Wicked Games: A Forbidden Romance

by T. K. Leigh

  “The owner of the bakery argued the anti-discrimination law violated his First Amendment rights,” I say without raising my hand.

  Lincoln shoots his eyes to mine, as does everyone else, considering I’ve yet to speak in class.

  “More specifically, the Free Exercise Clause. He claimed the state overreached in commanding him to make a cake for a wedding he objected to on religious grounds.”

  “Thank you, Miss Davenport. Should I assume you’re Mr. Campbell’s mouthpiece now?”

  “I suppose that’s better than the other way around.” I pinch my lips into a tight line, crossing my legs.

  Lincoln scowls, an unspoken warning in his eyes, before he shifts his attention back to Owen. “Now, Mr. Campbell, what did the court decide?”

  I don’t even give Owen a chance to respond before answering. “They sided with the asshole baker. But not on the bigger issue of the intersection of using the First Amendment as a defense to an anti-discrimination statute, but because they believed the commission exhibited hostility toward the baker’s religious beliefs in its decision.”

  “Thank you for that rather astute analysis, Mr. Campbell,” he barks out in a condescending tone. “As you so succinctly put it in a voice that’s much more feminine than your normal one, the court never decided the issue of the intersection of anti-discrimination statutes and the Free Exercise Clause. So why would I require you to read this?”

  “To demonstrate the lack of balls the court exhibited,” I quip sarcastically.

  “Lack of…balls?” Lincoln repeats. Several of the other girls in class giggle at his statement.

  “Exactly.”

  He folds his arms in front of his chest, widening his stance, turning his attention fully to me. My pulse increases as I focus on his biceps, the flexing muscles stretching the material of his suit jacket. I push down the memory of having those arms wrapped around me, how it felt to be enclosed within them.

  “And if you were on the court, what would you have decided, Miss Davenport?”

  All eyes in the room shift toward me. Most every other student would probably say something well-thought-out and educated, based purely on legal precedent. But that’s not me. I’ve always been much more emotionally driven.

  “That the baker shouldn’t be permitted to not serve a customer just because of his bigoted view, which he shrouded in religion. I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure Jesus would be pissed. Or God. Or whomever makes the rules.”

  The corners of his lips curve up. “So you wouldn’t afford him his constitutional right to the free exercise of religion?”

  “Where would it end?” I counter, everyone’s attention shooting back to me. “Should we allow restaurant owners the ability to refuse service to gay couples, too?”

  Lincoln grins. I thought he’d be upset by my persistence. Maybe he was at first. But now I can’t help but feel he’s getting some kind of satisfaction out of me arguing with him like this.

  “Then let’s take the anti-discrimination law out of it. Let’s just look at this from a First Amendment standpoint. Should a state be able to force a citizen to create art for someone else? Regardless of whether they’re straight, gay, black, white, woman, man. Take away all the complications here. Shouldn’t people who create have the right to decide which commissions to take?”

  I smirk. “So baking a cake is a protected form of speech now?”

  “Art is considered speech. Just a different form.”

  “But where does it end?” I say once more. “Going back to my example from before. A chef could consider plating his entrees art. Does he get to deny people service?”

  “That’s not the same thing. Those entrees, although pleasing to the eye, aren’t created for their aesthetic qualities.”

  “And a cake is?” I arch a brow.

  He shrugs. “While I’ve never been married myself, I have plenty of friends who have. Choosing the wedding cake is one of the most important items on their to-do list. They go over designs for what seems like days. Hell, some of these people aren’t even called bakers or pastry chefs, but cake artists. These cakes can take days to finish. If we were discussing a simple sheet cake with a layer of plain frosting, like one you’d buy at a local grocery store, I’d be inclined to agree with you. But that’s not a wedding cake. At least no woman I know would ever stand for something so ordinary and trivial. You may not like it, but these distinctions are important. These lines are important.”

