Page 8 of Student Seduction

2

Emersyn

Aiden, a.k.a. Mr. Singleton, was already in the Principal’s office when I arrived. He was even more attractive than I’d remembered, and for some reason, it made me angrier at the entire situation.

His name had buzzed through the halls, a steady cicada-esque hum among the entire female student population.

Every other girl wanted to seduce him.

I wanted to slap him.

To his credit, he did look apologetic. I looked away, staring at the stack of folders on the mahogany desk as I slid into the empty leather chair beside him.

One of those folders was mine. I had never been called to the principal’s office before. I doubted many of the office staff could even pick me out of a lineup. I was a nerdy loner art student that kept to myself. Other than Art Club, I didn’t participate in any extracurriculars.

“Principal Stewart will be with you in a just a moment,” his assistant, Mrs. Bunn, told us before she closed the door, leaving us alone in the office.

Once the door shut, something strange pricked at my nerve endings.

Heat. Electricity.

Acute awareness of the man sitting beside me in the enclosed space.

Low in my belly, something animalistic began to unfurl itself, slowly, like a cat waking from a long nap.

A throbbing need I usually took care of in the shower, on the rare occasions I had the time, made itself known.

His voice cut through the thick silence. “You think she always wears a bun because of her name?”

I gaped at him, unable to formulate a coherent thought. I forced what I hoped looked like a nonchalant shrug.

What in that actual fuck was happening? I was probably about to be suspended or worse, and I was turned on so hard I could barely see straight.

My eyes traveled from his vascular hands atop his knees to where his muscular thighs had the fabric of his khaki pants straining.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up just high enough that I could see a swirl of black ink peeking out from the edge of the left one. The half-sleeve on his arm. The one with the hockey puck and the clock I hadn’t paid enough attention to before. My gaze continued its perusal across his broad chest to a thick, tanned neck and jutting Adam’s apple my fingertips ached to trace.

Bright red warning signs flashed behind my eyes.Look away!But like a plane going down, spiraling out of control, I was a lost cause.

His lips were full but masculine and the hint of a dimple showed in his left cheek. A boyish face on a six foot solid man was apparently my kryptonite.

My teeth pulled at my bottom lip, dragging it back slowly, and I startled when I heard the groan.

My eyes flashed to his.

“If you look at me like that when Principal Stewart comes in,” he began, his voice rumbling, low and deadly, vibrating my core like thunder, “I’m as good as fired.”

“Like what?” I whispered.

“Like you want to tear my clothes off and ride me right here in this chair. Or maybe on that desk.”

God help me, I did. I so did.

The images of both assaulted my mind.

We’d only had the one night together. It wasn’t enough.

Before my night with him two weeks ago, all of my prior sexual knowledge came from movies we watched when Drew’s mom wasn’t home and a few clumsy encounters with Eddie Mayfield in the tenth grade. It wasn’t much, but it was enough that I knew what would stop the ache that was building.