What right does he have? None! I came here because my counselor suggested it. Because I was so doped up on anti-depressants she was having to prescribe me shit for the side effects. She told me this class was a safe space, that I’d never have to talk about what happened if I didn’t want to.
Now this?
But I swallow down the rage, and the anger, and—yes—the pain. I swallow it down and I bottle it up like I always have.
The bell sounds for the end of class. The other students begin to file out, but I’m still wrangling with my emotions. I manage to calm myself by the time the last person—an elderly woman with a headscarf that makes me think she’s fighting something terminal—walks out the door.
Fyre looks up, and there’s not a trace of surprise on his face when he sees I’m still in my seat.
“I’m counting on you,” he says, remaining standing behind his desk as if it’s a trench between two warring nations. “Don’t let me down, Charlotte.”
I was going to tell him I won’t do it. That it wasn’t part of the deal. But then he smiles at me, and that smile promises so many things.
So I nod. Dip my head. Gather up my things and shove them in my bag as I hurry for the door.
“Remember, I’m always here to help.”
I stall by the door, look back at him. “What?”
His smile is still there. It feels even warmer now. Even more genuine. But I guess that’s just the teacher in him. The healer.
He walks up to me and holds out a slip of paper. There’s a number on there.
A telephone number.
I know I shouldn’t take it. It’s all kinds of wrong. But I can’t stop myself. Our fingers touch. Electric. He doesn’t let go.
“Call me anytime,” he says. “Day or night.”
“Why-why would I need to call you?” I ask weakly as I struggle with the myriad butterflies suddenly swarming in my stomach.
“Because I’ll always be there for you.” His chest expands as he inhales, and his eyes touch against my mouth. “Anytime. Anywhere.”
I tug the paper out of his grip and scurry out of his class like I’m being dragged by wild horses.
Hope. It’s something I hadn’t felt in months until last week’s assignment.
My piece for that theme was a glossy-black charcoal mess, of course. But the half-hour I spent on it was one of the few times I managed to stop thinking about killing myself.
Chapter Two
Fyre
Charlotte is special. I’ve been holding these art therapy classes for three years, and I’ve never met a student quite like her.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been following her home every day for the past few weeks. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop myself watching her as she draws in my class.
I’m hoping that’s why I’m considering pulling over my truck and giving her a ride home.
Her black hair hangs in ribbons down the side of her face. She’s on her bike a few yards ahead of me, plowing through rain puddles with grim determination. It’s like she doesn’t even realize it’s raining—even though she’s soaked through.
Christ, how that wet fabric will cling to her skin when she undresses at home, as reluctant to leave her body as I am to stop watching her.
I won’t lie. It’s become an obsession.
And it’s getting worse.
I’ve never given my students homework. Not once. But I saw something in Charlotte’s eyes today that made me realize she has feelings for me. She’s trying to fight them. Hell, so am I.
Obviously, she’ll lose the fight.
I have.
Ahead, the light at the intersection changes to amber.
The universe, it seems, is tossing me a bone.
I speed up before detouring to the side of the road, slowing hurriedly so I won’t spray Charlotte with the rainwater that’s puddled in front of the sidewalk. I honk the horn, but she doesn’t look back.
She would have been gone a second later had a car not skipped the intersection ahead and turned right in front of her, speeding it won’t have to stop at a red light. My heart flies to my throat, and I’m only dimly aware of rain hitting my face as I kick open the truck’s door.
“Charlotte!”
Her wet hair swings in the air as she whips her head around to stare at me. My loafers are soaked, and splat wetly on the sidewalk as I slow from a sprint to a jog. She gives me a double-take and then starts shaking her head. “Professor Fyre?”
“Are you alright?”
Her lips part, and my cock hardens -- just like it does in class when her mouth forms that same shape. I’ve had to come up with ingenious ways to hide my erection whenever Charlotte’s in my classroom, and it’s laughable how many times it happens in our hour-long sessions.
“That idiot could have hit you,” I say, while she’s still grappling with the fact that her art therapy professor is standing in front of her. I should explain.
Swiping wet hair out of my face, I give her a lopsided smile. “I wasn’t following you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I tell her through a laugh.
Her parted lips immediately seal into a tight little smile. She balances easily on the bike for such a slip of a girl, and from how her body moves, she looks like she wants to start peddling again.
“I wasn’t thinking that,” she says, giving her head another shake. “But I’m fine.” She waves a hand at herself. “Still in one piece, see?” She scrunches up her nose. “What are you doing here?”
“Meeting a patient at her office. She’s actually just a few blocks down from here.” I point at one of the tall office buildings littering this street. This isn’t the greatest neighborhood, but I’m aware that most of my students usually can’t afford better accommodation.
“I didn’t know you offer private sessions,” she says.
I don’t, but my Charlotte doesn’t have to know that. There are many things she doesn’t
