The voice. She'd pitched it higher than normal, breathy and young and deliberate, a perfect imitation of a student who knows she's in trouble and finds the prospect exciting rather than frightening. The green eyes tracked me from the classroom door to the front of the room with the focus of someone who had been building toward this moment for hours.
I pulled the swivel chair out from behind the teacher's desk and sat down. The oak surface between us carried the weight of every fantasy she'd constructed since the first time I mentioned detention to her in a hallway. I picked up the red pen and clicked it once.
"You're the one in detention, Fitzgerald. Not me."
Aurora's thighs pressed together beneath the desk. I saw the movement. She saw me see it. Her lips parted and her tongue touched the corner of her mouth, wetting the red lipstick.
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"You've been disrupting the other students."
"How?"
