Lyla’s POV

I twirl the pen between my fingers, not listening to a single word coming from his lips. Equations scatter across the board, neat, sharp lines from the chalk—God, even his handwriting looks hot. My eyes kept sliding down his chest, the way his shirt pulled slightly when he leaned forward to write on the board.

The veins in his forearm flexed around the chalk, and I felt a rush of heat between my thighs.Gosh, he was so much older, so much more… man than any of the college ...