17. Theo
Theo
Istomp from the faculty lounge clutching the last coffee pod, trying to ignore the hot sensation in my chest.
She was there. I’ve hardly seen her for two weeks—two agonizingly long weeks—but this morning she was there.
And, God, she looked beautiful. Hair pinned back with a red bow, matching red lipstick, and a black dress with red polka dots. It’s like she’s trying to cause me pain.
She’s not, of course. She’s just being her usual, wonderful self. Full of joy and sparkle and color.
Everything I’m not.
I head for the stairwell at the end of the corridor, wanting to avoid the main staircase, needing a moment to breathe, to clear her face from my head. Her voice. Her mouth—soft, wet, needy, as I pushed her up against her Mini Cooper…
Rounding the corner, I find a pair of seniors making out on the stairs, hands dangerously close to places they shouldn’t be. Resentment boils in my bloodstream.
“Cut it out,” I bark, glowering at them.
They leap apart, scrambling for their backpacks on the floor, terrified eyes avoiding mine as they scamper from the stairwell.
Good. If I’m not getting any, they sure as shit won’t.
Margaret eyes me warily as I approach my office. She’s handled me just fine for years, but her cautious glance now is a sure sign I’m behaving like an asshole.
But I can’t stop. Everything is wrong with the world, and I can’t fucking take it.
“We need more coffee,” I snap as I pass. “I shouldn’t have to go to the faculty lounge to fetch it.”
I don’t wait to hear her reply as I storm into my office and shove the door closed. Jamming the pod into the Nespresso machine on the sideboard, I pace restlessly as it brews. How long does a fucking cup of coffee take?
There’s a knock on the door, then it pops open, Margaret easing herself reluctantly into the room.
“Let me get you some breakfast, Theodore.”
“I don’t need breakfast.”
There’s only one thing—one person—I need, and I can’t have it.
She eyes me closely as she crosses the room to open the window. Margaret’s answer to everything is fresh air.
But as usual, she’s right. The cool, salty breeze eases a little of the tension from my shoulders, and I heave a miserable sigh as I reach for my coffee.
“It’s awfully quiet around here without Eleanor,” Margaret says thoughtfully.
My fingers tighten on my cup at the mention of her, but I say nothing, not meeting her gaze.
“I can’t help but think…” she pauses, as if choosing her words with care. “You worked well together. Professionally speaking, of course.”
My eyes snap to her, assessing. Is she implying something?
But Margaret’s expression remains carefully neutral, her gaze wandering to the open window.
“She was like a breath of fresh air. Made the place feel brighter. Made you…”
My eyes narrow. Margaret’s behavior has always been the height of professionalism, but she’s definitely implying something. That’s very unlike her.
And also… she’s right.
Eleanor was everything I didn’t realize I needed.
And everything I can’t have.
My heart tightens as the thought hits me again, like it has every day since she drove out of that parking lot. I shouldn’t be this despondent after one kiss. After seeing her for three seconds in the faculty lounge.
But that doesn’t stop the ache in my chest.
I lock my jaw, turning away. “I have work to do, Margaret.”
She sighs. “I’ll get you more coffee,” she says, closing the door.
And I stare out to sea, feeling more adrift than I have in years.
I roll over in the dark and pick up my phone. It’s 2 a.m. and I haven’t slept a wink. My fingers open my texts, and I read the last messages Eleanor sent me, weeks ago:
Eleanor: Home safe.
She sent that one after we kissed, like I asked her to. I couldn’t bring myself to reply, because I knew if I did, I’d say something I shouldn’t. Something I couldn’t take back.
Then the last message, sent a day later:
Eleanor: I’m so sorry.
I’ve read that one a hundred times, trying to decipher her words, because they don’t make any sense. She has no reason to apologize.
The logical thing would be to text her back and ask why she’s sorry, but I can’t do that. I can’t initiate a conversation between us again, can’t risk going back down that road.
Can’t risk another scandal.
I’m lucky she hasn’t reported me to the board. I should never have been in that parking lot alone with her, should never have put her in that position.
Although there are plenty of positions I would like to put her in…
My cock stiffens defiantly at the thought, and I groan in frustration, rolling onto my back to stare at the ceiling.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. In all my years of marriage, I never once felt like this. Never felt as if I was burning up with need, as if it could consume me whole.
Even as I chastise myself, I can’t fight the onslaught of inappropriate images that fill my head.
The way Eleanor kissed me so intensely, pulling me hard against her, opening her mouth without hesitation to let me in.
What would she be like in bed? Quiet, hesitant, shy?
