...While mindless French babble sifted through Kyle’s ears via surely disease-ridden headphones, he stole glances of Madame Venet as she strolled between rows of desks occupied by members of her elementary French class. This was his third visit to the language lab, and he would continue to attend. Sure, he was beginning to understand some French, but his primary reasons for attending involved watching his instructor move and listening to her speak. In any language, her voice dripped with sugar in a way that left him craving more than conversation.
Not that they’d discussed much of anything since that day in the stairwell last week. He continued to suggest they meet off campus to talk about her husband, and she continued to deny every one of his requests.
She meandered past his study booth, leaving a fruity scent in her wake. He inhaled, savored the flavor.
While her curves were hidden, wrapped up in a navy blue business suit, the package was more than alluring. The pole between his legs was already waving the flag of surrender, but there was no immediate end to the battle, as there were twenty minutes left in the class session. His balls throbbed, begging for release, and every time he overheard her French whispers, he grew a fraction harder.
Kyle, hidden waist-down by the walls of the study booth, placed his hand on his crotch and gently kneaded his testicles with the tips of his fingers. The old Kyle would have high-tailed it out of the lab and headed toward the nearest watering hole. Condom, wet pussy, twenty minutes to an hour of thrusting, depending on how much he’d had to drink, and the nagging load brewing in his balls would’ve been spent.
But he’d changed, grown. And this lust was specific. Disturbing, but specific.
No sorority girl would satisfy this need, nor would any of his ex-girlfriends, had they been crouching beneath the laminate desk on which he was seriously considering pounding his head. No, he needed a wiser woman, one with a mind as attractive as the rest of her, a woman who didn’t swoon when he smiled. When he had to work for even a sideways glance from a chick, any more attention she bestowed on him added up to sheer decadence.
The only woman he wanted at this moment wasn’t looking at him twice. She was married. Presumably to Troy Douglas. She bent to an unsuspecting ear across the aisle and whispered.
Jesus.
Her body lured him, her mind intrigued him, and he wouldn’t mind finding his way into either…if you must know, Mark. Not to mention, if he stole her away from Troy Douglas, it could mean good things for Faith.
If that wasn’t the worst reason to pursue a woman—
Twisted. His erection pressed insistently against his fly. What was worse? Being this hard for a woman who wouldn’t disclose her husband’s first name, let alone her own? Or thinking fucking her would make his sister happy?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?
What was that? Leaving his balls unattended, he hit the rewind button on the language lab CD player, and pressed the headphones tight to his ears while the sentence played again.
Voulez-vous aller au cinéma avec moi ce soir?
Ah, that made more sense than—
A ruby-nailed thumb stuck a yellow sticky note onto the corner of his study corral.
He looked up to see Madame Venet already pivoting away. Her hips wiggled when she walked, which only intensified his condition down below.
Seven p.m. 202 Great Lakes Boulevard. Tonight.
Temporary elation set in, followed by a moment of panic. Going to head-to-head with a beautiful woman was one thing. A beautiful, married woman was another. He could hold his own in some respects, but he hadn’t a clue how he would hold an advantage over her, as he wasn’t going to be meeting this siren to exploit his talents between the sheets...