See Me After Class (Steamy Teacher Romances #1)

by Meghan Quinn

Ladies in Heat Book Club—aka

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. She wasn’t thrilled about the book club name and made a noble attempt to explain why her suggestion, the Austen Empowerment Collaborative, was far more credible. Majority ruled, she lost.

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. Can be shy at times, but when it comes to her family and friends, she doesn’t take shit from anyone. Loyal to the core, one of the reasons I adore her.

Coraline “Cora” Turner—recent divorcée and living with ...

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—

With romance, I get lost in the story and tend to forget everything around me. Now, I’m not saying romance has the educational substance you’re looking for when it comes to teaching deep-rooted metaphors and symbolism, but it has offered me the chance to fall in love with reading. For someone else, it could be mystery, suspense, maybe a thriller, or even a fictional story loosely based on something true that happened in history. It doesn’t matter the genre, what matters is the escape. The appreciation for getting lost in words.”

Keeping my legs twisted tightly together, I bunny-hop my way to the bathroom, grateful he left, because, if anything, I need to save a little bit of dignity, and watching someone bunny-hop to the bathroom doesn’t necessarily scream “put together.”

“Good.” Stepping away, Arlo retreats toward his house. “Sure, yeah, no goodbye or anything,” I call out. “See you on Monday . . . turd nugget.” I whisper that last part. Stella cups her mouth and calls out, “She just called you a turd nugget.” The gate to the fence slams and I push Stella, who falls to the ground laughing. “You ass.”

Arlo: As much fun as this was, I’m heading out. See you nitwits tomorrow. Gunner: Did you pick out your first day cardigan? Romeo: What color is it? Arlo: That’s not a thing. Gunner: Turner . . . Arlo: Fine. It’s green. Now fuck off.

I’ll be honest, what Stella is considering as fun doesn’t seem fun for Arlo—it might only piss him off more—but . . . the immature side of me can’t help but think he was a mean jerk face and he deserves Stella’s version of fun.

Coraline lets out a belly laugh. “Liar. Isn’t she about my age?” I shrug, even though I know for a fact she’s twenty-four. “That means you’re about eight years older than her, since you’re ripe with age and all.” “I’m thirty-two, that’s not ripe with age.”

Honestly, I have no idea what’s happening when it comes to Arlo. Out of the blue this man dislikes me, then he turns me on, then pulls away, then turns me on even more while arguing, and fighting, and . . . Jesus, anyone else confused here? Show of hands?

“The girl loves Nilla Wafers. If we tell her there will be a box of Nilla Wafers, she’ll be there.” “Really?” Coraline asks. “That’s the blandest cookie ever.”

This is just not okay…. Lost a few brownie points dissing on Nilla Wafers! -_-

“We could always call it the Reptile Brain Book Club,” Cora deadpans.

“Shall we take a vote?” Stella asks. “All in favor of The Austen Empowerment Collaborative, please raise your hand.” Keeks raises her hand with pride, but that’s it. No one else. “Okay and all those in favor of the horny book club name—” “Ladies in Heat Book Club,” Cora corrects her with a smile. “Yeah, all those in favor of the Ladies in Heat Book Club, raise your hand.”

I desperately want to talk to him, ask him what his intentions are, because even though I’ve been a more-than-willing participant in these one-on-one orgasmic interactions, I also know this is not who I am. I’ve never been the girl to sneak around and search out pleasure, and only pleasure. For me, sex goes hand in hand with intimacy, with a relationship, and even though Arlo makes me feel out of this world, his refusal to let me touch him, hold him, kiss him . . . it pains me.

“Oh?” I ask. “What, uh, what do you suppose would loosen him up?” “Getting laid,” Gunner says, picking up another fry. “That’s such a man thing to say,” Romeo scoffs. Gunner raises his brows. “Last time I checked, I have a penis. Therefore, I am a man.” I chuckle as Romeo says, “Yeah, but show some class, dude.” Turning to me, Romeo says, “In the words of Keiko, Arlo needs coitus.” I snort. Gunner scoffs. “How is that different than what I said?” “Has hints of maturity and refinement.”

“I’m not desperate to be in a relationship, but think it’d be cool to be in one if I find the right person, and I’m totally into a fling if it means zero strings attached.”

“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.”

I don’t need him to love me. But these peek-a-boo orgasms and heated moments aren’t going to fulfill me. I want the promise for more. And I know it’s not a possibility with Arlo. So that draws a proverbial line in the sand.

Well, guess what, buddy? You had your chance. I’m worth more than a short-term, directionless fling.

“Is this one of those gentlelady showdowns where we speak of one’s sexual prowess and conquests?”

“God, what crawled up his ass and died?” Stella asks, leaning back in her chair. “According to the circumference of the anus, there are quite a few creatures that could have—” “Metaphorical, Keeks. Christ,” Stella says, pressing her hand against her forehead. “Ahh . . . but if it wasn’t metaphorical—”

Greer: I feel like I’m going to throw up. Stella: Don’t. You brushed your teeth. Greer: That’s not helpful. Stella: That’s solid advice. No one likes puke mouth. Greer: Stella, please . . .

“I’ve been emotionally unavailable, and it has nothing to do with the girl and everything to do with me unable to break through that barrier. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you. Just means he doesn’t know how to want you.”

“I miss the feel of a man’s hand holding mine.” She steps in closer. “I miss the feel of someone calling me just to hear my voice.” One more step. “I miss the feel of a man holding me while I drift off to sleep. Anyone can make me come, Arlo, but it’s the one who makes me feel special that I miss.”

You know”—she smirks—“if I knew you were going to be this high-maintenance, I would have second-guessed jumping into something with you.” “You should have known I was high-maintenance from my cardigan collection.” “God . . . you’re right.”

“Don’t let him push you around, you hear me?” She speaks loud enough for everyone to hear. “I know the cardigans do wicked things to your private parts, but be strong.”

Intimacy isn’t just holding someone’s hand and kissing them in public. Intimacy is opening your heart to the one you love—opening it up—and exposing it to get beaten, battered, and then loved all over again.