Extra Credit

  Extra Credit

  A Teacher & Student Romance

  Gigi Thorne

  EXTRA CREDIT

  Gigi Thorne

  Copyright © Gigi Thorne and Mary Elizabeth Literature

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

  Cover Design: Mayhem Cover Design

  Editor: Mary Elizabeth

  First Edition

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Who is Gigi

  Also by Gigi

  1

  Four years ago, I walked the same halls as a student with the thirtyish bodies sitting at their desks in front of me, and now I’m their English teacher.

  I don’t expect them to remember my face. They were freshmen when I was a senior, so our paths didn’t cross but on occasion, but the change in rank is … jarring. Was it really only a few years ago when I sat in these desks gossiping with friends, anticipating graduation day?

  If someone had told me then I’d be an employee at Mission Woods High School when I wanted nothing more than to grab my diploma and never look back, I would have laughed because I’m not exactly the teacher type. Yet, here I am, our current lesson in one hand and a red dry erase marker in the other. Schools will always need educators, and it turns out the students like me.

  “Put your phones away,” I instruct.

  My sixth-period class replies in a chorus of moans and groans, but they oblige—especially the male student body.

  Who am I kidding?

  The female student body showers me in as much attention as the boys do. We live in a society accepting of all sexual orientations, so the ladies don’t bother to hide curiosity or attraction in regard to their young English teacher. Sometimes they’re downright vulgar.

  Carlos, the school janitor, constantly needs to repaint the restroom stalls because of the things are written on them about me.

  “Miss Gray has a tight ass,” the boys stall said last week.

  “I’d tear up Miss Gray’s pussy,” the girls stall said just this morning. This one included an illustration.

  “Can you really blame them, Carlos?” I asked with a smirk when he showed me the ladies’ latest divulgence.

  I walk up and down the aisle between desks, checking each student’s folder for last night’s homework assignment. Raging teenage hormones are palpable, and I’d be a dirty liar if I claimed not to be drunk on it. Their lingering stares and reddened cheeks lick my ego. I find myself walking with added sway in my hips, and leaving an extra button undone to show a dangerous amount of cleavage. My heels are high, and my lipstick is always perfect.

  The four-year age gap between myself and the students is dicey because it allows me to imagine myself with some of them in compromising, forbidden positions.

  When I was in school, did the boys have facial hair like they do now? Did the girls have full breasts overflowing from ill-fitting bras like Sara, the too-innocent-for-her-own-good blonde, in my first-period class?

  Freshman, with their doe eyes and perma-confused expressions, look exactly like lost children. Even juniors have baby faces. But these seniors … for all intents and purposes, these seniors are adults. They look like men, with muscle and bad intentions. Their voices are deep, and their motives are clear.

  I can look, but I can’t touch.

  Those are the rules.

  I refuse to be that teacher on the eleven o’clock news who had a scandalous affair with a much younger student after their mommy found a journal under their mattress documenting every illegal lick, rub, and stroke. I’m too pretty for prison.

  Of course, if the student is of age, it’s not illegal. It’s only frowned upon.

  “Where’s your homework, Troy?” I ask the dark-haired, green-eyed pupil sitting at the very end of row three. Troy Murillo’s sideways smirk is dotted by a dimple I've heard the other girls in the class whisper about. He sits back in his chair, legs parted like an invitation to lower myself between them.

  “Didn’t do it,” he replies unapologetically.

  “Why not?” I ask. The classroom is silent behind me.

  He shrugs, widening his smirk into a complete smile with two dimples. “My dog ate it.”

  Unable to hold back my amusement, I laugh out loud and move to the next row. “I want to see you after class, Mr. Murillo.”

  “Yes, Miss Gray,” he replies.

  Thirty minutes later, the class is over, and my students shuffle out the door. I wave them farewell, perched on the end of my desk, pleased with our lesson on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Outlawed love is cool when taught by a twenty-two-year-old teacher who romanticizes breaking the rules.

  Once the last student exits, I lock the door to keep anyone from entering before I’ve had a conversation with Troy. He stands in front of my desk with his backpack slung over one shoulder. Gone is the wicked smirk he graced me with earlier, replaced by a smoking hot stare that leaves me weak in the knees and out of air.

  Even though I’m wearing heels, Troy’s six inches taller than me and so much bigger. His hands are large, and his fingers are so, so long. He scratches the back of his neck, flexing biceps that are not those of a seventeen-year-old boy.

  ‘Look, but don’t touch, Samantha,’ I remind myself. ‘Behave yourself.’

  Bad things might happen if I sit anywhere but behind my desk, so I take a seat and cross my legs. I squeeze my thighs together, inhaling through my lips as delicious warmth spreads from my sex to my cheeks. I use my copy of Romeo and Juliet to fan my face, but it’s no help against the raw electricity flowing through me.