  “Of course,” I shoot back, my voice growing louder and increasingly annoyed. “I understand how important it is to have clearly drawn lines.”

  My words come out biting, causing Lincoln’s eyes to darken and narrow on me in a look of warning. I should stop right now. Get back on track and apologize for my outburst, make up some story about having a gay friend who should be able to have the wedding cake of his dreams. But I don’t. All the heartache at having to sit in Lincoln’s presence for weeks and not be able to touch him, feel him, kiss him has come to a head. Add in the knowledge that he’s been seeing someone else, and I’ve lost the ability to give a shit about keeping my mouth shut.

  “I’m sure your anal-retentive nature needs the ability to put everything into boxes. Boss. Employee. Male. Female. Rich. Poor. Teacher. Student.” I pause briefly, noticing Lincoln shift uncomfortably, the cords in his neck straining, his fists clenching. When I continue, my voice becomes increasingly agitated with each word. “No gray area. No crossover. No risk. But lines sometimes get blurred. Sometimes those blurred lines are okay because you finally feel something so perfect and beautiful and you just want to tell society to fuck off and let us be together.”

  My voice rings out as shocked gasps fill the space. Lincoln’s posture stiffens as he gives me a death glare. It’s not until I see his reaction I realize exactly what I’ve said in front of a class of several dozen journalism students who love nothing more than a juicy story.

  “Them,” I correct softly, my tone wavering. “Let them be together.”

  His jaw twitches as his lips curl almost into a snarl, his stare cold and vindictive.

  “Class is dismissed. Miss Davenport, my office. Now.”

  Without another word, he collects his things and storms out of the room, leaving everyone in stunned silence. Including me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The walk from the classroom to the faculty corridor seems to be miles instead of the dozen or so yards it is. I can’t help but feel like a condemned prisoner heading to the gallows. Hell, I can practically hear the warden yelling “Dead man walking” in the recesses of my mind.

  I almost turn around countless times, deciding it isn’t worth it, that I should withdraw. But my father’s biting comments and my drive to prove him wrong push me forward.

  With my head held high, I steel my resolve, about to knock on Lincoln’s door when it swings wide, my executioner standing before me, his anger having only increased in the past several minutes.

  Oh shit.

  He yanks me inside, closing the door behind me. I barely have a minute to catch my breath before he leans toward me.

  “What the fuck was that?” he seethes, the vein in his neck engorged. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

  He paces, tugging at his dark hair, more frazzled than I’ve seen him before. A part of me wanted this reaction, wanted to see this passion, this intensity, this humanity, instead of the unfeeling, unaffected human who’s been standing in front of the class for weeks, doing everything to ignore me, to pretend he never met me.

  “What were you thinking?” He stops, turning toward me, his voice choked. “I promised I’d keep whatever we had a secret. For you.”

  I blow out a laugh. “Right. For me. Not because you didn’t want a certain someone to find out about us.” I roll my eyes, allowing my heavy bag to fall to the floor with a loud thump.

  He advances on me, his expression flashing with rage, jaw tense, lips achingly close. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
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  “Exactly what I said.” I step back, increasing the distance between us, my mouth formed into a tight line. “Did you not think I’d find out?”

  “Find out what?”

  I place my hands on my hips. “About you and Professor Gordon,” I hiss. “Why did you beg me to give you a chance when you were already getting a piece of ass? Or is this part of your game?” With every word, my voice becomes more strained, the hurt that he was never serious about me causing my fists to clench, my body to quake with anger. “See how many women you can get to fawn over you as some boost to your fragile male ego?”

  I fight back the tears threatening to fall, hating that this man has brought out these kinds of emotions in me. I’ve often prided myself on not allowing anyone to get to me. But Lincoln has. It makes me despise him even more.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh please… Don’t play dumb now. It doesn’t suit you, Professor.”

  “I’m not playing dumb. I… You think I’m dating Tess? I mean, Professor Gordon?”

