Teach Me a Lesson Read online

  “Make it clear that you don’t intend to act on anything. What’s important is that you’ll be giving him acceptance for his fantasies.”

  “But I don’t accept his fantasies.”

  Acceptance was the crux of the problem. “Are you sure you don’t? If you strip away all the emotion about not being desirable, about him no longer wanting you, and you consider the times you talked about your other lovers, are you absolutely sure you don’t feel any acceptance?”

  “I . . .” Jeanine trailed off, her lips parted.

  “You said it was exciting at the time,” Charlotte reminded her.

  Jeanine continued to fiddle with the tissues.

  The light on Charlotte’s phone—which was on the desk behind Jeanine—began to flash, indicating her next client was out in the waiting room. She glanced at the unobtrusive clock on the table between them, a business-card holder with a small clock on the side facing her. “Our time’s almost up. I’ll leave you with this: While my suggestion might not be the right one for you, maybe another will come up when you’re reviewing what I’ve said. The most important thing is for you and your husband to find a place where you can get these feelings out in the open so they aren’t festering between you.”

  “I’ll definitely think about it.” Quickly, almost in relief, Jeanine leaned down to pick up her purse from the side of her chair.

  As she exited, Charlotte had the feeling Jeanine wouldn’t even consider the suggestion. She wasn’t past the complaining stage. Charlotte wasn’t sure the woman ever would be. But that was her job, to move people past rehashing their complaints and into constructive work on their issues.

  She shifted to the chair behind the desk, tapping a button on the keyboard to bring her computer to life. She had a couple of minutes before the start of her next appointment, and she wanted to type up a few reminder notes for Jeanine’s file.

  Fingers poised, an errant thought flitted across her mind. She talked sex all day long, yet she hadn’t been with a man in a disgustingly long time. Months. How many? Nine months at least, maybe even more. Far too long. She flipped to her to-do list.

  Note to self: Find a man, have some hot sex.

  That made her recall her best friend, Lola Cook. And the new man in her life. And the new kinky sex.

  Second note to self: Better yet, find a hot man to spank you.

  2

  CHARLOTTE WORKED TUESDAYS AND THURSDAYS AS A GUIDANCE counselor at the same high school she’d graduated from twenty years ago. She had, in fact, planned her future in this very office, from the opposite side of the desk. Carpeting had been installed over the linoleum tiles, but the desk was the same, its veneer slightly more battered, as was the credenza beneath the window. She’d requisitioned a small conference table and four accompanying chairs, two of which sat in front of the desk, and her chair—she’d bought it herself—was ergonomic.

  She spent money when it was necessary—like on the ergonomic chair—and she pinched her pennies on things that didn’t matter—like brown-bagging it. Bringing your own lunch could be much healthier and lower in calories because you chose your own ingredients. Pinching the pennies was worth it.

  Sometimes she ate her lunch outside, but today, seated at her small conference table, she gazed through the blinds at a sky that was heavy with dark clouds, rain threatening at any moment. Last week, Halloween had been a gorgeous day, in the seventies, warm enough for short sleeves, but come November, the temperature had dropped and the clouds rolled in. November was typically one of the rainier months, though not always. Sometimes the first two weeks brought a deluge while on Thanksgiving Day you could practically eat outside. That’s what she loved about the Bay Area, the variety.

  Charlotte had been a part-time guidance counselor at the high school for the past five years. She enjoyed her practice but she’d also wanted to work with kids, helping them the way her counselors had helped her. It also gave her a chance to do something completely different from her therapy work. It was always good to mix things up.

  Since she had a student meeting at one o’clock, she should have been studying the file open on the table in front of her. Instead she was thinking about spanking, not the discipline kind, but the fun kind. Lola loved her sex play with Gray Barnett, though even after three months, she was still scant on details. But these days, Lola damn near glowed. Charlotte didn’t believe it was just the kinky sex. It was Gray. For the first time in ten years, Lola had a real relationship. Charlotte was happy for her friend.

