Midnight Cougar, Littleashes17, Pearlyfox - couldn't have done it without you ❤️

2

"Be I may yow nat devyse al hir beautee.

But thus muche of hire beautee telle I may,

That she was lyk the brighte morwe of May,

Fulfild of alle beautee and plesaunce." - Chaucer, The Merchant's Tale

oXo

"I'll be there tonight, Alice," I say, holding my phone to my ear by my shoulder as I open my car door.

"Thank you. Thank you again for moving here. You have no idea how much it's helping." Alice sounds like she's about to cry, and I sigh, softening my voice.

"I know; it's okay, Alice. I like it here, and I'm glad I get to have a relationship with my nephew, even if he probably has no idea who I am."

Alice sniffles and then laughs. "I just wish Jasper could come home more often. I'm not supposed to be doing this myself." She hiccups.

"I know, sweetheart," I say gently. "Why don't I stay over tonight and get up with Peter so you can sleep? You know I'm happy to move in, if you want?"

Alice sobs quietly and my heart clenches.

"Don't cry, 'Lis." I use her childhood nickname and I hear her laugh a little.

"It's okay, Edward, I don't want you to have to give up your personal life; just having you nearby is more than enough. Are you sure you don't mind staying tonight?"

"Absolutely," I say firmly. Having Peter wake me up in the night with his cries will hopefully stop me from having depraved dreams about Isabella again—all of which center around taking her on my desk.

I spend most of the day dreading fifth period. This week, Isabella, or Bella, as she prefers—something I gleaned from reading her file in a moment of frenzied curiosity a few days ago—has spent most of my lessons staring at me with hooded eyes and nibbling on the end of her pen, barely writing anything down. At the beginning of every class, she stops at my desk and greets me, licking her pink tongue over her bottom lip and staring at me under her thick black lashes, before sashaying her way to her seat.

I'd always considered my attraction to her to be one-sided, but her new behaviour suggests otherwise. I don't really know what to do with that knowledge. I can't have her, even if she is serious and wants something from me, not while she's my student.

The bell rings and I start reading as my students start moseying into the room.

When Isabella steps through the door, I have to force myself to keep breathing because she is in the shortest fucking skirt I've ever seen; tight denim, hugging her shapely thighs, a pale pink, skin tight top tucked in, revealing the swells of her breasts, spilling over.

Christ.

I act as though I can't see her, keeping my eyes fixed on my book. I feel a spike of amusement at the irony of the paragraph I'm reading. My Junior class is reading Chaucer, something I forced on the Curriculum, and next lesson we are tackling 'The Merchant's Tale'—rife with desire for the forbidden and giving in to lust, even if it is wrong.

"This fresshe May, that is so bright and shene,

Gan for to syke, and seyde, 'allas, my syde!

Now sir,' quod she, 'for aught that may bityde,

I moste han of the peres that I see,

Or I mot dye, so sore longeth me

To eten of the smale peres grene.

Help, for hir love that is of hevene quene!

I telle yow wel, a womman in my plyt

May han to fruit so greet an appetyt,

That she may dyen, but she of it have."

Is she dressed like this for me? Is she dying to have me, like May?

I ignore her greeting and the sight of her walking away from me in that sinfully short piece of denim, sends a jolt to my already hard cock.

I begin the lesson and I've finally managed to calm my raging erection when she drops her pen. She twists in her seat, bending over to pick it up, and I can see fucking everything—her gorgeous arse, that little white thong pressing against her pussy, teasing me with a sliver of her dark-pink lips.

Christ. I want to bury my face there and lick, and lick.

I quickly turn my head to look out the window, so she doesn't know I was looking. I can't afford for her to know, because if she gets too confident and actually makes a move on me, I'm not sure I'd be able to resist. She needs to think I'm not interested.

I ask for a volunteer and, of course, she raises her hand, her breasts jutting out as she stares at me with hooded eyes.

