See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  Her hand creeps up my chest, exploring, and unbuttoning my vest . . .

  “Greer.”

  “What?” I feel her smile against my mouth.

  “Don’t.”

  “But don’t you want to, you know, let me suck you?”

  Jesus.

  Christ.

  I push off the door and put some distance between us as my hand pulls on my hair.

  “What’s wrong?” She smiles wickedly.

  “You’re evil.”

  She chuckles, and it makes me charge toward her again. This time, I pin her with my hand to her hip, and the other slides up her stomach, under her shirt to just below her breast. She gasps into my mouth as I try to leave my print on her. Make her remember exactly who she’s dealing with.

  She clings to me, opens her mouth, and . . . I pull away.

  She nearly falls over from the loss of me, eyes wide, chest heaving. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  “Reminding you who has control in the bedroom.”

  “I don’t think I could forget.”

  “Sounded like you did there for a second.” I take another step back. “I’m going to leave, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  She bites her bottom lip and nods as she rests against the door of her apartment.

  “Don’t look sad,” I say.

  “Sad the evening is over, but I’ll see you tomorrow.” She gives me a cute wave. “Night, Arlo.”

  “Night, Greer,” I say, watching her disappear into her apartment.

  Hell, I need to get out of here . . . now.

  * * *

  “Sunday—is everyone coming?” Gunner asks when I walk into the teachers’ lounge for lunch. Greer is already sitting at the table with Keiko and Stella. Romeo and Gunner are sitting at another table but close enough to have a conversation.

  “Are we required?” Stella asks before picking up a meatball sub and taking a huge bite.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Are we practicing at Arlo’s house again?” Romeo asks.

  I retrieve my salad from the fridge and nod. “Yeah, I have all the gear. It’s easier.”

  “I think someone likes being the Monica Geller of the group,” Romeo says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Monica Geller, sibling to Ross Geller,” Keiko pipes up. “From the popular American sitcom, Friends. Within the semi-diverse group of six comrades, she was considered—in street terms—the neat freak, the obsessive, and the hostess with the mostest. To be precise, season four, episode thirteen, properly titled ‘The One with Rachel’s Crush’—”

  “I think we’re good on the detail,” Stella says. “No need to dive deep into the multi-faceted plots of Friends.” Whispering to us, Stella says, “She’ll go on forever.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Halt me before I dive into the intricacies of every sub-arc of the storyline.”

  “Anyway, we’re good for Sunday,” Gunner says.

  Now that that’s solved, I turn to Greer and say, “Miss Gibson, when you have a moment, I need to speak to you about Blair.”

  Her brow furrows, and she says, “Everything okay?”

  I glance around the room and say, “In private.”

  “Ooo, someone’s in trouble,” Stella says.

  Concerned, Greer packs up the lunch she’s barely touched and says, “Where should we meet?”

  “My classroom should be sufficient.”

  “Looks like Arlo is about to lay down the law. Look out everyone, Mr. Stick Up His Butt is on the loose,” Stella continues. When I shoot her a look, she holds up her hands and chuckles. “Not in the mood for teasing?”

  “Never in the mood,” I shoot back.

  “Got it.” She pretends to write something in her palm with an imaginary pen. “Noted: does not like to be teased.”

  I hold the teachers’ lounge door open for Greer, and she follows me. I stay silent the entire walk to my classroom despite her worried questions. When we finally make it to my room, I shut the door and lock it, and she bursts out, “Just tell me, is she going to fail?”

  Smiling, I walk up to her, grip her chin, and press a gentle kiss to her lips. “Nothing is wrong with Blair. I just wanted an excuse to get you alone.”

  She pushes at my chest, but I capture her hand so she can’t go far. “Arlo, don’t do that. You had me worried.”

  “Well, you should have known that I wanted to see you at lunch, especially after last night. I didn’t see you this morning—”

  “So now I’m supposed to be a mind reader?”

  “Yup.” I smirk and press another kiss to her lips.

  “You know, for the alpha male you present to everyone else, you’re really just a softy. You realize that?”

  “Starting to.” I tug her hand and bring her to my desk, where I offer her a chair and pull up another for myself. When she’s situated, I slide a note across the desk for her.

  She looks at it and her eyes soften.

  “More notes?”

  “Do you want them to stop?”

  She sighs while she opens it up. “Never.” She reads the note out loud. “Dear Miss Gibson. Last night meant a lot to me—”

  “You can read it to yourself, you know,” I say, feeling embarrassed and glad no one else is in here.

  Smiling, she continues to read . . . but to herself, and when she’s done, she looks over the paper and says, “Yes.”

  I toss her a pen. “You have to check the box.”

  Chuckling, she checks the box and hands it back to me. I scan the note and say, “I think you should initial it to confirm you’re the one who checked yes.”

  “Don’t be horrid.”

  “So you’ll go out with me again, then?”

  “Yeah, you kind of won me over with the boat.”

  “Just the boat?”

  “Maybe a little more.” She winks. She unwraps her lunch again and offers me one of her pretzels, so I take one and pop it in my mouth.

