“Will you demonstrate sex for us? I’d love that action. Hell, I’ll do it with you. I don’t care if the class watches us.”
I spin back around in Justin’s direction. Fourteen going on dipshit. “Justin, disrespectful and misogynistic comments like that will land you in prison one day. Note to yourself, women do not like to be harassed or made to feel uncomfortable about their sexual safety or their bodies. Do better or I’ll speak with the headmaster and your mother.”
I flip back around, not giving him a second’s more attention.
“Back to penis, vagina, breasts, and testicles. Shout it out for me and make sure I can hear you over the song.”
I return to my desk, hopping back up and crossing my legs at the knee. The kids go at it, screaming at the top of their lungs and thinking they’re just about the funniest things ever. But the truth, they need to get it out of their systems. I can’t have them snickering or laughing or blushing every damn time I say vagina.
Just as the song cuts out only to start again, the door swings open, and a teacher I don’t know all that well, but who was at Bridget’s miserable dinner party, pops her head in, looking not too pleased with me.
“Everything okay in here?”
“Peachy keen and cherry pie. We’re just working out our sex ed jitters.”
She glances about the room at all the kids and then back at me. “Right. I forgot that was starting today. How much longer are we shouting this for?”
“I think we’re done for now, but I have two other classes today.”
She groans. “This will be a long day.”
Tell me about it.
She shuts the door behind her, and I return to the class. Sex ed is supposed to last for over a month. I think this will be the longest month of my life. Still, it will take a natural disaster tearing the school from its foundation to dampen my good mood. Because while we’re talking about sex in here, I’m getting all the action in the form of my hot neighbor.
Hot, furniture-breaking sex. Stolen kisses and ass spanks. Public orgasms. Crazy, dirty, bondage sex. Cuddling and kissing and sweet lovemaking sex. All the sex, all the different ways. He snuck over again last night—though he told me Stella caught him Monday night and knows all about us—and we screwed like the few hours of separation were a few too many. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other and when it was over, he kissed my lips, told me I was beautiful and that he hated to go and wished he could stay.
I swooned.
His damn sated, goofy, remorseful smile had me swooning.
I feel like a teenager. Sneaking around. Keeping secrets. It’s a dangerous thrill I can’t help but crave more of.
I’m a smitten sex kitten riding reverse cowgirl on a sex train headed for fucked station. It’s why I’m not allowing myself to think too deeply on anything or I’d end up talking myself out of it and what good would that do me? I figure at this point I’ve been hurting for the better part of three years. What’s a little more hurt if that’s what this amounts to in the end?
Only this time, I don’t think it will end like that. I think we’re headed for something a whole lot bigger and better. Fingers crossed.
I hit stop on my phone before the song keeps going and lock it. But not before I pull the pathetic move of checking for new texts. None. Not that I should expect any. The man is at work saving lives. Yep, full-blown teenager again.
“Welcome to sex ed in case you missed what your wellness class has been transformed into for the next month. Despite us fooling around”—I point around the room with a stern finger at the kids who start to laugh—“no pun intended. This is a serious class with some important information that no joke can hopefully keep you from making life-altering mistakes.”
“Like what? Babies?” Candi Foster asks.
“That’s one.” I toss her a chocolate. “But how about STIs or sexually transmitted infections? They can be a gift that keeps on giving if you get the wrong one or it goes untreated. And unfortunately, you can be infected with one and have no knowledge of it, passing it along to other partners.”
I get a lot of sickened looks and scrunched noses.
“See what I mean? And none of this is limited to heterosexual sex, so regardless of who you’re into, safe sex is universal.” That little nugget is for Stella, who is sitting in the back corner of the room, quiet as a church mouse—likely because she knows what I’m doing with her father, so that makes this a touch awkward—though I’d never call her out or even glance in her direction. As far as I know, Stella has still not come out to her classmates. Just her family, her best friend/cousin of sorts, Layla, and me. Then again, I highly doubt she’s the only LGBTG+ person in this class and definitely not in this school.
“Have you ever had sex?” Dalton Royce, Justin’s BFF, questions with a knowing grin. He thinks he’s tripping me up. So young. So foolish.
“Yes,” I reply. “I was married for three and a half years.”
“So he’s the only guy you’ve been with?” he presses.
“My sex life is absolutely none of your business and far from pertinent to your learning.”
“My mom says women who have multiple sex partners are sluts.”
I turn my attention away from Dalton, over to Mercedes Smart, who’s glaring at me as if she thinks I’m a slut. Likely because she has a crush on Dalton and Justin and every other cute boy in this school. She’s also the head bitchy girl who likes to harass Stella for being flat-chested and ‘socially weird’ as she calls her. You can imagine how much I like this girl.
“The word slut is not only derogatory and shaming, but it also sets women’s equality back. Men are not typically called such harsh words when their sex lives are thrown under the microscope. Degrading a woman in such a way, or any way, is among the worst offenses you can do, and it is not something I will tolerate in my classroom or anywhere. If I ever hear cruel or intentionally hurtful language being used by anyone about someone else, whether in this classroom or anywhere on school grounds, it’s an automatic detention.”
I glare, raising a pointed eyebrow at her, and she sits back in her seat, visibly jarred by that.
“Now that we’ve gotten formalities out of the way, let’s get started.”
The bell rings twenty-five minutes later, and I nearly fist pump in the air and woot out a cheer. Yet another thing I can high-five myself for getting through in my first year as a teacher. And I think I did a good job with it too. Stella throws me a small smile on her way out, and I take that as a win too. The rest of the day is a variation of the same. Only now I have a better grasp on what to expect, so it goes smoother than the first class did.
And when the final bell sounds and everyone packs up their things, I sag in relief, settling behind my desk, content to grade some essays before going home, opening some wine, snagging a hot romance book, and taking a bath with it.
But two hours later when I get home, I find something waiting for me. Something that has my breath audibly catching and my hand covering my mouth, trying to stifle the sound.
Sitting on my front porch by the door is a giant bouquet of flowers in a pretty glass vase with a white envelope leaning against it.
I make quick work of unlocking my door, setting my stuff down, and then returning for the heavy flowers. It’s loaded with sunflowers and orange roses and white hydrangea and deep purple orchids and calla lilies. It’s the most beautiful arrangement I’ve ever seen, and I spend a moment staring at them, breathing their fragrance in before I go for the card.