Another glimpse of her little white thong and she's sauntering towards me, licking her lips.

Vixen.

She stops in front of me and tilts her head back, her big brown eyes meeting mine.

"I said, come to the whiteboard, Miss Swan, not come to me," I say curtly.

Isabella stares at me under her long black lashes. "I'd rather come on you," she says under her breath.

I can't believe she just fucking said that to me.

"What was that?" I practically spit at her, trying to control my body's reaction to her words. I can't tell her I want that too. I can't grab her tight little body and spin her around and bend her over, fuck her until she does come all over me. Again and again.

I manage to keep it together as I explain what I want her to do, but then her burning hot hand touches my shoulder and my cock springs to life so fast I freeze. Instead of just giving her the fucking pen, I have to turn away quickly from her and take a seat at my desk to hide the bulging evidence of my desire for her underneath the table.

I place the pen down, across from me and Isabella gives me a curious look before bending over to grab it. Her cheeks flush a beautiful pink when she realizes she's accidentally just flashed the classroom and I feel a stir of anger in my gut. I don't want anyone else to see her body, but that's possessive, and ridiculous, because she's not mine, and she's my student.

Something I have to keep reminding myself of.

She swallows and then spins around to face the class. Her plump arse is right in front of my face and I grind my teeth together for a second.

"Well…" Isabella says confidently. "What themes do we have, everyone?"

"I must have missed the part where I told you to teach the class, Miss Swan," I state, fighting a laugh.

She glances back at me, the sun flickering across her soft-looking brown hair and giving it a reddish hue. My mouth goes dry as she winks slyly, my heart pounding in my chest.

I inform her to get the class to raise their hands—a random chorus of voices always ends up with the quieter students not getting heard, and I want to give everyone a chance to speak—and she turns back to me, arching an eyebrow.

"I thought I was teaching the class. I don't mind them calling out."

She's so fucking insolent; I almost want to laugh. I tell her that I want them to raise their hands and her little plump bottom lip sticks out, her big brown eyes staring into mine as her thick black lashes flutter.

Sin. Isabella Swan is pure sin.

I watch with equal parts annoyance, amusement, and lust as she takes charge of the class, writing their suggestions on the board. I'm mostly operating on autopilot, when she suddenly freezes.

"Write it down, Miss Swan," I order.

She hesitates, and it takes me a second to realise why. If she reaches up to write the words, the class will get a much longer look at her bare arse. I step behind her body and take the pen from her, careful not to let my fingers touch hers. I can feel the heat of her tight little body; smell the strawberries from her shampoo, even the undertones of vanilla from her perfume.

I'm so fucking hard. I want to press myself against her, slam her body into the whiteboard so she can feel what she's doing to me.

But I can't.

I order her back to her seat and stay facing the whiteboard until my cock is no longer straining against my slacks.

Just before the end of class, I walk up to her and tell her the skirt is against school policy—which it is—because if I have to keep seeing her parade her tight little arse around, I'm going to end up with a pulled muscle in my arm.

Isabella stares up at me, her deep, amber-flecked eyes wide, an innocent smile at her pouty lips.

"How exactly is it against school policy, sir?"

Every time she says sir, I imagine her saying it on her knees with her little hands wrapped around my cock.

I don't even know what I say or she says after that; my head is full of a rushing sound.

When I sit down in my chair again, I sigh in relief, but Isabella isn't done. On her way out, she drops her pen again and bends right over, her legs straight. I turn my head to look out the window, but I can still fucking see her in the reflection.

I've never been so fucking hard in my life at the sight of those long creamy legs, the tiny little string of her thong barely covering her pink puckered asshole.

I don't dare look at her when she walks out, and when I'm alone, I lean back in my chair and groan.

Fuck me.

I'll be posting a teaser for Tuesday's chapter in my FB group Creaatingmadness tonight - so make sure you're in the group to see it ;)

More on Tuesday x