Page 11 of The Tenth Circle
In every attempt to tune out old man and the public display of afucktion to my left, I not only fail miserably, but I’m one low feminine moan away from regurgitating breakfast.
The nausea hits for many reasons, but the two tied at the forefront fall somewhere between envy and shame.
Not of them, but me.
I’m envious…because for some stupid reason I feel as though they’ve taken something that was mine.
The touches.
The need.
The words and close proximity.
None ever really belonged to me but I can’t stop wanting to keep them.
Snickering has my head instinctively shooting left to see what else they could’ve stolen.
Nothing of substance really, other than Letterman finally turning to face the front of the room—the hat he was wearing placed in front of him on the desk.
The side of his face…
I don’t even make it to the end of the thought before my blood runs cold. Everything inside me freezes but my eyes, because they’re blinking at rapid speed to affirm what I’m seeing is real.
An Adonis of a man. Except this one supersedes the Greek god. But it’s not his beauty that has my whole body on the brink of shattering. Not the shade of dark brown tousled in a mess on his head squeezing my lungs. Or the carved jaw cracking the surface of them.
Definitelynotthe striking blue I can spot from the corners of his eyes, shattering my lungs completely.
It’s the pull toward this guy.
Vertigo sets in, spinning the room, so I turn back to the desk and close my eyes, squeezing the pencil in my hand in an attempt to steady myself. It doesn’t work because all I see are those stunning irises shining like light.
All I hear are shushes of the deep, smoky, honey voice that’s been taunting me in my sleep. All I feel is my heart beating like it did when I encountered his dark side.
The sound of wood snapping has my eyelids popping open, sending my Crazyman poofing into thin air. The disruption allows me to gather my bearings enough to scan the room again, this time to make sure no one’s watching.
They're not. In fact most of the class is going on with their lives oblivious to the soul that was just knocked out of my body.
It can’t be him.
Can it?
He would recognize me if he was.
Right?
I mean what kind of guy wouldn’t recognize the girl he had his tongueonand fingersintwo weeks ago?
You really wanna go there, Montgomery?
I do not, damn it.
I dare to sneak another look at him and regret it immediately when his eyes find mine.
Unlike me, Letterman seems to feel no shame knowing I caught him staring. It’s the opposite. He’s drinking me in like a glass of iced cold lemonade.
Which both offends and relieves me at the same time.
It’s offensive because I hate being sexualized by horny teenagers, but it relieves me knowing my Crazyman from the closet would most definitely be including some inappropriate comments in the process.
