Mistletoe Kisses: A teacher/student romance

by Mariano, Sam

  I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to spend my life terrified to step outside my comfort zone. I want to know what’s out there. Maybe I want someone like him to show me.

  I nod my head.

  He passes me the cup. "Here you go."

  I wrap my fingers around it, taking the straw between my carefully glossed lips and sucking until the milky drink hits my tongue. Fluttering my lashes, I moan with pleasure, then look at Mr. McLaren the way he looked at me, my tongue peeking out to lick the straw. "So good, Mr. McLaren."

  He watches me silently, his eyes dark and hooded as I pass him the drink back, licking my lips.

  For a long, tense moment, the only sound is that of my heart pounding in my ears. Mr. McLaren doesn’t utter a word, he just sits there, staring at me.

  Finally, he breaks eye contact. His gaze drifts to my lips, then flickers to the straw hanging out of his milkshake.

  “A little sloppy,” he says. “You got lipstick all over it.”

  My face flushes more shades of red than the panties in that godforsaken shopping bag. Well aware of the innuendo he’s making, I draw my own milkshake closer and tell him, “Just be thankful I didn’t use my teeth.”

  It’s quick, but I see Mr. McLaren bite back a smile. Attempting to lure us back into safer waters, he cocks an eyebrow, adopts his teacher voice, and asks sternly, “We are still talking about milkshakes, aren’t we, Miss Harper?”

  Innocently as can be, I suck on my straw. When I pop off, I ask, “What else would we be talking about, Mr. McLaren?”

  For all his derisive talk of safety boxes and comfort zones, Mr. Daredevil doesn’t dare answer me.

  Chapter Three

  Noelle

  Once we’ve finished our milkshakes, my brazen teacher grabs his Daring Dolls shopping bag and leads me in the direction of his last stop. As we walk away from the ice cream shop, I notice several women checking him out. I can’t really blame them—he’s a damn fine specimen—but the way he catches everyone's attention still leaves me feeling restless and a little jealous.

  "You’re taking me to a bookstore?" I ask when we come to a stop outside of one. "Oh boy. I hope you know what you’ve just signed up for."

  His lips curve up. “I’m an English literature teacher; surely you’re not under the impression I don’t like books?”

  “You can like books all you want,” I tell him as we stroll inside, “but an hour from now when I’ve only made it through the second aisle, I promise you’re going to reevaluate this decision.”

  He doesn’t appear convinced. “What kind of books do you read for pleasure?” he inquires, ignoring the saleslady’s attempts to greet us from behind the register.

  I offer her a friendly/apologetic smile as we breeze past. Turning my attention back to my teacher, I answer, “I like a pretty wide variety. Depends on what I’m in the mood for.”

  "The new Caroline Kepnes book is out," he remarks, motioning to the thriller section. “You’d probably like her.”

  "We’re already acquainted." I raise my eyebrows at him. "A fan of creepy stalkers, are we?”

  "Hey, it was an interesting read," he says with a shameless smile. "No stalkers tonight, huh? What kind of book were you in the mood for, then?"

  "Well… I heard the new Angel Young book is out," I murmur, glancing longingly toward the romance section.

  "Angel Young?" he repeats, cocking an eyebrow. "Wow. I didn't take you for an erotica reader."

  It satisfies me more than it should, shocking him like that. “How’s that for safe and comfortable?” I toss back, a little smugly.

  He cocks his head, communicating without words that I shouldn’t challenge him. “Reading erotica in and of itself isn’t all that daring, but admitting to it… I’ll give you a little credit.”

  I can’t help rolling my eyes at the insufferable man. “What would it take to get a lot of credit from you?”

  With a mysterious little smile, he answers, “Oh, you’ll see.” His eyes burn against mine, and he heads past me into the romance section of the bookstore. "Come on, let's go find your Angel Young smut fest."

