She found the right aisle and made her way down. Ah, here it was.
Quantitative and Analytical Political Science
. Her last official class, not counting her research. She scanned the small printed paper. Her heart stuttered.
Dr. Blake Morris.
She read it again. That couldn’t be right. But oh God, oh God, of course it was him. The professor’s name had been left blank when she registered for the course. It wasn’t unusual. The tenured professors had their preferred courses to teach, but the adjunct staff was juggled around each semester. This was the course they’d hired him to teach. Her class. His specialty was U.S. history! She’d just assumed… Hadn’t he mentioned the Romans…? Oh God. She was so screwed.
Her earlier words to Courtney came back to her in a sick rush.
He’s not
my
professor.
She felt like she was going to throw up all over the shiny textbooks.
In a trance, she paid for the book and stumbled outside to the curb. She stared at the loose gravel on the street, the weeds poking up between the slabs of concrete.
Courtney found her. “Hey, I looked everywhere inside.”
“Sorry.”
Her friend sat beside her. “What’s wrong, sweetie? You’re pale as…well, as I probably am right now. But that’s because my blood alcohol level is still through the roof, most likely.”
Erin forced a small smile. “It’s his class. The one he’s teaching. The one I’m taking.”
She was babbling, but Courtney got the picture. “Shit, are you serious? What are you going to do?”
Well, that was the question. Blake had signed a contract to teach this course. His reputation and professional future depended on him following through. Maybe also his sanity, considering how he’d been cooped up for so long. Not to mention all the students who would be stuck if he backed out.
And she…she needed this class to graduate. Could she put it off, wait another semester?
She hated that she was even considering delaying her graduation. Objectively she knew Blake’s situation was far more weighty and precarious. Her life would be little changed whether she graduated at the end of this summer or after the fall semester instead. But just thinking about it made her burn. She had worked too hard for this. Her mother had worked too damned hard to give her this opportunity.
Besides, she wanted desperately to be on equal footing with Blake. That could only happen once she graduated.
“Nothing,” she finally said. “I’m not going to do anything.”
Courtney stared at her. “But he’ll be your professor. Like, in the same classroom.”
“I know.”
“He’ll be
grading
you, Erin.”
“I know. He’ll do it fairly. He wouldn’t be able to do it any other way.”
Courtney looked dubious. “I think you’re understating the persuasive power of our girl parts, but let’s put that aside for a minute. You don’t think that would be a little…I don’t know, uncomfortable? He’ll be your teacher. Don’t hate me, but it’s kind of a turn-off.”
Erin almost laughed. His position was a massive turn-on for her. They’d role played the parts a few times before. Always playful and teasing, never with any real force behind the scripted words. Even now, she imagined he would look incredibly hot standing up there, lecturing. That was one of the reasons she’d wanted him to practice on her. Except he hadn’t wanted her to see. That was the worst part. He didn’t want her to see that side of him, the real side, for one afternoon, and now she would sit in his classroom every day for six weeks. At least it was only that and not a full semester. She wasn’t sure either of them could survive three months of it.
“Look, I pushed him to do this. He didn’t want to. He did it for me. So now if he backs out and has to deal with the professional backlash, that’ll be my fault. I’ll feel horrible about that, and even if he doesn’t at first, he could wind up resenting me. Hell, he
should
resent me.”
“I’m resenting you a little,” Courtney offered.
“Thanks,” Erin said drily.
“Okay, but what if he just explains that there’s a conflict of interest? Surely they won’t hold it against him if he has a good reason.”
“They’d probably hold him to his contract and drop me from the class. Besides, I can’t embarrass him that way. Everyone would find out. We’ve got to keep it a secret until I graduate. Then they can say whatever they want. So that’s why I
need
to take this class. Sooner rather than later.”
“Oh, sweetheart. I don’t want this to be something you regret. It’s good to be wild and have great sex and all that jazz. Believe me, I know. If it were me, I’d do this in a heartbeat. I’d make dirty jokes all through class. I’d pass him notes and wear my shortest skirts in the front row. But that’s not you.”
