Page 14 of Even Werewolves Learn

I’m pretty sure—I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am—that she’s flustered because of my compliment, and that makes me want to keep showering her with more sweet words.

But then, she bites her lower lip as if she wants to add something but refuses to say whatever came to her mind, and now I’m jealous of her teeth. I want mine to plunge into that plush lip and nibble on it.

Or maybe pull on it until my lovely teacher opens her mouth, and sticks her tongue out, waiting for me to feed her my cock.

I would shower her with praises while she swallows all of me, too.

Would that make her heart beat faster? Would that make her wet?

The thought has only grazed my mind, and now I can only imagine what our arousal would smell like. Sweet? Spicy?

What would she taste like on my tongue? What would worshipping her feel like with my hands and mouth?

No.

I shouldn’t think like that.

Not because Constance isn’t beautiful—I didn’t lie about that. She doesn’t need to be mad to be beautiful either.

And not because she might see that I’m already half hard just from teasing her either. I know she won’t see. She’s been very careful not to look lower than my collarbone since I met her two days ago, and that makes teasing her way more fun.

Especially since I can easily hear and smell the effect my words have on her.

But, yes, I shouldn’t think like that because I’ve been keeping an eye on the time, and I know I don’t have much of it before someone pokes their head through the door.

And they might see the state I got myself into while alone with her.

I don’t know what the fraternization rules are in this school—and I probably need to find that out—but if anyone finds me sitting on her desk with a very evident bulge in my pants, I don’t need divination powers to know that she’ll be the one in trouble.

I wanted to be excused from this class, but I don’t want her career to be the price for it.

It wouldn’t be fair. She played no role in my name being given for that social experiment the council decided to spring upon us.

I won’t have her be collateral damage to this shit show.

Even if, if I’m being honest, I did like looking through the first few lessons in her textbook to be able to message her all day yesterday.

Okay, I’m actually not being honest. I hated reading the lessons. What I liked was finding things I could ask her just so she had no other choice than to answer me. Above all, I loved those little recordings she sent me to help me pronounce words I don’t even care about.

I loved them for two reasons. First because she has such a pretty voice and it would be a shame not to be able to hear it more, and second because I know that she thought about me all the time we were apart because of them.

Not because she wanted to think about me, but because I wanted her to.

I’m an asshole. Maybe.

“This isn’t proper,” she adds while toying with the bottom of her shirt. “I could almost be your mom, dammit”

The last word is said so low that a human would barely hear it. I don’t know if she’s trying to convince herself or me, but she’s getting mad again, and it’s the cutest thing.

She can try to convince me all she wants, though. I know how old she is and if my mom had me that young, I’d be appalled.

“I think you’re awfully wrong about my age or yours,” I tell her with a chuckle. “And I doubt you’d want to have been a mom at twelve.”

That stops her fidgeting.

“How do you know?” she asks with narrowed eyes.

“I have my sources,” I tell her with a smirk—that I’ve learned since the first day I met her—that triggers a small increase in her heartbeat.