), and he's taken back to him and Will messing around, bunking off, avoiding homework.
He strolls past them, admiring the uniform. It's neat, and quite smart and he's thrown back to England yet again, remembering how they have uniforms, and the last American school that he worked at didn't. It's a blue, pleated, tartan skirt for the girls, with a plain black jumper over white or faded blue shirts, and a black cross tie. Some of them are even wearing blazers. The boys are pretty much the same, but with either grey or black trousers, and their ties are suit ties of the same black.
He's about to turn the corner, labelled 'M20 - M30' and ah, he's almost there. His first class, his first new set of keen ears and wide eyes. His first-
Wait.
He stops before the corner, heart going from light pumping to heaving banging against his chest, his temperature suddenly raising above 100 degrees despite the chill in the air, and his palms are sweating, body shaking - quivering, mind buzzing.
He's sure - he's so so so so sure that he just walked past her. He's 100% - he's positive, he's... he's hoping, praying that he's wrong, that he miss-saw, that his mind is playing tricks because he misses her.
He's thinks she was talking to a girl, with blonde hair, stood by a locker, smirking, lips blood red, long black tresses falling past her shoulders - and he's sure that it was her, but he's too scared to turn around and look. He's been stood there for almost 10 seconds and he's scared to check if he's just wasted his time panicking, or if he needs to take therapy for the rest of his life.
"Yes, Emma," he hears her sigh, she's almost twelve feet behind him, and yep, that's definitely her. And oh god, oh god, he's screwed.
He turns then, swivels around and sees her twiddling her hair, giggling with her friend, carrying what looks like a Chanel 2.55 bag, smile on her plump lips, the same lips he'd kissed and cherished and had so many happy nights looking at.
She's stood there, smile now wiped off of her pretty face, dark eyes staring back at him, in her uniform.