  “I planned the first date, so you plan the second.”

  “Oh, really?” she asks. “I can plan anything?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Within reason.”

  She leans forward and runs her finger along my forearm. The light touch sends a thrill of excitement through me as she seductively says, “How about my apartment? I make you dinner, and you feed it to me while I sit on your lap . . . naked?”

  I swallow hard. “Maybe I should plan the date.”

  “No way, you said it’s my choice.”

  “I take it back.”

  “You can’t take it back. I already marked yes.”

  “But you didn’t initial it. How can I be sure it was you?”

  “Stop.” She laughs. “Don’t deny what we have. We can have fun and learn about each other at the same time.”

  “I won’t be able to control myself,” I say, feeling fired up at the possibility of what’s to come.

  “I don’t want you to. I loved it when you were spontaneous: the way you made me feel, the look in your eyes when you wanted me right then and there. And now that I know it can go somewhere, I wouldn’t mind if that continued.”

  “Is that right?”

  She nods. “But, under one condition.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, loving her tough negotiation skills.

  “Next time we’re intimate, you get to come. None of this me getting pleasure only bullshit. I want to know what it’s like to make you lose control. To see the way your muscles tense when you come. To listen to the growl that stirs up inside you when I take you into my mouth. I want to feel you, lick you, suck you. I want it all. No more denying me.”

  “You’re making me goddamn hard right now.”

  “Can I—”

  “No.” I shift on my chair. “Not right now. Not at school.”

  “Oh really, now that you’re involved you don’t want to—”

  “It’s messy as shit for a guy. I don’t need cum stains on my jeans.”

  “You won’t
. . . because I swallow.”

  Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

  “Not here. But if you want me that bad, you can have me.”

  “I want you, this Saturday. I’d say Friday, but we have a volleyball game. This Saturday, you come to my place.”

  I sit back in my chair, studying her. As my chin’s propped up by my hand, I say, “Shouldn’t you woo me if you want to take me to bed?”

  “Where was the wooing when you locked us in my classroom, pulled up my skirt, and put your face between my legs?” God, I still get hot thinking about that.

  “It was built up. The small touches, the looks, the promises, the threats. And it worked.”

  “Ugh, still arrogant.” She folds her arms.

  “How about this. Starting today, every note I write, you return with a factoid about you. Something I can hold on to, so we still do what I want to do, but you also get my dick.”

  Looking me dead in the eyes, she says, “If I weren’t so horny, I’d be insulted.” She sips her drink and then sets it down. “Fine, I’ll leave you notes. You know”—she smirks—“if I knew you were going to be this high-maintenance, I would have second-guessed jumping into something with you.”

  “You should have known I was high-maintenance from my cardigan collection.”

  “God . . . you’re right.”

  * * *

  Dear Mr. Turns Me On,

  You smell amazing. Just thought I’d throw that out there. Whatever cologne you wear is devastating to my brain. I tend to lose my train of thought and then end up agreeing to something like sending you love notes just so you feel comfortable taking your jeans off in front of me on Saturday.

  I want to assure you that seeing your dick for the first time will bring me great joy . . . even if it doesn’t live up to expectations. (If you didn’t know, the expectations are high. Well, in your case, large.)

  Enough about you though. Something about me . . .

  I have a fantastic collection of lingerie. I haven’t worn any of it in a long time, but I plan to change that very shortly.

  Have a great rest of the day.

  Greer

  * * *

  Dear Mr. Turns Me On,

  Okay, okay, so you have a big dick. I think we cleared that up this morning. You don’t need to send me text messages while I’m trying to teach. My mistake. I’ll never question your length and girth again. Honestly, this is your fault, if you’d have let me test out the dick before I took it for a drive, we wouldn’t have this miscommunication.

  But thank you for reassuring me this morning in the parking lot . . . where you waited for me, just so you could clarify in person. I noted that you’re obsessive about getting your point across.

  Anyway, another fact about me . . .

  I’m quite adventurous in bed. You’re already aware that I swallow, but were you aware that I’m not opposed to using toys . . . in all places?

  Yup, so sit on that one for a while (no pun intended) and drum up some fun ideas.

  Have a great day.

  Greer

  * * *

  Dear Mr. Turns Me On,

  Do you realize how infuriating you are? If you didn’t want sexual factoids, you should have been clear when you made the ground rules. And threatening not to come over until you received three facts about me that didn’t involve anything sexual? Not cool, man.

  Not.

  Cool.

  But, as I’m sure you’re well aware, I’m desperate to see you tomorrow, so here are your three facts:

  Tacos are my favorite food. Even though those crab legs were amazing, I love a taco. But we’re not talking about fancy tacos you get from a really nice Mexican restaurant. I like straight-up beef soft tacos from Taco Bell. I know, I should be ashamed of myself. But there’s something about the unpredictability in the ratios of taco ingredients that really gets my taste buds thriving and wanting more.