Or passionate, hungry, eager? My balls ache as I imagine what faces she’d make, what sounds would leave her pretty mouth as she came.
Jesus.
I stroke myself absently, the image of her filling my mind.
I’m embarrassed to admit I haven’t had sex in years.
The last time was with a woman I met on a dating app in the next town, after Jules told me I needed to “get back out there.” It was an awkward, fumbling encounter that we both seemed to regret halfway through but were too polite to stop. I deleted the app the next day.
But as I recall Eleanor’s fervent kiss in the parking lot, I know for certain we’d be nothing like that. I imagine us working late in my office, the fire lit, the lighting low, maybe a little music playing on the turntable, and a scene unfolds in my head as I stroke my thickening length.
“We should get to work,” Eleanor says, rising to clear our dinner plates from the coffee table in front of the fireplace.
I watch from the leather chair as she leans across the table, wearing today’s black and red polka-dot dress, that red bow in her hair.
My gaze falls to her cleavage, lingers, then returns to her face.
Her eyes lock with mine, a knowing smirk curving her lips.
“See something you like, Headmaster Wright?”
“All of it,” I say thickly.
A blush stains her cheeks as she settles on the edge of the low table in front of me, crossing her feet at the ankles.
But that’s no good.
I reach out, placing my hands firmly on her knees, spreading them wide. She emits a tiny gasp of surprise, but the excitement in her eyes tells me what she really wants, and I’m all too happy to give it to her. I nudge her dress up her thighs, savoring the feel of her soft, warm skin.
“What are you doing?” she asks, feigning shocked innocence.
I give a dark chuckle. “You know what I’m doing, sweetheart. I’m giving you what you want.”
“Yes.” She breathes out hard, spreading her legs wider. “Kiss me, Theo. Please.”
Just like in the parking lot.
Fuck.
In my bed, I pause, gripping my cock as I recall the desperate way she begged me to kiss her. That wasn’t a fantasy, that was real. So real I still taste her, and my dick throbs in my hand as I imagine giving it to her again, properly this time.
I lean in to capture her mouth with mine, dropping to my knees in front of the coffee table. She moans as I thread one hand into her hair, the other cupping her breast through her dress.
But I need more.
I release the bows on the straps of her dress, letting them fall. She’s not wearing a bra, and I dive on her full, perky breasts, sucking one pink nipple into my mouth. She plunges her hands into my hair, gripping the strands tightly as I work my tongue over the rosy bud.
“God, Theo, yes.”
She reaches for my belt buckle, but as my balls draw up tight, I have to stop her. Even in my fantasy, I know if she so much as touches me, I’ll come too soon. Instead, I gently push her hands away, imagining her impatient whimper.
“Soon, sweetheart.”
Then I push her dress further up, exposing her panties.
Red, to match her dress. I can smell her arousal, the musky scent of her desire, and shove her panties to one side.
Her pussy glistens in the dim light of my office, and I don’t hesitate to swipe my fingers through her wetness.
A moan slips from her as I bring her sweet taste to my lips. She watches, wide-eyed.
“What does it taste like?”
I lift a brow. “What does what taste like?”
“My…” She shifts her weight, the flush on her cheeks deepening.
I fix her with a stern look. “Say it.”
“My…” She swallows, biting her lip. “My pussy.”
“Good girl.” I give her a filthy grin, rewarding her with another slow stroke between her thighs, then lift my fingers to her lips. “Your turn.”
She seals her perfect mouth around my fingertips, sucking hard—
Ah, fuck. It’s too much.
Pleasure surges through me, spilling onto my stomach in a violent, frantic explosion, and I lie in the dark, chest shuddering with my erratic breath. The thought of Eleanor—sweet, beautiful, off-limits Eleanor—saying and doing such filthy things was more than I could handle.
God, what I wouldn’t give for her to do those things for real. To have her like that in my office, to slowly undress her, touch her, taste her…
Heaving a sigh, I reach for the box of tissues on my nightstand to wipe my stomach clean, deeply unsatisfied. I need to see her. I need… well, I can’t have what I really need, but just to hear her voice, to see her smile… I’m allowed those things, aren’t I?
Tossing the tissues aside, I pick up my phone again.
Eleanor: I’m so sorry.
My chest swirls with a cocktail of guilt and longing. I miss her. I miss her bright colors, her cheerful optimism, her deep sense of compassion. I miss the way she makes me feel that maybe the world isn’t so terrible after all.
If anyone needs to apologize, it’s me.
And that’s exactly what I plan to do tomorrow.