  “This will come as no surprise to you, Mr. Murillo, but you’re failing my class,” I begin. Thankfully my tone is stronger than my willpower.

  He stands before me like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. “I’m not surprised.”

  Pressing my lips together, I say, “I had a chance to peek at your grades from your other classes, and I was shocked to see perfect marks in every subject but mine. Care to explain why?”

  Troy’s eyes fall to my chest. “Your tits distract me.”

  I drop my book. “What did you say?”

  Don’t be fooled; I heard what he said. I just want him to say it again.

  “You have great tits, Miss Gray,” Troy repeats. He’s calm, cool, and collected. “They keep me from doing my work in a timely manner.”

  My eyes meet his, and I say, “That’s no way to speak to your teacher, Mr. Murillo.”

  His smirk returns and I pull my bottom lip between my teeth to keep from moaning.

  “Your ass in the skirt you’re wearing today only makes it worse,” he continues. The right side of his mouth curves up.

  “What are we going to do about that?” I ask breathlessly.

  Troy takes a determined step forward and says, “I need extra credit, Miss Gray.”

  My chest rises and falls with every uneven breath I take. I tingle from the tips of my toes to the very top of my head, burning at my core. I slowly, carefully, just-so circle my hips for fri
ction against my leather chair.

  “Tutoring is available before school in the library,” I say, fighting the urge to cry out at the pooling pressure between my legs.

  He shakes his head. “Group tutoring won’t help. I need you.”

  “No,” I whisper, clutching the edge of my desk.

  “Yes.”

  “No,” I say again with more conviction.

  “I turned eighteen four months ago, Miss Gray,” he says, and I nearly come. “Help me pass your class before it’s too late. I can stay after school. You can give me private lessons.”

  2

  Relief washes over me like cold water when Troy doesn’t attend class the next day. I’m jerked awake from the daze I’ve been in since he left my classroom the afternoon before. His empty seat is a stark reminder of my unsuitable response to Troy’s advances, but I go on with my lesson, grateful I don’t have to watch his bright green eyes follow my every move.

  A better teacher. No, a better woman, would’ve marched straight to the principles office and reported the incident. A better woman wouldn’t have dressed in a shorter skirt than she had on the previous day, but here I am, with my bottom nearly exposed.

  As my students discuss the grudge between the Montagues and Capulets, I drown as relief floods into humiliation. Allowing the kids in class to ogle my chest from their seats is one thing, but to let a student openly admit he can’t stop checking out my tits and ass is crossing a line. He probably went straight to his friends and retold every detail of our encounter, down to my breathlessness and flushed cheeks.

  Troy knew he affected me in the most inappropriate way.

  It can’t happen again.

  Once the bell rings, signaling the end of class and the end of the school day, I’m strengthened by my determination not to fall victim to Troy Murillo’s cocky smile. I shoo my kids out, threatening more homework if they leave a mess behind. Which they do anyway.

  I’m scooping up pencils and wadded pieces of paper from the ground when I hear the click of my door closing. I assume it's another teacher, hopefully here to ask if I want to grab a drink to wind down from the day. We do this every now and then, and I can use a stiff cocktail right about now.

  When I find Troy instead, the trash falls from my hands.

  “Turn around and bend over again for me,” he says.

  Breaking lead under my heels, I ignore the pounding in my chest and walk to the door. “The school day is over, Troy. Leave.”

  Troy takes a seat at the desk directly in front of mine. He sits back, legs parted, and grins. “I thought you were going to tutor me.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  His smug expression doesn’t change. “If you don’t help me, I may never live up to my full potential. This one bad grade will follow me through college. Is that what you want?”

  I smile, challenging his bluff. “If you don’t leave, I’m going straight to the principles office and reporting this.”

  “If you do that, I won’t get to fuck you.”

  My heart stops and my lips part. I reach for the door handle, managing to only crack it open before Troy’s out of his seat and slamming it closed. He locks it and traps me against the wall between his arms.

  Troy presses his body against mine and whispers, “Tell me you want this as much as I do.”

  “I don’t,” I lie. “It’s wrong. I’m your teacher.”

  His lips brush across my ear, and I squeeze my eyes closed. If he touches me again, I’ll combust. I’ll burn up and burn down, and there will be no putting the fire out.

  “Only for a few more months,” he says, turning me around so my back is flush with his chest. He glides his hand under the waistband of my skirt, over my panties.

  They’re wet. I’m wet.

  I place my palms flat on the wall and widen my feet, so he can feel me fully on his fingers. His erection presses into the small of my back, growing harder and longer as he rubs my clit.

  “This is wrong,” I say without conviction. I drop my head forward.

  “Doesn’t feel that way.” Troy rubs me in small circles. “This feels so fucking right to me, Miss Gray.”