  “Not just me. The entire student body of the journalism department claims you guys are an item. Apparently, it’s common knowledge.”

  “And what makes them say that? Because I agreed to talk to her students about defamation one day?”

  I shrug, not answering. The truth is, I’m not sure of the details, didn’t stop to verify any information, not like I normally would, the shock of it rendering me momentarily incapable of doing so. Stealing a glimpse at his face, I study his features, searching for any sign he’s playing me. But all I see is genuine confusion.

  “Or maybe because I’ve been seen having dinner with her on occasion, considering she often reaches out to the Times for help with FOI filings when they affect matters of national importance.”

  Lowering my head, I pull my lips between my teeth, my confidence waning with every reasonable explanation he gives.

  “Or maybe it’s because I genuinely like her as a person and can trust her, so when we’re seen having lunch together before class, it must be a precursor to something more. Because certainly men and women can’t be friends. One must be interested in the other. Is that right?”

  I shake off my indecision, turning my resolute gaze back to him. He can come up with different explanations all he wants. After all, he is a lawyer. That’s probably one of the first things you learn in law school. How to bullshit. But he can’t fool me.

  “You haven’t denied it.”

  When he steps toward me, his green eyes darken as he studies my face, taking his time to appreciate the curve of my cheeks, the heart-like shape of my lips, the fire in my stare. The heat radiating from him is reminiscent of our first night together. When he came into my room and looked upon me with so much hunger, wanting the night to last an eternity for fear that what we had would vanish the instant the lights came back on.

  “Chloe…”

  The way my name rolls off his tongue makes it sound like a prayer. A benediction. A supplication. I’ve missed the intonation when he says my name. My real name. I’m so tired of having to be Miss Davenport around him. Of him having to be Professor Moore. There have never been two lines I wanted to blur more than those.

  “How can I date someone when I’m still hung up on the last woman in my life?”

  I release a tiny exhale of air, blinking repeatedly, taken aback by his admission. “And who’s that?” I barely manage to squeak out.

  “This incredible woman I’ve been unable to stop thinking about since the moment I laid eyes on her when she was stuck at a bachelorette party in Vegas, where she was obviously miserable.”

  “Sounds like a smart woman,” I retort, my tone lightening. In the blink of an eye, Lincoln’s able to shift my outrage into something else, something much more electrifying. “Bachelorette parties are akin to torture.”

  “Then you’d probably like this woman. I know I did from the instant she finally spoke and told me off because she thought I was trying to hit on her.”

  “But you weren’t?”

  “No,” he answers smoothly, then quickly corrects himself. “Well, I mean, in a way, I suppose. I don’t know. But something drew me to help this stunning woman when some drunk guy, who thought she was a prostitute, wouldn’t leave her alone. Regardless of whether I was lucky enough to find out her name, I needed to go to her, to remind her there are decent people in the world.” He leans toward me and cups my cheeks in his hands. “That there are people who think the world of her, regardless of what others have led her to believe.”

  As I relish in the heat of his rough skin on mine, I whimper, not wanting this moment to come to an end before it has a chance to begin.

  “That I think the world of her, regardless of what my behavior has led her to believe.”

  All sense of where we are, who we are, flees from my mind at his captivating words, and I grab the back of his neck, forcing him to erase that final bit of space between us. The instant his lips press against mine, sparks shoot through me. Every inch of me floods with warmth, with desire, with need, our bodies molding together as we greedily reignite this connection we’ve done everything to pretend never existed.

  I swipe my tongue along the seam of his mouth, begging to taste what I’ve been deprived of for too long. With a growl, Lincoln deepens the kiss, enclosing me in his firm body.

  His hands move to my hips and he lifts me with ease, forcing my legs around his waist. Losing myself in him, I remain oblivious to how wrong this is. In this beautiful moment, nothing else matters. That he’s my professor. That I’m his student. That we’ve just eviscerated any line we had drawn. But the truth remains. There is no line. Not when it comes to Lincoln. Not when nothing else has ever felt so fucking right.