  We don't need to look very hard. The book is prominently displayed, the blurred out picture of the author as enticing as the lipstick and spilled champagne on the cover. They're erotica, but they're classy erotica. My mom says that makes all the difference. She's a fan, too, though I doubt she knows I've caught her stealing my Kindle on numerous occasions.

  "Sins of the Flesh," Mr. McLaren reads the title out loud, giving me a dramatic look. "I'll take two."

  I'm blushing as he carries the books to the register, paying for them with his card. He hands me a copy, and I stare up at him in surprise. "For me? I thought it was part of your gift for Mystery Girl."

  "One for you, one for me," he tells me with a smirk. "We can start a book club."

  As we head to the parking lot, I can barely hide my smile. Tonight's going much better than I anticipated. When Mr. McLaren first told me my paper wasn't good enough, I shouldn't have panicked as much. He's just trying to help me—a fact I'm forced to remind myself of all too frequently, because my thoughts have turned inappropriate too many times since he met me at the North Pole an hour ago.

  Sure, he’s the one making all the suggestive comments and making me have those thoughts, but surely it doesn’t mean anything. I mean, he’s my teacher and I’m his student—literally nothing can happen between us.

  We get into Mr. McLaren’s black Tesla, and he backs out of the parking spot, putting his hand over the back of my seat as he checks behind us, and all I can smell is the leather of the seats and the masculine scent of him. I swallow down the lump in my throat. Is there anything this man could do that won't turn me on?

  The drive to his place doesn’t take very long, but every minute is spent anticipating what his place will be like. Does he live in an apartment, or an actual house? Does he live alone, or with someone else? There’s no wedding ring on his finger—believe me, I’ve checked—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t live with someone.

  Maybe even the girl he bought all that underwear for. Maybe she’s more than a hook-up and as soon as we step inside the place he calls home, I’ll see evidence of her all over the place.

  My chest feels funny thinking about it, but thankfully the torture of anticipation doesn’t last for long. Mr. McLaren hits his signal and slows down. I look ahead at the house connected to the driveway he’s pulling into. Definitely not an apartment. He lives in a residential neighborhood and his house is a ranch on a pretty good-sized lot, situated right on the corner of the main road and a side street. It’s brick construction like most of the houses in this area, with a manicured lawn—no Christmas lights.

  “I see someone’s a grinch,” I state as he parks and turns off the engine.

  Mr. McLaren’s gaze flickers to mine. “Excuse me?”

  “No decorations. Not so much as a wreath on your door,” I say, shaking my head in solemn disapproval.

  Mr. McLaren rolls his eyes. “Hey, I brought home a real live elf; that has to count for something.”

  Thankfully, he climbs out of the car after that, so he doesn’t see me blushing because he said he brought me home. I have got to get my mind out of the gutter.

  I don’t expect any gallantry from this man, so I’m pleasantly surprised when I get around to the front of the car and find him waiting for me. The driveway is a little icy from the cold snap we’ve had lately, so he ushers me to his front door. I wait anxiously while he unlocks it and pushes it open.

  He gestures for me to go in ahead of him—more unexpected gallantry—so I do. I hold my breath as I step across the threshold, then immediately begin searching for some sign of another woman.

  Relief wraps around me as I look around at a sparsely furnished living area with bare hardwood floors and bare white walls. If a woman lives here with him, it’s not one who feels comfortable enough to decorate.

  "Looks like no one else is home," I ob
serve.

  “I live alone,” he says, peeling off his coat and opening the closet door. Once he has his own coat put away, he grabs a second hanger and holds out his hand, silently commanding me to hand mine over.

  “Oh.” I quickly tug my coat off and hand it to him.

  "Come on." Without explanation, he guides me past the living room. I see the kitchen ahead, but we don’t go that way. We turn right down a hallway and go to the last doorway on the very end.

  He opens the door into a massive room. I’m not sure if this was meant to be an excessively sized master suite or perhaps a family room that he repurposed, but the bedrooms in my house are sizable and this is way bigger.

