Mistletoe Kisses by Sam Mariano

Chapter Five

Noelle

Ordinarily,weekends never last long enough, but this particular weekend drags like crazy. There’s a call-off at Santa’s workshop on Sunday—Marcie, big surprise—so I pick up an extra shift. A little extra money won’t hurt, and since the workshop is busier on weekends it also makes the time pass.

Every moment that my mind isn’t occupied with studying, homework, or busywork, my mind drifts back to dinner, to Mr. McLaren’s strong grip on my hips, the way his hand felt between my thighs, the way I was so embarrassingly wet for him.

It’s enough to really distract a girl.

When it’s finally time for his class on Monday, I try to get there a little early. My hope is, if I walk fast enough I’ll be the first student to file in. I don’t know if he’ll speak to me or even acknowledge my presence since we’re in school, but I’d at least like to give him a chance. Before our study session he obviously hadn’t been too cautious to call me up and feed me that bullshit about my paper, but after what passed between us over the weekend, he might be a little more careful about following the rules.

It’s reckless, playing with me. He has to know my mom is very involved with the school. One whiff that a teacher is trying to take advantage of me—I don’t see it that way, but I know Mom would—and he’d be out of a job so fast, he wouldn’t have time to grab his briefcase on his way out.

I hope that’s not subconsciously why he likes me. I don’t think it is, but he’s hard to read. I know he’s brilliant or he wouldn’t have a job here in the first place, and if he is—as I suspect—a man who appreciates a challenge… well, I could certainly look like one.

Perhaps even more so after I told him I’m a virgin. My face burns with a mix of embarrassment and excitement remembering the way he held me, the way he told me to keep it that way, as if placing my virginity on hold so he can get around to taking it later.

Surely he wouldn’t take things that far. Surely I wouldn’t, either.

Then again, I don’t seem to have much control around him. I should probably stick to hoping he does.

As soon as I step inside the classroom, I’m met with disappointment. Four other students made it here before me. My heart is still racing with the build-up of anticipation I felt on the way here, but it starts to slow down as my chances of a moment alone with Mr. McLaren completely evaporate. I glance toward the desk where he’s seated, going over papers, but his gaze doesn’t even flicker in my direction.

Another flutter of disappointment brings my heart rate a little lower. I put my books down atop my desk and start to sit, but before my butt hits the seat, he calls out.

“Miss Harper.”

My eyes widen and jump to him.

Holding up a few stapled pages and waving them a little to imply why he wants me, he says, “Come collect your paper before you take your seat.”

A surge of excitement shoots through me. I stand, smoothing my hands down the length of my plaid uniform skirt.

According to the school dress code, skirts are supposed to go past the tips of your fingers if your arms are straight down at your sides, but almost no one listens to that rule. My fingers certainly reach lower to touch the opaque black tights covering my legs, and as I approach his desk, I see Mr. McLaren’s gaze roving lazily over every inch.

I’m on fire when I come to a stop in front of his desk. His cool blue-gray eyes have made their way back to my face, but he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to hand me any paper.

“How was your weekend?”

My cheeks flush and I fail to entirely bite back a small, secret smile. “It was pretty amazing.”

A rapid flash of pleasure crosses his face when I say that, but he quickly clears it. “That’s nice. Why don’t you write about it?”

My heart skips a beat and my smile slips. “Excuse me?”

“That extra homework I mentioned on Friday. You need to practice writing and hone your skill, so write about your amazing weekend. In detail,” he adds, to clarify what he means.

He can’t mean what I think he means. “You… want me to write about… what happened this weekend. In detail.”

“That is what I just said, Miss Harper.”

Is he crazy? So much for thinking he would be more careful and play by the rules now that he stepped over an uncrossable line.

Clearing my throat and shifting uneasily, I want to glance back and make sure no one is paying attention to our interaction, but that seems too telling. If anyone is paying attention, that would come off as suspicious.

Looking back up at Mr. McLaren, I offer a compromise. “A fictionalized account, right? I should change names for the sake of… I mean, you don’t care who I hung out with, so I’ll just rename the…”

As I trail off, he sits forward, appearing to rapidly lose interest in what I’m saying. Tone distinctly bored, he says, “Do what you feel comfortable with, Miss Harper.”

He hates when I’m comfortable, so that means if I do that, he’s basically calling me a coward again.

Fine. If he wants to drop his name in a written account of him committing fireable offenses, then I will. Straightening, I watch him grab his stupid red pen and lift a couple sheets of paper so he can add a note he must have forgotten to a middle page. Probably just a crude sketch of a chicken with an arrow pointing to it and my name overhead.

Ugh, he’s such a jerk.

“Fine,” I offer, a little shortly. “When is this homework due?”

“Well, that depends,” he drawls casually. “You’ll need adequate time to work on it. When do you work this week?”

“I have a shift later tonight, then Wednesday after school, then I have a shift on Sunday, too.”

“Thursday we have early dismissal,” he points out. “You’re free Thursday, then?”

Oh my God, is he seriously…? Shaking myself, trying to control the heat on my face, I nod. “Yes.”

He nods decisively and jots one last note on the paper before dropping his pen and closing the packet of papers. Lifting it and holding it out to me, he meets my gaze. “Then give it to me Thursday.”

Since early dismissal means the school day ends at 11am that day, I point out, “I won’t see you Thursday.”

“Ah, right. My mistake.”

He offers nothing more as I take the paper. I wait for him to give me a new deadline, but he doesn’t, so I take the hint and his wordless dismissal, turning without another word and heading back to my desk. I do steal glances at the people in the nearest seats on my way to see if they’re looking at me funny, but no one is paying any attention.

