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Claiming His Reunion Obsession
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The dress I never quite fit into the first time, the junior high teacher I had a major crush on. All these years later this curvy, shy and once-bullied girl might just get her chance to be Queen after all. Maybe not Prom queen, or even queen of her high school reunion, but a true king and queen can never be kept apart for long, no matter the odds. No matter the consequences.
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Wear your old prom dress they said, it’ll be fun they said.
It’s taken me an hour to squeeze into this thing, take it off and decide I’m not going, then going again at least four times.
I feel like the only fun is going to be what’s poked at me by my ex-classmates.
The sense of dread pulling up to the gym feels like ninth grade all over again. It’s all coming back to me now.
I’m glad I’m getting here early so I can leave early.
It’s stupid. I should’ve stayed at home.
Heels and lilac… I really haven’t thought this through at all. Great. There’s a registration desk too.
Name tags, a guest book… OMG this is gonna be…
Hold. The. Fucking. Phone.
“Michelle? It is you, isn’t it!”
I jump a half foot into the air when I feel his hand touching the small of my back, then I catch the long forgotten scent of him. I’m transported back in time in a split second. It’s him, I know it is.
Before I can speak, he’s literally hugging me, pressing his whole front against me, which I naturally lean right into, and savor his bear like growl.
“Oh my god, Mr. Quinn?” I stammer, feeling something shift in me as he re-positions himself behind the little table, sitting himself down quickly.
I’m only going to this stupid reunion because of my dad. His friend, Mr. Quinn used to be my biology teacher and he seemed to think it might make Quinn feel like his work meant something once he found out his friend’s daughter became a nurse because of his classes.
What dad doesn’t know about is the huge crush I’ve had on Mr. Quinn all these years. It’s something I thought I’d be able to hide if I saw him here, but my body has other plans.
“Quincy…” he murmurs so low it’s almost a growl, “But just call me Quinn.” His eyes unashamedly run up and down my body, giving me shivers in places I’ve never even thought about in a long while. Until now.
I blush, cherry red really. I’m ashamed of my body, always have been. But the look on Quincy’s face isn’t mocking or even disappointed.
Quinn likes what he sees by the looks, and stretching back in his chair some, I can see biological proof rising against the zipper line of his stonewashed jeans.
“I didn’t realize it was a retro theme.” I continue, trying to sound normal, but squeezing my legs together as I feel a hot bead of moisture forming.
“It’s not,” he says, and smiles broadly, his dark eyes resting on my stiff chest, I know without even looking that my nipples are like bullets.
“Chilly, isn’t it?” he asks, and makes this low sound again as I shudder a gasp. It’s as if his hands are on me again, tracing the thick lines of my pebbled discs under my dress.
“I’ve often thought about you,” I blurt out, regretting it straight away. I may as well have just written the words ‘pity fuck?’ on a slip of paper and passed it to him under the desk, but I don’t think there’s any pity from the smoldering look in his eyes.
“That a fact?” he asks, a grin forming on his lips and his eyes narrowing before shaking himself suddenly. Snapping himself out of the spell that’s come over him.
Over us both.
“Sorry, Michelle,” he says, looking as flushed as I feel, “I just can’t believe I’m seeing you as such a beautiful, fully grown young woman now. Makes me feel old.”
Fully grown is right. Put a ring through my nose and pitch a wooden pen around me.
I’ve never felt so self-conscious as right now, this stupid dress, Christ and these shoes. My feet are killing me already.
“Call me Chelle, and you’re not old,” I tell him, trying to find some swagger to match the coolness, the manliness which just seems to ooze from this guy.
I’m betting that’s not all that oozes from him either.
I almost laugh out loud at my own thoughts, but they shock me more than anything. I’m not the forward type, far from it. I’m more likely to fog up my glasses with a latte than anything real life, sex kind of steamy. Maybe the odd book here and there, but apart from that my life’s about as plain as it gets.
“You’re a little early,” he observes, trying to focus himself on the task at hand, registering arrivals and handing out name tags.
“I have a ‘Michelle’ tag here, but I’ll make you one up with Chelle on it, would you like that?”
I feel my head pumping as if he’s just asked me if I’d like to see that thick line where his zipper rides up again.
In his perfect, bold and neat teacher’s print, he makes up a name tag and leans forward in his seat.
“C’mere, I can put it on you if you want?” And I move faster than the line of moisture in my panties as I slide around to his side of the table.