My PE Teacher's Forbidden Lesson

When my father was gone, my mother made a habit of bringing strange men into our home.

She'd pull a flimsy curtain across the room—more for show than privacy—and put on graphic displays right in front of me.

Maybe it was her influence, but over time, I grew fascinated by the way men and women tangled together.

I never understood why they seemed so lost in pleasure, or where my mother kept finding these men.

Eventually, my father had enough of her cheating and left, leaving me behind with her.

She didn't care about me. She tossed me scraps of food while she gambled and chased after men.

After the divorce, she got worse. Sometimes, she brought home multiple "uncles" at once.

I tried to fight against the twisted world I was raised in, but deep down, I knew I had her same restless hunger.

I buried it—until college, when I finally came into my own.

I had my mother's dangerous beauty—full curves, long legs, a face that turned heads. Even in baggy clothes, I couldn't hide it. On campus, I was the untouchable fantasy, the girl everyone wanted but couldn't have.

That year, I found the one man I actually wanted.

Ethan Roland. My PE teacher. Six years older, with sharp features, a jawline that could cut glass, and a body built like he was carved from stone.

He was nothing like the sloppy men my mother dragged home. He moved with a quiet confidence, the kind that made girls sigh and boys straighten their backs.

Half the campus had a crush on him. So I decided to make sure he noticed me.

Before his class, I ditched my tank top, leaving only an unzipped jacket hanging off my shoulders.

No support meant every warm-up jump sent certain assets bouncing in a way that drew every eye in the courtyard.

Girls glared. Boys stared, slack-jawed.

I loved it.

Maybe it was my mother's blood in me, but I knew exactly how to make men lose their minds.

But those college boys? Amateurs. Ethan was my real target.

That day's lesson was volleyball. We started with basic stances.

I played dumb, making mistakes so he'd have to correct me—personally.

He wore gray sweatpants that day. Thin. And from the way things shifted when he walked, I was pretty sure he wasn't wearing anything underneath.

My skin burned just looking at him.

He stepped behind me, hands settling on my waist to adjust my posture. His chest pressed against my back, his breath hot on my neck.

A shiver shot down my spine. My thighs clenched.

Thank God I was at the back of the line. If anyone saw how flustered I was, I'd have died on the spot.

But the thrill was addicting. The first time I'd ever felt a man's body against mine in public.