Big Hose (Size Matters #2) by Blake Wilder Read Online (FREE)
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“Can I slide down your pole?”
“No. But your teacher can.”
I was jerked from my inappropriate daydreams when twenty-four heads spun in my direction, the five-year-olds in my class peering at me hopefully—as if I’d actually do such a thing.
The comment caught me off guard, since I’d tried to stop listening a few minutes earlier. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in what was being said.
In truth, my problem had everything to do with the way it was being said. In a slow, deep, rich timbre that had my nipples hard and my panties wet.
To try to counteract it, I’d been looking around the fire station, feigning interest in the trucks, equipment, uniforms, hoses. Basically anything that might distract me from staring into the crystal clear, bright blue eyes of Jake “Big Hose” Garrett.
Then I realized everyone was still looking at me, waiting for a response.
“I hardly think I’m dressed for that,” I said, gesturing to my aquamarine, gypsy-style maxi skirt.
Jake’s gorgeous baby blues slid leisurely down from my very basic, very proper white T-shirt from Target to my brown ankle-strap sandals, taking in everything in between.
I wasn’t a prude or shy, but when Jake’s gaze returned to my face, deep dimples framed his face and drew my attention to his lips as he gave me the world’s most lethal grin.
I never blushed, but the heat in my cheeks grew even hotter when he said, “I think you’re dressed just right.”
I shot him a narrow-eyed gaze, silently chastising him for his completely inappropriate sexual innuendos. Not that the kindergartners had a clue this conversation had absolutely nothing to do with me, their teacher, Ms. Connor, sliding down that pole in the corner.
Jake was flirting. Something I’d been warned would happen.
I had moved to Bootlick, Kansas, from Harrisonburg, Virginia, exactly a month ago, after landing my first teaching job in the small town. I was the only kindergarten teacher at Earhart Elementary School.
I hadn’t known a soul in town when I pulled up to the rental home I’d found online, every single thing I possessed in my Volkswagen Jetta and the small U-Haul I’d towed halfway across the country. I’d been a late hire, which meant the majority of my things were still in boxes scattered around mostly empty rooms. I’d started work two days after arriving in town and I hadn’t had time to unpack properly or even assemble the new furniture I’d purchased, every spare moment at home spent planning lessons for the next day.
The short time between move and work had actually been a blessing in one regard. Bootlick wasn’t much bigger than a cigar box and it had become apparent, fairly early on, that my best chance of meeting people was at school. The school nurse, Ada, had introduced herself the first day and taken pity on me. She was a born and bred Bootlicker—a name she’d disturbingly given herself—and she had taken me under her wing, filling me in on who was who and what was where.