No, that wasn’t Erin. She’d had sex in Blake’s university office, just once, and it wasn’t likely to ever happen again. She liked being wild and having great sex and all that jazz, as Courtney had put it, but she preferred it in the privacy of Blake’s home. In that way, they were well matched. He lived like a recluse, and she wanted to seclude herself with him. But the world would intrude and demand its due. And it demanded that he teach this class and she take it. Not a big ask, really. She’d dealt with worse. Hey, it could even be fun. And educational. She’d bet he was a great professor. So thoughtful and enthusiastic—and stern when it was warranted.
Oh God, the thought of him reprimanding her made her hot.
* * *
She was hiding
something. Blake knew it, but he didn’t feel compelled to push her. He’d made dinner. Spaghetti wasn’t a gourmet meal, but it was a step up from takeout or pizza. He’d even dug in the back of his pantry for a bottle of wine. They were enjoying a quiet evening. She would tell him what she needed to when the time was right.
Now more than ever, he knew how much he wanted to keep her. Knew it with a bone-deep certainty. Since his visit to Joe, some of the urgency had faded. That drive to possess her, hold her like she might slip away if she weren’t clenched tightly enough. Here in the sweet current of her company, he saw things with more clarity—with a little more faith in the future.
She took a sip. “This is good. Is it a special wine?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Special how?”
“I don’t know. You seem like the kind of guy who’d know about wines. Labels and wine tastings and stuff.”
He shrugged. “It’s Merlot. My mother is the wine enthusiast, and I mean that in the best and worst way. But that has nothing to do with who I am. I’ll serve Kool-Aid next time if you want it.”
She grinned. “You drink Kool-Aid?”
“What, everyone likes Kool-Aid. It’s a childhood staple.”
“Oh my God, you must have been an
adorable
kid. I can see it. Little Blake wearing his leading strings and suspenders.”
He snorted. “Exactly how old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know…but old.” She blinked innocently. “Like thirty?”
He threw the crust of his breadstick at her.
She ducked, laughing. “Thirty-one?”
Hiding his grin beneath a scowl, he rounded the table. “I may be ancient, but I’m still strong enough to deal with a mouthy little girl.”
“Feeling spry, are you?”
“That’s it.” He lifted her bodily from the chair and carried her into the living room. He didn’t let up even when he tossed her onto the couch. He followed her down and—he felt this was the only logical rebuttal of her accusations—tickled her until she was breathless and panting in his arms. Exactly as he liked her, laughing and so fucking perfect it made his heart hurt.
He pulled back slightly, feeling oddly reticent, like he couldn’t let himself reach too far. Which was crazy, because this was Erin. His Erin, his girl.
Her smile faded. She put a hand to his cheek, stroking gently. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. Sorry.”
“Don’t keep it from me, whatever it is. Remember? Every part of you and every part of me.”
She looked up at him in the dim light spilling over from the dining room. Her dark golden hair framed her face against the brown leather of the couch. He wished her eyes weren’t so wide, her lips weren’t so full. He wished he could turn away.
Instead he stared back, his mind racing with words like
steadfast
and
loyal
and
kind
. With
lovely
. He understood it now. So much more than how she looked or talked, though that was part of it.
Every part of her
, and he wanted to drown himself in every sweet, doleful inch.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said thickly, because it was all he could say.
Something flickered in her eyes. Wariness. Guilt? What was she keeping from him?
But she kissed him, pressed those lush lips to his, and he let her. Let her slip the invisible blindfold over his eyes and let her, let her, because he trusted her. Even if it made him an idiot, he needed to trust in that dark place where he’d been beaten and burned and come out stronger this time.
She tasted faintly of wine, rich and velvety. He recognized notes of chocolate and red fruit, because he was exactly as stuffy as she’d thought he was. He’d only had Kool-Aid on the occasions he’d gone to friends’ houses, but that was all in the past. From before. He hadn’t died in that godforsaken bunker, but he’d been reborn. He was a different man now, a better one.
He slipped his hand behind her neck, reveling in the silky strands between his fingers, in the delicate nape cradled in his palm. He felt suffused with her softness, bruised and beaten by it. How could she accept him so fully? But she did. She pressed her cheek against him, right where he was most mangled. Her skin was cool, soothing him. Marking him, like he wanted to do for her.
