Halfway through her first year on the job, Melissa Montclair decides the best part of teaching is winter break.
And the best part of break is the Perfect Ten she meets in a bar on New Year’s Eve. Why not celebrate a semester under her belt with a Perfect Ten in her pants? The one night affair is all she hoped for, until she walks into school a week later and sees Mr. Ten is Student Twenty-nine on her roll call.
She should be mortified—and she is—but that doesn’t stop her from banging him again. And again.
And again.
So much for job security.
Posing as an exchange student at Hamilton High is finally the assignment Officer Spence Vega has been hoping for. Now he has a shot at getting to the bottom of the town’s recent molly epidemic. There’s only a couple of problems: first, history is taught by the curvy bombshell he banged on New Year’s. Second, his growing suspicion is that she’s the dealer he’s looking for.
The job was supposed to be an easy in-and-out, not the teacher.
If only they could stop getting under the covers, staying undercover would be so much easier.
I place a kiss on her neck and mutter against her smooth, honey-mint skin, “Keep kissing me like this and I can’t promise we’ll make it back to your place.”
She gasps slightly and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. At this rate, I’d fucking carry her the entire way to her apartment if it meant we didn’t have to waste a valuable hour waiting for a cab. And then the little minx starts grinding against me. I can feel her damp warmth through my jeans.
Jesus take the wheel. I might marry this girl.
“Are you asking for a public fucking, Mel? Because it certainly feels like it.” I slip my hands under her short dress. A firm ass waits for me. I knew she worked out. I’m such a good judge of character.
Character. Haha.
“God, you really are beautiful,” I tell her, and I totally mean that. That’s the key to the charm I learned from my dad—mean what you say. Sincerity is more important than any fancy words. And by fancy words, I mean I mostly only keep thinking of filthy ones to say to her, so.
“I think we’re going to have to walk.” She leans forward and gently bites my neck. “Because I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”
Fucking jackpot. “Where do you live?”
“Seven blocks that way.” She points in the direction of the Plaza, but I’m paying exactly zero attention to her muttered directions. I’m way too busy enjoying the way her body moves against me in time to the music coming from the bar. “Do you mind walking?”
“Do I mind?” I laugh. More like she read my mind. I pick her up and toss her over my shoulder. (Another note for all my brothers out there—girls love this move. Proves you’re super strong. Helps to play baseball. If you’re any good, hit me up. We’re down a shortstop on my team.)
Her high-heeled feet kick in delight and it’s the cutest thing ever. Like puppies and kittens but—you know what, no. Puppies and kittens are a terrible analogy. Anyway, slipping into that particular bar to hide was probably the best thing I could have done all night. “Just tell me where to go.”
“The other way! Other way!” Melissa squeals as I spin her in circles. “Yes, this way. Seven blocks. High-ho, Silver!”
She thinks she’s hilarious and laughs at her own joke. It makes me laugh, too. Then I realize her ass is probably on display to the whole cab line. As much as I deserve high fives from everyone who sees who I’m leaving with, I’m selfish. That ass is mine for the night, so no one gets to look but me.
I set her down.
I haven’t been back to a girl’s place in… well in for-fucking-ever, and the idea excites me. No one can come back to my place, not right now, and I usually avoid going home with strangers, no matter how hot. You just never know, man. Maybe it’s the beer, maybe it’s the quick getaway that led me to the bar, maybe it’s how she kisses like she’s already in bed, but this is so happening.
God, I miss one-night stands.
There is no time for attachment in my life. Not even with this amazing girl who giggles at my jokes and squeals when I pretend to turn down a dark alleyway, just to hear her laugh. There are a lot of alleys in Westport. I get a lot of laughs. She isn’t making like she wants a boyfriend either, which means tonight is perfect.
After all, New Year’s Eve is a time for new beginnings. And god knows I could use a fresh start. An evening with Melissa would be the perfect way to kiss 2015 good-bye. And I would make that good-bye scream my name so many times…
“Are you sure we can’t just stop here?” I spin her around and kiss her again. Fuck, that mouth of hers. Hey, there’s an idea. “Because you are making me fucking crazy. I can’t look at you with clothes on anymore.”
She narrows her eyes. Those bedroom eyes. Fuck. They were bright green, so opposite of my brown, and framed by dark eyelashes. Dark hair, bright eyes, a killer smile. I’m only half-joking. I’d take her right here on the street if it wasn’t illegal. That doesn’t always stop me, but it would be a real mood-killer to deal with legal ramifications right about now.
“Naughty boy.” She purrs. “If you keep propositioning me like this, I don’t know that I can say no. However, I can’t go to jail because I’m…”
“A prostitute? A drug dealer?” Again with the half-jokes.
“Sure.” She smiles brightly and kisses me with wandering hands. I’m starting to rethink my seconds-ago decision not to bang her in the middle of 42nd St.
“How much further?”
Melissa extends an arm behind her, towards a tall complex not quite a block away. “Number four-oh-five.”
“The elevator is close enough.” I kiss her again, her sweet taste basically all I’m living for right now, and throw her back over my shoulder. Did I mention chicks love this move?
“Don’t let me flash anyone!” She squeals.
“I can’t make any promises,” I say. And I can’t, but I guarantee I’m moving too quick for anyone to get a good view. We are so close to her place. I jog across the street and through the small lobby. The elevator is small and rickety, and the bumps and jolts serve two-fold as we continue making out. Her moans drive me insane. All this just from kissing? We’re gonna get a noise complaint for sure once I show her all my moves.
“Okay,” she breathes as the elevator opens to her floor. She smooths her hair and digs through her purse for her keys. “I was not planning on bringing anyone back, so you are not allowed to judge me by my lack of cleanliness.” Girls, man. I’ve never seen a “messy” girl’s room that could hold a candle to Zach’s.
“I haven’t seen my floor in weeks,” I reassure her as she pulls me back towards to the door. She unlocks it somehow, and we all but fall in, locked again in heated kisses.
We kiss from the door to the bedroom, bumping into furniture and walls, giggling and shedding our clothing. By the time we reach her bed (perfectly made, by the way) I’m in nothing but my boxer-briefs and she’s in a lacy pair of boy shorts.
God, I love boy shorts.
“It’s like you were made just for me.” I didn’t necessarily mean for her to hear that. It’s true, though, as I’m prowling around her, she’s literally everything I’ve ever jacked o—dreamed of, I mean. Yeah, that.
Before we disappear between her sheets, I want to imprint into my memory every fucking perfect inch. Every dip, every curve, every smooth line. I’m going to taste every inch, but my eyes are hungry, too. Sex is like eating a gourmet meal, as much to be done with your eyes as with your stomach, or, in this case, my cock.
“Like what you see?” She asks. Oh, do I. It’s better than Lidia’s pasta trio, and nothing is better than Lidia’s pasta trio.
“You have no idea,” I let my voice drop to a low rumble. “No fucking idea.” Mostly because I’m not sure how to explain that I just mentally compared her to very sexy noodles.
“Show me.”
Now that I can do.
Kayti McGee is a former Kansas Citian who now follows the Royals from Colorado. Besides writing, her hobbies include travel, cooking, and all thing Whovian. She also writes as the latter half of Laurelin McGee. Like her co-author Laurelin Paige, she joined Mensa for no other reason than to make her bio more interesting.
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