Page 22 of Even Werewolves Learn

All I know is that I slow her fall, but still don’t prevent it, and her ass ends its course against my groin.

Yes, pure luck.

She still has the lime pie she came to grab in hand, and her other hand is set around it as if she’s trying to protect the pastry.

“Why on earth did you try to protect the pastry instead of yourself?” I ask her, slightly dumbfounded by her priorities.

“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have fallen,” she tells me matter-of-factly, but all I can think about is the fact that she hasn’t moved yet, and how good she smells.

“I was feeling a bit sad and alone on my blanket here on the ground,” I tell her with the same matter-of-fact tone.

“Detention isn’t supposed to make you happy,” she answers.

Oh, but she’s wrong about that. Detention with her makes me happy.

“It still doesn’t mean that we have to make it gloomy,” I say, and I’m disappointed when she decides she’s stayed long enough on my lap.

The problem is that she’s clumsy getting out of the position and has to try twice before finally moving to my side, and by the time she’s finally out of my lap, I’m already half hard.

At least she hasn’t run away completely, and she’s still sitting right next to me on the blanket.

I don’t know what’s going through her mind right now, but she’s looking at the pie like it’s the most interesting thing in the room, and I feel slightly jealous of it.

“I guess I could stay to eat another pastry,” she says, and it’s more to herself than to me.

It’s alright. As long as she stays, that’s all that I ask.

This is the reason why I brought pastries and viennoiseries after all—to get her to lower her guard and spend time with me.

“Have you had any of those?” I ask as I bring the other box in front of her. It contains a raspberry pie and a fraisier—a strawberry cake. If I follow what she picked from the other box, there’s a chance she likes fruity cakes better, and I find myself eager to know what else she would pick.

She looks at raspberry pie, as if torn between the one she already has in hand and that other one.

“We can share them,” I tell her. “You can eat half of each.”

“How do we cut them?” she asks, looking around, probably to see if I brought a knife with me—I didn’t.

“Just eat until you’ve had enough, and I’ll eat the rest,” I tell her.

I could just shift a finger and cut the pies with a claw, but we were specifically asked to not blatantly display our shifter status for this little experiment, and some part of me is thrilled at the idea my lips will be where hers have been seconds before.

I know, I’m so far from what I had planned to be when I was forced to attend this class.

“But what if I prefer the lime pie and realize it only when I’ve finished my half and started the raspberry one?” Constance asks, and I’m surprised she doesn’t pout after that question. It’s asked so innocently, and at the same time she sounds genuinely distressed at the idea she would have to keep eating the one she likes less.

“If so, I’ll eat the raspberry for you, and you can finish the lime,” I tell her. “Or you could take a bite of each and decide which one you want more, and I’ll eat the other one.”

“You’re sure?” she asks hesitantly.

“Yes, go ahead,” I tell her with a smile, and for once, I don’t try to tease her.

That is until she bites into the lime pie and I can’t help but chuckle at the lime cream that ends up at the corner of her mouth.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I tell her. “You just have something here.”

I show her the side of her mouth, and she doesn’t react immediately. Or maybe she just doesn’t react quickly enough, because instead of showing her again, I decide to wipe the lime cream from the corner of her mouth and lick my finger right away.