Page 23 of Cabin Fever
She meets my eyes, steady. I almost think she’s going to say no, but then she nods slightly.
“Yes,” she says. “Let’s do it.”
I want to laugh, or maybe to grab her and make her say it again, but I don’t. I nod, pour her a cup of steaming joe, and let her eat in silence.
After breakfast, she cleans up like it’s any other day, then pauses right before she’s done.
“So should I wear something special?” she asks, so quiet that it’s almost inaudible.
I smile, blue eyes gleaming.
“Funny you should ask. Come upstairs, because I have something for you.”
We traipse up the stairs and then I disappear into my room before reappearing with a massive suitcase and multiple large garment bags.
“These are for you,” I say, striding into Kat’s bedroom and hanging them up in the closet.
“But what are they?” Kat asks, confused.
I wink.
“Costumes. Clothes. Our first scene is a professor and naughty student role-play, so I’d like you to dress the part. You’ll find a white blouse, plaid skirt, and patent shoes inside. I’d like you to put those on and come down.”
Kat’s eyes are the size of saucers, and I take that moment to head downstairs.
“Come when you’re ready,” I call, my voice floating to her scandalized ears.
She gasps, and I grin, but little do I know because Kat’s full of surprises … and the taboo acts have just begun.
6
CHAPTER SIX – THE PROFESSOR AND HIS NAUGHTY STUDENT
Kat
Istand in front of the mirror for a solid ten minutes, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. Am I really doing this? Am I really going to be a toy in a rich man’s fantasy? It’s not even nine a.m. yet!
But the costume hangs in my closet, taunting me: white blouse, check; plaid pleated skirt, check; and black patent Mary Janes with a sweet yet naughty energy. But first, panties. I stare at the pile of lacy briefs on the bed, every color and cut, and then at my own reflection—hair loose and brushed to golden perfection, thighs pressed together so tight it’s like I can hold in the secret.
I decide to skip the panties. Not out of laziness, but because Mr. McKnight didn’t mention them, and I want to be bad. Maybe he won’t even notice. Maybe we’ll just talk.
Yeah right,the voice in my head says.You know this isn’t about talking at all.
I ignore the voice. My heart hammers as I button the blouse, the little pearl buttons sliding through the fabric with a click that feels illicit. It’s thin, so the outline of my bra is clear. The skirt is obscenely short—definitely not school code, maybe not even club code. When I move, the plaid fabric floats, and I can already feel the air underneath, the nothing between my pussy and the world.
I want to tell myself it’s just a job, but this isn’t how “just a job” feels. “Just a job” doesn’t have me biting the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning at the way my thighs rub together. I want to see what happens. I want to lose. I want to win. I want all of it.
I put on the Mary Janes, which are a size too small, making my toes pinch in a way that reminds me to stand up straight, and run a hand through my hair. My hands are shaking, so I sit on the edge of the bed, and take a few deep breaths.In. Out. In. Out.It doesn’t work.
I’m supposed to go downstairs and “report to the professor’s office at 9 a.m. sharp.” The digital clock ticks closer and closer, every minute heavier. I decide: I’ll be late. Not much, just a minute or two. I want to see if Talon will punish me.
I count to one hundred, then tiptoe down the stairs. The air smells like woodsmoke and evergreen, the morning sun already painting the living room in hot, bright rectangles. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I see the transformation: the great room has been rearranged. The dining table is gone, replaced by a single wooden desk, and behind it is Mr. McKnight, insanely handsome in a dark button-down and wire-rim glasses he absolutely does not need. His sleeves are rolled, exposing the ink on his forearms, and a legal pad sits open in front of him, pen poised.
He looks up at me, blue eyes gleaming, and says, “Miss Vreeland. You’re late.”
There’s no smile. No glint of mischief. It’s like he’s erased the last twenty-four hours and replaced himself with a sexier, sterner, more academic version. I have no idea how he does it, but my knees go weak.
“Sorry, Professor,” I say. My voice comes out a bit fluttery. Is that really me?