Once I’m seated at my desk, my attention shifts to the assignment he handed back. I don’t have any papers due back so I don’t know what I expect it to be, but it’s my Dickens paper—the one he called ungradable and technically good, but too safe. He already gave me that paper back—and it didn’t have a single note on it, let alone a grade—but we submit papers in his digital drop box, so it would have been easy enough for him to print off a second copy.

This is the same paper, but he actually graded this one. Despite his criticism of it on Friday, right at the top of the page is my grade: A. I flip through it, skimming the margins, and see he made notes in this copy like he usually does when he grades a paper.

I should feel pleased that I got a good grade after all, but I find myself frowning. I don’t know if he gave me this A because he legitimately thinks I deserve it, or because he had a hand between my legs a couple nights ago, and if it’s the latter, then I don’t want it. I want to earn my damn grades—I’m more than capable.

Unsettled and dissatisfied by my own uncertainty over the merits of a paper I thought excellent when I handed it in, I leaf through more slowly so I can review his notes. None of them are terribly severe, which is confusing given his hatred of this paper only a few days ago.

That adds to the unsettled feeling in my stomach. If he thought this paper was trash on Friday but now he’s being nice about it in the comments and giving it an A, then it’s not my work that’s changed his mind.

My brow is knitted together, my lips pressed in a firm, grim line as I finish reviewing his notes and come to the last one. In the blank space after the paper was finished but before my citations page, he jotted, ‘Lesson two: Thursday. Same time and place’.

I drop the pages and the paper flattens. I glance back up at Mr. McLaren’s desk.

I feel like I need to say something, but I don’t know what to say. I want to spend time with him, I even want to cross a few lines if we can without him getting in trouble because he’s incredibly sexy and smart and a little mean, but I don’t know, it kinda works for me. I don’t know how to say, “Look, you can feel me up all you want, but if I don’t deserve an A on an assignment, don’t give me one.”

I guess I could just say that, but then if somehow this grade is authentic, he might be offended that I think he would let me exchange sexual favors for better grades.

I don’t know what to do. He has me all topsy-turvy. I can’t email him about it because that would leave a clear paper trail of our activities and be good grounds for firing. I can’t say that to him on school grounds. I also can’t wait until Thursday, because the anxiety will eat a hole in my stomach and I’ll be hung up on it every day until I can get an answer.

I wish I had his number. My tummy flutters thinking about calling him, but that would be a far better way of reaching out without leaving an obvious footprint. Sure, there would be a record that I called him, but it could have been about an assignment or something—no one would know what we said to each other.

When class is over, I try to hang back so I’m the last one out. It very nearly works, but then Percy fucking Bennett—the second to last person to leave the room—stops in the aisle right next to me and leans back against the empty desk.

“Hey, Noelle.”

Oh my God, go away.

Forcing a pleasant smile, I flash him a look of acknowledgment, but I keep messing with my school supplies so he gets the message that I’m distracted and busy and not interested in a conversation. “Hey, Percy.”

“I got interrupted the other day,” he says, flicking a nod in Mr. McLaren’s direction, “so I thought…”

I don’t hear his words. My brain literally tunes him out as I feel the heat from Mr. McLaren’s stare and my attention shifts to him instead of the appropriately aged jock standing beside me. Percy’s good-looking and most of the girls in school are crazy for him, but now that Mr. McLaren’s an option, I couldn’t be less interested in going out with Percy.

I can feel the warning in my teacher’s narrowed, hooded gaze as he watches me interact with Percy. He’s watching me with presumed authority, like I’d better not step out of line or there will be consequences.

That shouldn’t make me so hot, but I have to squeeze my thighs together, wondering what he would do if I disobeyed.

Spanking comes to mind, and I picture him bending me over his lap, sliding up my skirt to expose my bare ass. I imagine squirming and trying to get away while he holds me down and brings his big, strong hand down across the stinging flesh, smack after smack after smack.

Oh my God. I close my eyes, trying to pull myself out of the unbearably arousing mental image, but all I want to do now is misbehave. All I want to do now is earn that spanking.

I don’t want to be a bitch and toy with Percy like that, though. He probably only likes me in a casual way and would hardly be crushed if I did, but I’m not that kind of person and I don’t want to be. Even though I desperately want to piss Mr. McLaren off right now, I can’t do that, so I do the next best thing.

Even though I want to stay and talk about my grade, I’d rather leave Mr. McLaren wondering how this conversation ends. Gathering the last of my things, I stand and shift my gaze to Percy. “Walk with me?”

Percy’s golden eyebrows rise and he pushes off the desk, nodding his head. “Yeah, of course.”

I offer him a sweet smile, one I make sure Mr. McLaren sees, then I leave the room with Percy without looking back.

Once we’re in the hall and far enough away from the classroom, I thank Percy for walking with me but tell him I have to get home and start on my homework since I have to work tonight. A frown flickers across his face, but then he seems to process he’s being blown off, and he makes a graceful exit.

I head home in a much better mood. I can’t think about anything beyond squirming on my teacher’s lap as he spanks my naked ass, and since I’m so hot and bothered anyway, I decide to channel that energy. He gave me a naughty homework assignment, and boy am I inspired.

I should work on my real homework before my shift tonight, but I don’t. Mr. McLaren’s homework is so much more fun.

Settling in at my desk in my bedroom, I open a clean document so I can begin. For a moment, I’m not sure how to start, but Mr. McLaren was so infuriating when he gave me the assignment, I decide to begin boldly. A small, satisfied smile curves my lips as I bring my fingers to hover over my keyboard, then I begin typing.

It began as an ordinary enough Saturday: lunch at home prepared by Adeline and then off to a shift at the North Pole. I never dreamed later that evening, Mr. – no, scratch that. A tingle dances through me as I realize I’m going to use his first name. I go again… never dreamed that later that evening, Callan McLaren’s big, strong hands would be all over me…