  I had a lisp until I was ten. I had a really hard time pronouncing Ls. So volleyball always came out va-wee-baw. It was cute for a second, and then my parents realized I needed some assistance. I spent two years with a speech therapist but finally got the hang of it. Sometimes I’ll say volleyball like I used to, just to hear it, remind myself how far I’ve come.

  I used to think I was going to marry George Strait. I grew up a country-loving girl—you wouldn’t guess that now because there’s very little country or farm girl about me—but I truly thought George was going to come swooping in with his cowboy hat and guitar and whisk me off my feet. I realize now that would have been a child-bride situation, but a little girl could dream, right?

  And just for an added bonus, because I’m really trying to play my cards right, the first time I saw you . . . you knocked those George Strait fantasies right out the window. You replaced a black cowboy hat with a soft-looking cardigan. And that guitar vanished right out of my head, and instead, a whiteboard marker. You’ve been a fantasy for a while, even when I wanted to stick a ruler up your ass due to your arrogance. I wanted you.

  I still want you.

  I want more than just your body, though. I want to date you. Hold your hand. Cuddle with you. Spoon you. Wake up in the morning and see your handsome face on the pillow next to me.

  You have me, Arlo.

  So come and get me.

  Greer

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ARLO

  “Where are you going?” Cora says, just as I’m about to head to the garage and drive as fast as I fucking can to Greer’s apartment.

  Her letter yesterday had me wishing she didn’t have a game that night, because I wanted to hang out with her. Slowly and luxuriously explore her body while we divulged more secrets. Instead, I texted her last night and talked about the time I almost drowned in Lake Michigan as a kid. It wasn’t quite foreplay, but it was just another snippet of my life I was open to sharing with her. Which is still surprising the shit out of me. It’s reinforcing how silent I’ve been for years. How little anyone knew me. Made me wonder how I ended up with gregarious friends like Romeo and Gunner, if I was honest. And now, Greer.

  “Out,” I say, stuffing my wallet in my pocket.

  “Where exactly?” Cora leans against the hallway wall, arms crossed.

  “Just out.”

  “Uh-huh. Now look who’s being evasive.”

  “I don’t need to tell you everywhere I’m going.”

  “But I do?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  She snorts. “You’re the worst, you know that?” Pushing off the wall, she comes up to me and sniffs my chest. “Just what I suspected—cologne.”

  “Oh-kay,” I say, drawing out the word.

  Her finger motions to my hair. “You’ve got that messy I didn’t try, but really I did look.”

  “Your point?”

  “Hand me your wallet.”

  “No.”

  “Arlo. Hand it over.”

  “There’s money in the cookie jar in the kitchen if you need some cash.”

  Her stare grows more intense as she wiggles her fingers at me. “Hand. Me. Your. Wallet.”

  Rolling my eyes, I give it to her, only for her to open it up and pull out an accordion of condoms.

  “Just as I suspected. You’re going to go have sex.”

  I snatch the wallet and condoms away, stuffing them back inside. “You need to start looking for your own place to live.”

  “Oh no, not now. Not when things are just starting to get interesting. About time there’s something juicy going on around here. So, who is she?”

  “None of your business”

  I move toward the door, but she quickly works her way around me and spreads her arms and legs out like a spider, trying to block me from exiting. “I demand details. You went to marriage counseling with me, you’ve been giddy at night, attached to your phone, and now you’re headed out around date-night o’clock, armed with a militia of condoms. I want to know who the girl is.”

  “Maybe I’m not ready to tell you.
Ever think of that?”

  “Yes, but I don’t care. I have no boundaries. You should know that by now.” She squeezes her hands together, practically praying in front of me. “Pleeeeeease, Arlo. Give me this little nugget to chew on while I sit here, in the dark, lonely and sad because my life is falling apart.”

  I tilt my head. “No, don’t play that game with me. We both know you’re past the lonely and sad phase.”

  “Ugh, you’re right. But I still need something, anything. Who are you sticking your dick in tonight?”

  “Jesus Christ.” I drag my hand down my face . . . just as my phone beeps with a text message. Oh, shit. I didn’t grab my phone.

  Cora perks up, and terror breaks out across my face as I try to remember where I put my phone. Before I know what’s happening, Cora blows past me in an all-out sprint.

  “Cora, don’t,” I say, chasing after her. We reach the joint living room and kitchen area, and we both look around, ready to pounce.

  “Ah-ha,” Coraline says before pouncing over the couch.

  I follow closely behind, tackling her into the cushions.

  “Get off me, you gollumpus.”

  Yeah, I taught her the new insult the other day.

  “Ah, that’s my boob, you’re stepping on my boob.”

  “Unless your boob is at your feet, I’m not stepping on it,” I say, scrambling around just as her elbow connects with my ribs. “Fuck.” I curl into my side as she slithers out from under me. From the corner of my eye, I see her reach for my phone on the coffee table. “Don’t touch it,” I yell as I wallop a throw pillow right in her face, causing her to drop the phone to the ground.

  I roll off the couch, still clutching my side, and serpentine my way under the coffee table, where the phone is.