Page 41 of Teacher's Pet

He glanced over his shoulder with the faintest shake of his head. “Ryan, my wife is sleeping. Please stop laughing so obnoxiously.”

Something about that, his wife upstairs, probably asleep while her husband was bathing me, sent a shiver of desire down my spine.

I leaned back in the water, eyes locked on him. “Clean me.”

His gaze held mine for a long beat. “You’ll be quiet?”

I grinned, all teeth. “As a mice.”

“Mouse,” he corrected automatically.

I tilted my head. “What?”

“Mice is plural. You’re singular—mouse.”

I flicked water at him. “Ugh, you’re such a teacher…” My grin widened. “So hot.”

He didn’t take the bait, just rolled up his sleeves and reached for a bottle of lavender shampoo, probably his wife’s. Mine now. He’d get used to that.

“Head back,” he murmured, massaging my scalp in slow, deliberate circles. His hands were huge, warm, and, God, they felt good.

Tell me more about what’s wrong with my English.” I bit my lip.

“I’m a psych professor, not an English professor,” he said while working the shampoo into a thick lather.

“Mm. Then tell me something psych-related.”

He humored me. “Our last topic was dependent versus independent variables, so—”

I groaned loudly, sitting up a little too fast. “Not that. Boring. Tell me something interesting.”

He pressed a palm to my shoulder and pushed me gently back into the water. “You said you’d be quiet.”

“I will… after you give me a fun fact.” I closed my eyes again, melting under his hands.

“Oh! Make it about me. Tell me something about myself.”

He gave a short, amused scoff. “Like what?”

“Why do I like big hands?”

He hesitated for half a second, then resumed massaging. “From an evolutionary standpoint, big hands are often associated with capability.”

I smirked. “I do like capable hands. Especially when they belong to capable men.”

His jaw ticked, but he kept working. The pressure of the sponge against my skin grew firmer as he scrubbed down my arms, then my shoulders.

“Do my neck,” I murmured, tilting my head to give him better access.

His forearms and rolled-up sleeves got damp as he worked the sponge up my neck and along my collarbone.

“What do you like?” I asked. “Big hands?”

“No.”

“Feminine hands?” I prodded.

“No.”