Hell with him
There was definitely something sensual about the way his lean fingers encircled the Chalk holder before finally picking one.
One hand was perfectly held behind his back as he wrote on the board.
When he turned around, he picked up a textbook and leaned on the table, adding beauty to the damn furniture.
"Now," he spoke again in his crisp British accent, looking up from his textbook to stare directly at me.
Still with the book in his hand, he walked over to my desk, "What's your name?"
I gulped, his voice unnerving me.
When he stood directly in front of me, I almost turned to butter.
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