  I cry out, balancing on the very edge of good and evil. My body fills all the way up with effervescent-like exhilaration. Weightlessness carries me up, up, up and over, done for, and I fall over the cliff of decency into a void of nothing but Troy’s breath on my neck and his fingers finding their way under cotton.

  The plunge through debauchery is a long one, but Troy leads the way, saying, “I knew your pussy would be this soft. I knew it would be so good. I knew it. I knew it.”

  Then his fingers are inside of me, and why haven’t I fucked him sooner? He said it himself, he turned legal fucking age three months ago. We’ve wasted so much time.

  We have catching up to do.

  With one hand on the wall, I use my other to cover Troy’s between my legs. I force him to stroke harder, deeper, and better until he’s knuckle deep inside of me with zero hesitation.

  “Stop talking like a big man and act like one,” I say, rocking against his palm. “Make me come or this will be the last time you set foot in my classroom.”

  Pressure builds inside of me like the chains of a swing on the playground, turning and tightening until they seize and let go, spinning and spinning and spinning, faster and faster as they go. Troy covers my mouth with the hand he’s not finger fucking me with to muffle my moans for more.

  I come so hard, tears fall from my eyes. I come so hard, I forget I’m a teacher and Troy’s my student. I come so hard, the only determination I have anymore is the determination to ride Troy’s cock the next time I am coming this hard.

  “Are you okay, Miss Gray?” Troy asks softly, kissing the side of my face as he draws out the last of my orgasm.

  “More than okay, Troy,” I answer with a small, spent smile. “I think our first tutoring session went well.”

  He chuckles and says sarcastically, “Does this mean there will be more? I’m really concerned about my grade. I need all the help I can get.”

  Pulling my skirt down, I turn in Troy’s arms so we face each other and say, “I’ll teach you a thing or two about a thing or two, Mr. Murillo. Don’t forget to bring a pencil.”

  3

  I don’t bother with delusions or give in to what I know is right and wrong. This sudden connection I’ve fallen into with Troy Murillo—my eighteen-year-old English student—is wrong. I am his teacher. I am his older teacher, and with that comes the responsibility not to keep him after school and fuck him senseless. It’s my job to educate, encourage, and to be a role model.

  But, his hands between my legs was so right.

  Too right not to explore a little more.

  Dwelling on all the reasons why our relationship is wrong won’t accomplish anything, so I’ll stick with all the reasons why our association is good for now.

  That mentality comes with orgasms.

  “Miss Gray, you were on duty at Parent Drop-off this morning, we’re you not?” Mrs. Chopra, our school principal, asks.

  “Every Friday,” I answer. I flip through the papers left in my cubby hole in the teacher’s lounge.

  Mrs. Chopra clears her throat, standing awkwardly beside me. “I don’t usually comment on what my teacher’s wear in the classrooms, Miss Gray. It’s never been an issue before now.”

  I stop fingering through fliers for chess club and school chaperone opportunities and eye the small women at my side.

  “But,” she continues hesitantly. “We had quite a few complaints from parents dropping off their children for school this morning about the length of your dress. It seems that some of them feel it’s too short and not appropriate attire for an educator.”

  I shove the papers back into my cubby and face Mrs. Chopra. My dress is short, flowing around my thighs. It’s not something I’ve worn in the classroom before, but that was before Troy set his eyes on me. If he and I are going to peruse a sexual affair, then I ca
n do my part by making it as hassle-free as possible. And my short, loose-fitting dress gives him easy access to my goods.

  “And what do you think about my attire?” I ask.

  Principle Chopra’s eyes travel up the length of my legs uncertainly. “Well, the dress code does ask that skirts and dresses be knee length.”

  I laugh, patting her shoulder. "That's so old-fashioned, don't you agree?"

  She nods, eyes still glued on the hem of my red dress.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” I say in a chipper tone. “I think you should ask someone else to cover my Parent Drop-off duties on Fridays. That way the only people who see me are the students in my classroom. The students have never complained about what I wear before, and my classroom performance is best in the school. You can’t deny I truly have my kids engaged and performing despite what I wear.”

  Mrs. Chopra shakes her head and says, “Yes, but…”

  “Ask Mr. Henderson from the science wing. He's always eager for more work, and the man wears sweater vests and track pants every day. He loves directing traffic.”

  Leaving before she can protest the new arrangement, I snatch a pointer stick from a closet of things we don’t use in the classroom anymore. The school day ended twenty minutes ago, and the hallways are empty and silent with the exception of my heels tapping on the tile.

  Troy’s waiting for me like a good boy at the desk that sits directly in front of mine. I close the door and lock it, ensuring we won’t have any unwelcomed intruders during our private tutoring lesson. I stroll past him without a word, but I feel his gaze follow me to the row of windows on the far wall. I close all the blinds, stirring up dust in the air.

  Once the space is private, closed-off to prying eyes, I approach Troy and stand before his desk with the pointer stick in my right hand.