Reckless

privacy of his own bedroom first thing in the morning, as if covering his wing-wang in public was a formality for him. “How is your sculpture so far?”

I was blushing, I think from embarrassment. Was I the only person in the room? Couldn’t he talk to someone else? “Oh, uh, pretty good, I guess. I’ve never sculpted before. It’s a lot different than drawing.”

“That’s what they tell me,” he smiled. His teeth were white and even, as perfect as his physique.

“What, you don’t draw, I mean sculpt?” I stammered.

“Nope. I leave it to the professionals.” He winked at me and flashed his smile.

Was it just me, or had he not belted his robe tightly enough? It looked like it was going to fall open if he wasn’t careful. I considered telling him as much, but couldn’t think of the right way to say it. Was he doing it on purpose? Setting me up for a stealth flashing? Probably.

“What’s your name?” he asked, holding out his hand to shake. This caused the top of his robe to billow out, revealing his chest and abs as he leaned forward.

“Oh, uh, Sam.” I reluctantly shook his hand.

The shaking made his robe ripple, and I saw the belt sliding apart. When we finished shaking hands, he straightened up and I swear the only thing stopping the robe flaps from sliding completely away to reveal his full splendor was that they had caught on the, um, prominence, between his legs. Not that he was sporting wood, but it, well, it was uncommonly obtrusive. Not that I was looking. Sure, I’d seen it five minutes ago, but not from two feet away.

He needed a harness for that thing.

The second I realized what Hunter was doing, because the look on his face made it obvious he was orchestrating this imminent yet “unintentional” unharnessing, I appropriately bolted my eyes on his.

“I thought you said your name was Samantha,” he said, giving me a cocky smile.

Ever since Christos had started calling me Samantha all the time, I’d decided to stop introducing myself as Sam to everyone. But this Hunter guy was dangerous, and needed to be kept at arm’s length. “Oh, uh, yeah,” I grimaced, “my, ah, friends, call me Sam.”

I was regretting locking my eyes on his because their amber color was trying to hypnotize me. Was he making them shine and glimmer on purpose? Or was that their natural state?

“Sam it is. My name’s Hunter Blakeley.” he said casually, hands on hips.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed old man gravity was further working his dirty magic on Hunter’s robe. Full disclosure was nearly upon me. Ew.

“You seem pretty good at sculpting,” Hunter grinned.

A few months ago, I would’ve blurted out words of nervous self-doubt. But that was a few months ago. I’d made steady progress since then, and after my parents’ bombshell the night before, I wasn’t in this class to mess around. I was here to work, not flirt. I knew what Hunter was doing. Besides, I totally wasn’t interested, and I’m pretty sure my artistic advancement wasn’t his top priority. “Thanks,” I said flatly.

Hunter gazed at me. His robe shifted another inch. I’m pretty sure there were no more inches left on his robe before his…inches were unveiled. In my head, I shouted at him,

FIX IT!!!!!!

He smirked confidently, probably reading my mind. Yeah, he knew what he was doing. He probably did this to women every day. Practiced on street corners as old ladies walked by. Helped them across the street while his robe accidentally fell open, just to see if they had heart attacks.

I needed to remove myself from this situation, because he was clearly indulging his desires to the hilt. Hilt was the wrong word, because we all know a sword and its hilt can be a euphemism for the male genitalia, just like a scabbard can refer to a woman’s—

STOP!!!

That was me shouting at me.

Get a grip, girl!

No!! Don’t GRIP anything!!!!

Yes, I was going insane. I was only human. And Hunter was hot. I took a deep breath and said to him, “Well, I need to get more clay, er, ah…”

“Hunter!” Professor Bittinger said, standing right behind me, “so good to see you posing again!”

Jesus Christ! She almost gave me a heart attack. Maybe that was her plan. But seriously, how the hell was it that most of the time her noisemaker heels machine-gunned across the cement floor when she was on the way over to chew me out, but now all of a sudden she managed to sneak up on me like she wore ninja slippers?

My operative theory was Magical Shoes. That was the only plausible explanation.

“Heeeyyyy, Marjorie,” Hunter drawled to the professor, giving her a cocky head nod.

He called her Marjorie? Were they pals?

“What have you been up to?” the professor asked Hunter. “I haven’t seen you since Spring quarter last year.” Her eyes gleamed at him.

“This and that,” he smiled.

She giggled girlishly.

How was “this and that” worthy of laughter? I guess the comedy bar for horny older women was set pretty low. Because she was obviously acting like a lovesick teenager around this Hunter guy. I also noticed that Marjorie had no problem gawking at his groin every two seconds. Between stares, she preened and flipped her hair saucily with her hand.

Harlot.

Wait a second! Maybe this new development could take the heat from Hunter off of me! I just needed to leave him alone with Marjorie and they could go at it like rabbits on the sculpting studio floor!

Problem solved. All I had to do was get Hunter off my back by getting Marjorie on her back, and maybe she wouldn’t be such an uptight bitch to me anymore!

Perfect!

Just give them a little privacy and let nature take its course.

Unfortunately, I was stuck where I stood between them and my sculpting table. Worse, Marjorie was going to drip on me any second while drooling over Hunter.

Crap. I’d forgotten to wear my rain slicker.

“Sam here seems pretty good at sculpting,” Hunter said, nodding toward me.

Marjorie blinked free of Hunter’s love enchantment and looked over at me. Her lovesick face soured into hatesick.

Not what I needed. Where was my escape hatch?

Shit!

The professor looked me up and down, her nostrils flaring, as if deciding someone had just farted, and it had to have been me. “I see you’ve met Miss Smith,” she sneered.

Great.

“You should’ve told me you had such a cutey in your class,” Hunter said.

WTF was he doing?! Red alert! Abandon ship! It was so obvious Marjorie Bittinger wanted Hunter Blakeley all to herself.

Marjorie’s eyes narrowed at me. I’m confident she was thinking carnivorous thoughts, imagining skinning me alive and roasting my flesh on a stick while I begged for mercy. The new white meat: Boneless, skinless Samantha Breast. And not in a sexy way. Because I wouldn’t put it past Marjorie to believe that if she ate my flesh, she would consume my power over Hunter, making it her own. No wonder she taught sculpture. She was a Voodoo Priestess all along, I was sure of it.

Marjorie snarled directly at me, “My only concern is whether or not Miss Smith’s sculpting skills warrant her presence in my studio.”

My eyes goggled. I wanted to duck under both of them and bolt for the door. Instead, I mentally rolled up my sleeves and lilted, “I’m sure they will.”

“We’ll see about that,” Marjorie said before turning and walking away.

Great. The Wicked Witch of the West was my sculpting teacher and I was fresh out of water buckets, otherwise I would’ve poured one over her head right then.