See Me After Class (Steamy Teacher Romances #1)

by Meghan Quinn

Keiko “Keeks” Seymour—resident AP chemistry teacher at Forest Heights High School. Her social etiquette is lacking, her intelligence is off the charts, and she’d rather play with beakers than penises.

Stella Garcia—Spanish teacher at Forest Heights and my co-coach. Currently single, makes the best tamales I’ve ever had, and is one stamp away from getting a free donut at Frankie Donuts.

Coraline “Cora” Turner—recent divorcée and living with her brother, Arlo.

Greer Gibson—twenty-four-year-old fresh to the teaching scene as Forest Heights’s new English teacher and women’s volleyball coach. I love running, have a penchant for a man in a cardigan, and can get a little noisy in the classroom while teaching. I currently share a classroom wall with Arlo Turner, Forest Heights most prestigious English teacher, and might have lost my underwear—

Arlo Turner. The bane of my existence, annoyance to my sanity, and the only man who’s ever made me want to spread my legs in a classroom.

Known as Mr. Turns Me On, he’s the reason my star athlete is struggling to keep her grades up. He’s the reason I tend to avoid the teacher breakroom. And he’s the reason I might get fired from my first ever teaching job.

It doesn’t matter the genre, what matters is the escape. The appreciation for getting lost in words.”

Coraline might have been right. Greer is slightly my type. Only slightly and only physically.

I move my jaw back and forth, not letting the crazy sweet smell of her perfume distract me, or the way her passionate eyes flare disarm me, or the press of her finger into my right pec confuse me.

Be cautious. Seriously? Does she really think she needs to warn me? The man is positively despicable. I would never see anything but arrogance when I look at him.

I’m unsure if I want to slap the man for invading my space, give him a piece of my mind and tell him exactly where he can put his punishment, or tear at his cardigan and shirt and dig my fingernails deep into his toned muscles.

That goddamn dress. Those innocent eyes. The lightest of smirks on her face, knowing she’d bested me. The combination pushed me over the edge, and I wanted to punish her, maul her . . . fuck her.

This isn’t how I handle conversations or disagreements. But this girl is making me lose my mind. Being around her causes me to forget how to hold a civil conversation. Instead, I have this urgent need to be next to her, touching her, so close to her that my lips can practically taste her. And I hate that. I hate that she can overrule my common sense and self-control. Maybe I should hate her.

Whatever answer she gives me, I know, right here and now . . . she wants me, just as badly as I want her.

He’s devastating, and I’m very quickly realizing that. I’m also realizing I’m starting to have this need to see him. To be near him. To gather his attention even if it’s just for a few short seconds.

“When was the last time a man fucked you?” “I don’t know—” “Never is the correct answer, Miss Gibson. Because you’ve never been fucked by me.” You never will be, and my cock will hate me for that.

Because what man, who showed fierce dislike for me and made derogatory remark after derogatory remark, suddenly deems it his purpose to make me feel sated? Yet deny himself. It doesn’t make sense.

I’m conflicted, and there’s only one person to blame: Arlo Turner. He has me convinced that I want more from him than secret orgasms. He has me feeling like . . . like I could possibly start something more. And I honestly don’t know how I feel about that.

“I’d like something intimate. A relationship where I not only feel special, but where I make someone feel wanted, needed, cared for. I want to be able to go on dates, hold hands, take long walks at night under the stars. I want passion and spontaneity, but I also want reassurance that there will always be comfort and routine within a relationship. I want something sweet. Something naughty. Something that rocks my world and changes the colors around me. I want . . . love.”

Greer isn’t a girl who can keep feelings out of the mix. I was lucky I got as much out of her as I did. The only problem is, I never got to feel her mouth on my cock, on my body . . . on my lips. I never gave myself the opportunity to strip her bare, hover over her, and then plunge myself so far deep inside of her, she’d be imprinted for life.

If he kissed her, I’m going to fucking lose my goddamn mind. I haven’t even tasted those lips. But that’s entirely on me. And even though I don’t want to admit it, I’m fucking regretful. I wish I knew what her mouth felt like on mine. I wish I knew what it felt like to hold her hand. To snuggle in and take a picture with her, but that emotional block is there. The one impeding me from going any further with her.

Anyone can make me come, Arlo, but it’s the one who makes me feel special that I miss.”

“And I might need help, because I’m not good at this shit. But I want to try. Shit, I’m desperate to try, because I can’t stop thinking about you, Greer. And I want to get to know more of you.” He smooths his thumb over my temple. “I want to know more about what’s up here.”

There are people on this earth who don’t need the touch of another human to be happy. They’re pleased with minimal contact and living their own life. And then there are people who need that extra touch. Who crave it. Who—as the therapist says—love love. And if we find ourselves matching up with that person, we need to put in a valiant effort to meet their needs.

I stroke her cheek softly with the backs of my fingers. “You’re so beautiful, just like this, freshly fucked, no makeup, marked as mine . . . so damn beautiful.” “Yours?” “All mine.” “I like that sound of that, Mr. Turner.” Growling, I dip my mouth against her neck and get ready for round two.

Growth is key to happiness. Growth might hurt at first, but the anguish is worth it in the end.”