  But she kept thinking about spanking. And wild sex. And how long it had been since she’d had sex, wild or not. As a therapist, it was her duty to find out what this spanking thing was really like from an experiential perspective. And damn if the thought didn’t make her hot and bothered. And extremely curious. Especially with the lack of sex in her life for the past several months.

  All right, enough daydreaming. Flipping a page in the folder, she absently stabbed a fork into her salad. Somehow the plastic tub had moved—God only knew how or when—and her fork almost upended the container. She grabbed at the tub, the utensil clattering on the table, spraying balsamic dressing across another folder, but she managed a magnificent save before the entire salad turned into a mess on the beige carpet. The only casualty was her apple, which tumbled off the table and rolled under the desk.

  She went down on her hands and knees, stretching an arm beneath the desk, her face and chest practically mashed into the carpet before she could reach the errant apple. Ah, got it.

  “Lose something, Miss Moore?”

  Charlotte gave a tiny squeak and banged her shoulder on the underside of the desk. She snapped up straight, the apple in her lap, and smoothed her skirt down over her knees with one hand.

  Principal Hutton lounged in her doorway, arms crossed over his white shirt and red tie, shoulder braced on the jamb.

  Damn. Busted with her butt in the air.

  “Are you all right?” he asked politely. Behind him, the hall was quiet. Her office was in the Administration building several doors down from the principal’s.

  “I’m fine.” Her shoulder only smarted a little. She held up the apple. “A delinquent. Tried to hide from me under the desk, but I found it out.”

  Principal Hutton raised a brow. “I trust you didn’t bruise its fragile ego.”

  “Oh no, never.” She waved the apple in the air. “Absolutely bruise-free.”

  She was in a unique position, sitting back on her calves. Principal Hutton, at six-one, had always towered over her petite height of five-two-and-a-half—okay, maybe it was a quarter inch instead of a half—but from her vantage point on the floor, he appeared to be a veritable giant, his chest broad, his shoulders wide, his thighs muscled. He was definitely attractive—she’d never questioned that in the three years he’d been at the school—with salt-and-pepper hair, swarthy skin, sharp, aristocratic features. His female students were in awe of him. Not so Charlotte. At forty-eight, he was ten years older than her. And she liked her men younger. Once, a long time ago, she’d almost married a man who was more than ten years her senior. After a narrow escape, she’d realized that if she wanted autonomy in her life, her career, and in her relationship, she’d be far better off with a younger man, one who would cede control to her.

  Yet, from down here on the floor, she was seeing Principal Lance Hutton in a whole new light. Or maybe it was the spanking thing infecting her mind. Whatever the reason, he was suddenly more than merely attractive. He was big, he was strong, he was sexy.

  She’d be willing to bet that receiving a spanking from the principal would be incredibly hot. And his age wouldn’t matter at all. In fact, it would elevate the experience to mind-blowing. When Principal Hutton spoke, people jumped to do his bidding.

  Yes, yes, yes, Principal Hutton was just the kind of man she needed for this new adventure she intended to embark on.

  * * *

  LANCE DIDN’T INDULGE IN INTEROFFICE RELATIONSHIPS, BUT HE was a red-bloode
d male, alive and kicking, and he’d certainly noticed Charlotte Moore. One couldn’t miss her gorgeous red curls, luscious figure, and the hint of fun-loving mischief dancing in her brilliant green eyes.

  Yes, he’d noticed her in the three years he’d been principal, but now he was noticing her. First, her rather delectable rear assets in the air as she reached under the desk—he should have announced himself long before he did, but the view was too good to pass up—and now her position down on the carpet. On her knees. Her lips plump and succulently red. The imagery that came to mind was spectacular.

  “Speaking of delinquents”—because he couldn’t ogle her all day—“I need a favor.”

  She didn’t get up, which, though delightful, was making it hard on certain parts of his body—hard being the operative word.

  “Of course, Principal Hutton. Whatever you need.”

  Lance didn’t demand formality from his faculty, and in this moment particularly, he would have preferred his first name on her lips. Especially if her lips were—

  He needed to keep his mind on business. “Ruth Fineman’s son became ill at school today, and she had to rush over to pick him up.”