  A man obsessed, he deposits me on the desk, sending neatly stacked files and papers to the floor. Tearing his lips from mine with a heady groan, he trails a hot path along my jawline, sucking and biting on my neck. The scruff of his trim beard is jarring and bruising, yet so wanted, making me feel more alive than I have in weeks.

  “I could never forget you,” he assures me, his voice laden with desire. “You’re all I’ve been able to think about, Chloe. Every time I walk into class and see how incredible you look, all I can focus on is getting you alone again. Of feeling you again.”

  “Then feel me.”

  Pulsing against him, I reach for his pants, unbuckling his belt, desperate for him. As I’m about to lower his zipper, he grabs my wrist, stopping me. My eyes dart up, meeting his. I brace myself for him to tell me this is a mistake, that he lost his head. But he doesn’t. Instead, he brings his lips to mine, feathering soft kisses.

  “I don’t have a condom.” He chuckles, the deep rumble electrifying. “I don’t exactly make a habit out of bringing girls back to my office for this sort of thing.”

  “I don’t care,” I breathe. “Let me feel you.”

  His mouth slams against mine once more as he squeezes my thigh, the pressure leaving no question there will be a mark. And just like our first night together, I’m confident that’s exactly what he wants. That every time I look at my body and see the bruises on my thighs and bite marks on my neck, I’ll be reminded of who put them there, who marked me, who branded me as his.

  “I’m yours,” I exhale, giving him the confirmation I know he needs.

  “Mine,” he snarls, an animal in heat.

  “Yours. Always.”

  “Mine,” he says again, this time softer, more heartfelt.

  His hand moves up my leg, disappearing under my dress. When he pushes the skirt up around my waist, I meet his eyes. A devilish glint appears within as he hooks his fingers into the band of my panties…ones he bought for me. With quick movements, he lowers them down my legs before shoving them into his pocket.

  “And those are mine, too.” He kisses me, starved and greedy.

  “Yes. Yours.”

  His teeth clamp onto my bottom lip, the pain dueling with the pleasure of what’s to com
e. Then he leans back, his eyes locking on mine. He runs his hand along my collarbone, traveling between the valley of my breasts, down my stomach, coming to a stop just shy of that place I’m desperate to have him touch, explore, command.

  I should feel cheap and dirty, considering he has me on his desk, legs spread, leaving me exposed to his fully clothed body, but I don’t. I just want Lincoln. Any way I can get him.

  He brings himself out of his pants, raising his arousal to me. My pulse skyrockets and I hold my breath, bracing to experience him with no barrier. He looks at me, an unspoken question in his tender gaze. I nod.

  His pupils dilate, about to drive inside, when a knocking rips through the space. “Linc? It’s Tess.”

  Every muscle in his body grow taut, all the color draining from his face. “Shit.”

  Eyes that overflowed with primal heat mere seconds ago widen, filling with remorse and disgust. In a heartbeat, the Lincoln I met in Vegas is gone, transforming into the Lincoln I saw the first time I stepped foot in his classroom. Into Professor Moore.

  “Just a minute,” he calls out, his voice trembling with anxiety as he hurriedly shoves himself back into his pants, readjusting his suit.

  “I heard you ended class early.” There’s a pause before she speaks again, her voice lower. “That you got into it with Chloe Davenport. I wanted to make sure everything’s okay.”

  “I’m in the middle of a phone call,” he replies as he practically throws me off the desk, pushing my skirt down to hide any hint of impropriety. When I remain in place, shocked from the sudden shift in demeanor, he grabs my bag and thrusts it at me.

  I blink repeatedly, feeling like an errant child who was caught with her hand in the cookie jar when she knows it’s off-limits.

  Like I know Lincoln’s supposed to be off-limits.