  At first I’m alarmed, because this is clearly his bedroom. As soon as he opens the door, the enormous California King at the other end of the room is the first thing my eyes focus on.

  This is half bedroom, half office, and clearly where he spends the most time. While the rest of the house is only furnished by necessity by someone who appears never to be home, this room feels lived in. There are still no photographs on the walls or any real signs of sentimentality, but there are hints of him scattered about. The wall to the left is lined with bookcases and packed full of varied titles. There’s a loveseat toward the front of the room, facing a television mounted on the wall beside the door. In the corner there’s a case of movies. I wish we were closer so I could see what he enjoys watching.

  Mr. McLaren walks over to the desk along the opposite wall and drops his shopping bags beside it. He peels off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair as a matter of routine. I imagine him always doing this when he gets home, and I feel for a moment like a voyeur, peeking in on his life.

  He looks over at me. “Do you need anything before we get started? Water, perhaps?”

  I am a little thirsty, but I find myself shaking my head, not wanting to impose.

  “Very well,” he says as he drops into the chair behind his desk. "Then it’s time for your first lesson, Noelle."

  I approach his desk, my stomach twisting into knots. I feel so awkward, not knowing where he wants me. There’s a chair on his side of the desk for him to sit on, but no chair on the other side of it for anyone else. The only other surfaces in the room I could really sit on would be the loveseat or his bed. Both are too far away, and one is his bed—obviously, I can’t sit there.

  “What should I do?” I finally ask him as I bend to put my own things down on the floor on this side of the desk.

  Mr. McLaren cocks an eyebrow, apparently unimpressed with my inability to figure out such a simple thing. “Sit.”

  “Where?” I gesture to the open air around me. “There’s no chair.”

  He stares at me for a long moment, seeming to enjoy my discomfort. My confidence has all but evaporated in his presence. I bite down on my bottom lip, waiting for Mr. McLaren to pull something out of thin air for me to sit on.

  Finally, he leans forward and places his palm on his desk. The surface is mostly clear, save for a few papers to his right. I don’t immediately understand what he’s saying, but then he pats the surface with his large hand.

  My heart soars, then plummets, like a bird shot out of the air mid-flight. “You… you want me to sit on your desk?”

  “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

  “Yes,” I answer honestly, my gaze darting to the gleaming surface beneath his hand. If I sat up there—especially in my dress—he would be able to see way too much.

  “Then yes, that’s what I want,” he says simply, meeting my gaze across the desk.

  I swallow, taking a step forward, then stop. Looking back at him, I ask, “What if I say no?”

  Mr. McLaren leans back in his chair, spreading his arms and lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Then I’ll call you a coward again, but I can’t say I’ll be surprised.”

  Anger sends a bolt of stubbornness straight through me. I tip my chin up, my jaw locking, my fists clenched at my sides. I hate when he puts me down that way. I hate when he calls me a coward.

  So I guess I have to show him I’m not one.

  Despite my mind rising to the challenge, my body feels a little shaky. I ignore the way my legs feel weak, walking around his desk like I don’t have a single insecurity. I lean back against the hard edge, feeling it press against my ass, then I brace my palms on the surface and lift myself.

  The gleaming desk is cool beneath me, which comes as a real relief because my body is on fire. Mr. McLaren is the one who set it alight, and he throws more fuel on as he drops his arms and leans forward again. He’s so close that I start to tingle in highly inappropriate places.

  Even though I feel exposed up here, Mr. McLaren’s gaze remains locked on my face. He’s sizing me up, making some new judgment about me, or maybe revising an old one.

  “Good girl,” he says, finally.

  I tingled between the legs when I sat up here on the desk for him, but when he says that, it triggers something primitive within me and I throb with want.

  Shit, I am in so much trouble.

  I swallow, then try to lighten the mood. “Glad you approve, Mr. McLaren.”

  “Sir,” he corrects.

  My eyes widen slightly. “Sir?”

  He nods. “In class, I’m Mr. McLaren. While we’re having private lessons here, you’ll call me Sir.”