He stood up, leaving her sprawled and languid on the sofa. The purple dress she wore hugged her curves and rode up her thighs—it had to go. He pulled it off her, careful not to tug her hair and not letting her up either. Her bra and panties went next so that she lay on the soft, cool leather wearing only her black heels.
If he could paint her like this, he would. Make her stay in this position for hours while he stood behind the shield of an easel, capturing a part of her for himself. Instead he could only look at her, burning the memory into his brain. But hell, already he’d never forget. He knew every color of her skin, from the pink of her nipples to the pale porcelain of her belly. The tanned slope of her shoulder and the golden hairs behind her neck. He had catalogued her like the most diligent of researchers, leaving little notes scribbled in the margins.
Here she’s sensitive but she likes to be licked. And there, God, she can come right there.
A brief squeeze of her wrist told her to stay. He retrieved a glass of wine from the dining table.
Is it a special wine?
she’d asked, and yes it was. He would never again be able to taste it without tasting her too.
He dipped his forefinger in the drink and touched her nipple, allowing the deep red liquid to coat her puckered skin. He’d meant to paint her all over first, but impatient lust had him mouthing her breast, swirling his tongue around the tip, and sucking on her. The other one was delicious as well, the dry, spiced wine contrasting with the sweet, fresh flavor of her.
Her eyes were hazy with arousal. Her legs had fallen open in sumptuous abandon.
Take me
, they said, and fuck yes, he was going to. He tipped the glass and poured a small puddle onto her belly. Muscles quivered beneath his lips as he lapped it up, dipping his tongue into her belly button.
Her legs were spread wide now, one of her feet on the floor, the other inching up the back of the couch. She was asking him to touch her, begging him with her body. He set the wineglass on the coffee table.
She groaned. “Please, Blake.”
Jesus. He loved the sound of her, everything she said, everything she didn’t say.
“Shh,” he soothed.
He loved to make her come, but she was burning up now. On the edge. He could bring her higher, but only with patience. He tucked a throw pillow under her head before shedding his clothes. She watched from beneath gilt-tipped lashes, a small, appreciative smile on her face.
Leaning over the couch, he aimed his cock at her mouth. She opened for him obediently, her dark gaze flicking up to him. The wet heat, the searing lust in her eyes, was like a vise to his balls, wrapping them up so tight he almost came right then. He shut his eyes and forced it back.
Not yet.
Her tongue swirled around the head of his cock. Her mouth had always been amazing, but it was more poignant now that she had knowledge of his body. He hadn’t been the only one taking notes. She slid her tongue along the slit, and stars bloomed behind his eyelids. She scraped the underside with the flat of her tongue, and he groaned, long and low.
“Fuck, baby. Fuck.”
She sucked him eagerly, pulling him in, and his hips moved forward of their own accord. He found his way inside with small, nudging thrusts, tunneling his way into the incredible warmth. It wasn’t enough. She was still tugging on him, her suction a small, feminine plea.
He raised an eyebrow. “You want more?”
With her lips wrapped around his cock, she nodded.
He tapped her cheek. “I’m not sure there’s room in your sweet mouth.”
She moaned in entreaty.
Shifting his stance over the couch, he pushed in farther, using more control now that he was going deep. Her eyes widened, but he kept going. Kept filling her until he felt the resistance at the back of her throat. He heard her deep breaths, the evidence of her focus. He moved to pull out, but she grasped the back of his thighs, her palms slippery from her perspiration and his. He rocked himself right there, holding the position far inside, his eyes rolling back at the sensation along his dick. Sparks of pleasure ran down his spine and into the base of his cock, but he wrenched himself away from her wet heat.
Now.
She was limp in his arms as he lifted her. He settled her over the arm of the couch so that her hands and face could rest on the seat cushion and her ass was exposed to him. She had less control this way, so when he touched two fingers to her swollen pussy, she cried out but didn’t move. Could hardly push back against him at all, her toes digging into the plush carpet beneath them. The sight of her was breathtaking—glistening folds all open for him. Plump and wet and ready for him.