The Switch

Chapter 11

Greyson

"Newton's first law...object at rest...inertia..."

Ivy's voice drifts through the room as she paces, head down, nose practically buried in my notebook. I lean back against her bedpost, head tilted, and just watch her. Her black-rimmed glasses sit low on her nose and her hair spills over her shoulders in dark waves, catching the dim light. She's standing there in nothing but a bra and a pair of pink lace panties, and my mouth waters as I think about taking them off her, making it fucking impossible to keep my focus.

"Newton's third law..." there's a pause, and she stops pacing, frowning as she rifles through my notes.

"For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction." I call out, smirking.

Her eyes snap up to mine, and she gives me a small, almost shy smile in thanks before she goes back to pacing and mumbling to herself, lost in concentration. She bites down on her lip, flipping through my notes from last year like she's on something, her concentration sharp enough to cut glass.

Any other day, I'd stop her, fuck her, and then promise her a real tutoring session tomorrow. But seeing as I've been doing that all week and her test is tomorrow— and she knows jack shit, I think better of it.

I can tutor her, sure, but when she's dressed the way she's dressed, looking the way she looks, not much gets done.

"This is fucking stupid." She grumbles, pressing her fingers into her forehead.

I laugh to myself, watching her from my spot on her bed. It's kind of hot watching her get this worked up over physics, especially since I'm partly to blame for her lack of focus this week.

I grab one of her bom-boms and toss it into the air, catching it with a flick of my wrist, repeating the motion just to amuse myself. She's too caught up in her frustration to notice, and the urge to pull her on top of me and distract her with my fingers stirs my dick to life, but I know she'd kill me for it tomorrow.

Goody fucking two shoes, stressing over a test that she knows she'll do fine on. Ivy won't let go of the idea of being perfect— being the best. And it's not just her grades. Over the past few weeks, I've started picking up on things, little details I never would've noticed before.

Like her nail polish.

She's got a whole stash of it, lined up by color and shade, each one a depiction of how she's feeling.

"It depends on my mood," Is what she told me when I asked. And it's true. Some weeks, her nails are a bold green— another thing I've noticed; green's her favorite color. Other weeks, they're pink or black, sometimes a mix of both, depending on her mood swings, I guess. This week, they're purple— a deep, almost brooding shade.

It's strange, but it's become my way of checking in, reading her before she says a word. Given the fact that, in public, her expressions are carefully curated and never the real thing, this is my only way of knowing where her head's at before I even get close.

Ever since we started sneaking around, she's been switching it up more and more, letting me in without making it a big deal— subtle shifts that say more than she ever would out loud.

It's a secret code, just for me— and I hate that I've come to rely on it, that I give a fuck about something as stupid as the color of her nails. But here I am, like some pathetic, pussy whipped puppy, analyzing each shade and hating myself a little fucking more for caring.

Hating the fact that I know and remember almost everything I've learned about her. Like how her favorite book is The Picture of Dorian Gray, and that she's obsessed with the movie Halloween, but only the ones with Jamie Lee Curtis. I swear, I see that masked psycho in my sleep now because of her. And then there's the way she turns into a full blown nerd when she starts talking about the psychology of horror, going on and on about what makes people tick, why our brains are wired the way they are. I've even noticed the way her eyes light up in that intense, hyper-focused way they do when she's really into something.