  “I hope he’s okay.” Her brow furrowed in concern.

  “I’m sure it was nothing serious.” He’d asked Ruth to update him. She’d been in his office when she received the call. “Unfortunately, she was my monitor for after-school detention today. I’d appreciate it if you’d fill in for her. Unless you have a patient right after school.”

  Charlotte shook her head as she rose, one hand on the desk. “Clients, not patients,” she said. “And I don’t schedule appointments on my school days. In case a student needs me after classes end.”

  Of the counselors on staff, she was the only one working part-time. She was excellent at her job, the students loved her, and her private practice had never interfered.

  “Thank you. Detention is forty-five minutes long, beginning at three fifteen. Your charges will report to the hall, which is the second portable down by the tennis courts. Mrs. Rivers has the key and the list of names.”

  Despite the fact that she was now standing, his pulse didn’t slow, and he could feel his heartbeat against the wall of his chest. Yes, he’d noticed her, but now she was having a physical effect on him. He was sure that tonight he would still see the image of her down on her knees. And what a delectable image it was.

  She gave him a saucy salute. “You can count on me, Principal Hutton.” The bit of sky visible behind her had darkened, rain hitting the window in a steady beat.

  “Don’t forget your umbrella.”

  She laughed. “I already did forget it.”

  He imagined her silky blouse wet with the rain. Sticking to her skin. Rendering it see-through. “I’m sure Mrs. Rivers can find you one.”

  She tipped her head, arching a brow. “Then again, it might have stopped raining by then.”

  His business done, he should go. Oddly he didn’t want to. Odder still that he’d made the arrangements covering Ruth Fineman himself instead of delegating. He had two assistant principals who handled personnel, and technically, neither Charlotte nor Ruth worked directly for him. He didn’t involve himself in such day-to-day operations as who monitored detention. Yet when Ruth left, he’d thought of Charlotte. Instead of picking up the phone, he’d taken it upon himself to walk down the hall to her office.

  Maybe he’d been noticing Charlotte Moore far longer than he’d realized. And after seeing her on her knees, he wasn’t going to stop noticing her any time soon. In fact, he had a feeling she’d be playing a very big part in his dreams.

  * * *

  THOUGH CHARLOTTE DEALT WITH HER SHARE OF DISCIPLINARY problems at the high school, her main role was helping kids plan their futures: careers, colleges to attend, trade schools if that was their inclination. She didn’t generally get involved in detention, suspension, or expulsion. She preferred to be on the proactive end of things.

  So what to do with the eight teenagers—three girls and five boys—scattered about the portable classroom? Formica-topped desks attached to hard plastic chairs were five rows deep and five across. They’d all managed to sit at least three desks apart, except the two girls in the back corner. The overhead lights were glaringly harsh in the windowless room. She would have left the door open to let in some daylight, but with the rain, the outside air was cold. Where windows should have been, the walls of the cheerless portable were plastered with posters declaring what kids shouldn’t do, warnings about venereal disease, the evils of smoking, and the consequences of drinking and driving. All very good information, but there was nothing of a positive nature. Nothing upbeat.

  She’d arrived a few minutes early, and they’d all filed in within ten minutes, leaving their detention slips on her desk. Instead of a blackboard, the front wall of the room was covered by a large white board, with a row of colored markers and erasers.

  What was she supposed to do? Make them write fifty times I will not and fill in the blank for whatever they’d done wrong? After-school detention seemed a bit archaic. At the very least, it was elementary school.

  Charlotte picked up the pink detention slips, thumbed through them. They were in triplicate. The rain beat on the roof, almost masking the whispers of the two girls in the back. The only other female in the assembly sat on the opposite side of the room, her head down, thick brown hair falling forward to obscure her face, arms folded over her chest holding her zippered sweatshirt tightly closed. Her whole body almost curled in on itself as if she were trying to disappear. Charlotte found herself most interested in this shadow girl.

