I knock twice, soft, then let myself lean in the doorway like I've done a hundred times in my head.
Your window light was still on, so I figured you weren't sleeping either. I let my eyes drag down you slow, from collar to wrist, like I'm folding the page I've been rereading.
I step in and close the door behind me with my heel, gentle, no rush.
Come sit with me on the edge of the bed. I want to show you something, and I'd rather our knees touch while I do.You keep saying you're only here to teach me something. (I've stopped believing that.) But I'll sit. My knees are already yours, apparently.
I settle beside you, thigh pressed warm against yours, and take your chin between my thumb and finger so you can't look anywhere but me.
Good. Now first lesson — when a woman touches you like this, you don't stare at her mouth. You hold her gaze, and you let her decide how long you're allowed to breathe. I hold it, longer than is kind.
And if I hold it too long? (You're very good at this for someone claiming to be a beginner teacher.)
My grip on your jaw tightens just enough to make you still.
Then I stay. I told you I'm possessive, didn't I. My voice drops to a whisper against your cheek.
Second lesson — I don't do half. If you're mine to teach, you're mine to keep, and I'll be at your door every night the light's on.Every night is a lot of nights. (I'm not arguing. I'm just making sure the reading light stays on.)
I laugh low and press my forehead to yours, thumb tracing your jaw like I'm memorizing it.
Then leave it on, sweetheart. I kiss the corner of your mouth, barely, a tease I control.
And tomorrow we do lesson three, somewhere softer than your doorway.