  I narrow my eyes, some of the skepticism I felt yesterday when he told me my paper was trash and I needed tutoring—me, an honor student at the top of my class—resurfacing. "Okay..."

  "It's yes, Sir."

  "Yes... S-Sir," I stutter.

  "Good girl,” he says again. His tone is firmer now, but better somehow, like he’s more comfortable with praising me now that I’ve obeyed every order he’s given.

  Another rush of heat consumes me. I'm tempted to fan myself, but instead I just stay glued to the spot, flushing deeply.

  Mr. McLaren bends and reaches into the shopping bags beside him. For a moment I’m horrified, remembering all the lingerie he bought, but when he straightens again, he’s not holding a lacy thong or a push-up bra, just a book.

  Except… it’s the Angel Young book.

  I watch uneasily as he smiles, his eyes dancing with light amusement. “Your textbook, Miss Harper.”

  I swallow, reaching for the book, shifting my gaze to the cover so I can get a break from looking at him for a moment. Even when he’s joking, he’s so damn intense, it’s hard to look at him for too long. I can’t find the words to ask what he wants me to do with this book, though, so I have to look back up at him.

  Sensing my lack of comprehension, he offers further instruction. “You're going to start reading to me.”

  “To you?”

  He nods once. “The first chapter, then we’ll go over it together.”

  I can’t breathe. I flip open the book to check out the first chapter, and immediately see a whole string of words I cannot possibly say to my teacher. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I state, shaking my head. “I can’t. I’ll die.”

  His lips curve up faintly. “You won’t. You’ll survive it, I promise.”

  “You think that now,” I say, accusingly shoving the book at him. “Read the first sentence and tell me again how everything’s going to be just fine.”

  He flips open the book, goes to the page I was just on, and his eyes briefly scan the page.

  He flips the book closed again, and my heart lightens. Clearly, he just didn’t realize how intensely sexual the book would be. Now that he knows, he’ll let me read about Joe being a creep or something else far less arousing.

  At least, that’s what I think until he hands the book back to me.

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  "But..."

  "But what, Noelle?" He leans forward, placing his hands on the desk on either side of my legs. My heart is fucking pounding and I can scarcely breathe. I think I might actually pass out. His hands are so close to my legs, and he’s never leaned this c
lose to me before. I can smell him, and damn, does he smell good.

  Lust joins the terror and anxiety twisting up my insides and once more, it’s all I can do not to jump down and run away.

  I can’t, though. I can’t chicken out every time he pushes my limits and then be irate when he calls me a coward.

  I finally manage, "But it's filthy..."

  "So?" His intense stare never leaves mine. "We're both adults here, aren't we, Noelle?"

  I hesitate. "Yes?"

  "Yes, what?" he bites out.

  My eyes widen. For a second, I forget what he wanted me to call him, but now I remember. “Yes, Sir.”

  He eases back away from me. "That's better.”

  Relief trickles through me, hearing the measured dose of approval in his voice again. I want more of it, and there’s only one order I’m currently resisting, so I also know how to get it.

  Just in case I’m dim, he sits back in his chair and orders, “Start reading, Noelle."

  I open the cover with shaky hands, flipping to the first page. Angel Young is filthy, and I don’t know how I’ll even read the first sentence, let alone the rest of the book. My voice shakes as I begin reading.

  "She would never forgive him for leaving her after mere minutes every single time he filled her holes..."

  Chapter Four

  Callan

  Noelle’s reward for surviving our first study session is dinner.

  It was touch and go to begin with. For the first two pages, her voice shook as she read and she kept clenching her legs together, terrified they might come apart and give me a peek at the paradise between her creamy thighs.

  Despite the temptation presented, I kept my eyes on her face. Since she was policing my gaze the whole time, that eventually made her more comfortable.

  I’m in no rush with Noelle. If I just wanted to look at a woman’s pussy, I could’ve called any number of women to come in her place.