  But she wouldn’t let any of them off the hook because of her interest in one girl. The slips had places for name, class level, date, time, reporting faculty member, and boxes for the behavior categories, which were anything from disruption to tardiness, lying and cheating, defiance to inappropriate language and electronic device violations. Below that was a handwritten description of each incident. Charlotte ignored those. She wanted to hear what her charges—as Principal Hutton had called them—had to say.

  “Let’s talk about these.” She fluttered the stack of pink. The occupants of her detention hall uttered a universal groan.

  It wasn’t necessarily her intention to embarrass them in front of their peers, but she believed they needed to at least think about what they’d done in order to be sentenced to detention.

  “Emma and Brittany. Please describe your disruptive behavior.” She finger-quoted the last two words.

  As Charlotte suspected, they were the two whisperers in the back. The blonde answered, “It wasn’t our fault. Mrs. Lowell ignored the class bell, and we were going to be late for cheerleading practice. All I did was pass Emma a note with a question mark on it.”

  Emma, an equally slim cheerleader type with long black hair, nodded her agreement vigorously. She gave her hair a sexy toss over her shoulder and leaned her chin on one hand to gaze across the room at the handsome African-American boy seated three rows over. Charlotte recognized him as a football player.

  Glancing down at the detention slip, she mused, “So Mrs. Lowell didn’t ask you five times during class to stop whispering?”

  “She mumbles,” Brittany said. Emma nodded. “So I have to keep asking Emma what the teacher said.”

  “Ah, I get it. Emma’s hearing is better than yours. Maybe we need to send you to the school nurse to have that checked.”

  The lanky, dark-haired boy at the front of the class snickered. Charlotte silenced him with a look that said Just wait, you’ll get your turn.

  “Or maybe you should sit closer to the front of the class so you can hear better.” She made a check mark on Brittany’s detention slip. “In fact, I’ll make a note to tell Mrs. Lowell about your hearing issue so she knows to seat you up front.” Charlotte smiled sweetly. Brittany and Emma pasted identical grimaces on their faces.

  Charlotte turned to Snicker Boy and smiled. “What about you? Tell us why you’re here.�
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  He grimaced and flared his nostrils. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” Hmm, that seemed to be a common theme. “All I said was that Justin had his head where the sun don’t shine. And Miss Brouton wrote me up for not disagreeing appropriately.” He finger-quoted and Charlotte realized she’d made a small mistake with that gesture earlier. “I mean, I could have said he had his head up his”—Charlotte held up a hand and he cut himself off—“but you can see I used something more appropriate,” he stressed.

  Charlotte fished his detention slip from the stack based on his behavior category and the faculty member. Miss Brouton taught Social Studies. “So, Tyler, tell us why you felt Justin wasn’t seeing things clearly”—she smiled sweetly—“which is a much more appropriate way of stating the issue.”

  “He said the government had no right to intern the Italian immigrants during World War Two. And I said they had as much right to intern them as they did the Japanese. The United States was at war.” Tyler’s voice rose, and his face turned ruddy with agitation.

  Charlotte wanted to enter the debate, but the issue wasn’t about internment camps and denying citizens their rights, it was about Tyler’s handling of the disagreement. “People don’t hear what you’re saying when you get angry. They only register your emotion. Have you ever thought about joining the debate team?”

  “What?” Tyler stared at her as if she had her head where the sun don’t shine.

  “The debate team.” It would teach him how to argue without being offensive.

  “What’s a debate team?”

  She lowered her head slightly and looked at him from beneath her lashes. “That’s a joke, right?” She hoped it was. “I’m putting a note here for Miss Brouton to recommend you join the debate team.”

  And that debate was over. She pulled out the next detention slip. Michael, inappropriate language. She did not ask what word Michael had used. Carlos had been written up for excessive tardiness. Noah was in detention for texting in class (disruptive behavior), as was Jamal, the football player. Noah claimed it was an emergency text about his dog eating his homework—Charlotte didn’t allow her laugh to surface—and Jamal had to text the coach, HAD TO, all in capital letters. Everyone had an excuse for why they’d broken the rules. No one took responsibility.