“Can anyone tell me what the correct answer is? How about you, Mr. Carter,” my damned history teacher, Ms. Garcia asked me. I hated the woman. With her curly red hair, cut short to her shoulders, her large, emerald green eyes, and the freckles that splotched across her rosy cheeks, small nose, and pale skin, down her slender neck, a string of elegant pearls always occupying that neck, and into the collar of her very tantalizing low-cut white blouse.
Gawd, I hated her.
“Well, uh…” I began, not really sure what the question was in the first place, ” Like…”
Ms. Garcia sighed, before turning away from me. Good, the bitch. But man, she was a really hawt bitch.
“I know you can answer that, Ms. Grover.”
While Caraline, the class wizz, answered the question I couldn’t, Ms. Garcia bent down low at my ear, her soft murmer tickling it.
“See me after class,” she whispered, a smile playing at the lips I was just dying to kiss.
When the bell rang, I ran straight to her desk.