Had he not been a lunatic, she could have easily enjoyed every second of this. He thought, she was so perfect. Her skin was something that any southe...n belle would have killed for. A fresh creamy alabaster, with a smattering of freckles on the tops of her shoulders and the bridge of her nose. She was five foot and seven inches and most of it was leg. His first thought when he saw her, was that she would be the perfect porcelain doll. Flaming red, riotous curls, gentle sea-blue eyes. Her mouth. I could hear his velvety voice, but the image I was seeing was one I was sure was in my head. Instead of listening to him rave about his favorite poet, John Ashbury, he and I had escaped to his office. This imaginary office had a large dark wooden desk, where he sat in the same outfit from before. He had a hand on his chin, a stern expression on his face. “Do you know why I called you, Miss Nicholson?” he asked. I shook my head. “No, sir.” “I noticed you weren't paying attention in class. More

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