by RC Boldt
“Now you got me intrigued. Can’t just leave me hangin’.” Before I realize it, I’m trailing my fingertips down her bare arm. “Don’t know the first thing ’bout what?” My voice sounds gravelly to my own ears, and I battle against how aroused this woman gets me.
She stiffens, goose bumps rising along her silky skin, but doesn’t turn to face me. Her chest rises and falls with a deep sigh before she murmurs, “The basics of kissing, if you must know.”
That prim and proper professor-like tone combined with how she inches her chin up with added stubbornness has me biting back a grin. Seems this woman can’t find a man who can satisfy her with a kiss alone.
Damn shame is what that is.
“Maybe you been barkin’ up the wrong tree.”
She huffs out an indignant breath, still facing away. I let my eyes drift over her partial profile and down her body. She’s beautiful, no doubt about it. I can’t say what drives me to do it, but I grasp her hand, tugging it away from where she clasps her other to it. “A woman like you deserves better.”
Olivia turns to peer at me curiously. Her eyes look even bluer with her darker eye shadow, and lust shoots straight through me. Her lips part, but whatever she plans to say is cut off when Rafe pulls to a stop at the entrance for the art fundraiser gala.
She tries to withdraw her hand from mine, but I tighten my hold. “It’s showtime, Professor.”
14
Olivia
Do not react when he touches you.
Do not think of him as a person.
I repeat this internally in hopes that maybe it will sink into my brain.
It doesn’t.
As he guides me through the entrance of the gala, his thumb absently grazes over mine, and the slight touch inflames every inch of my skin.
I notice Chancellor Boman and Dean Harrod off at the far end of the gallery’s first floor, and I’m grateful no other co-workers will be present tonight. I’m riddled with enough nervous anxiety as it is.
“Nico!”
“Ah, there he is. Nico, good to see you!”
Men in well-tailored tuxedos call out to him with welcoming smiles, but even I can detect the calculating nature of their gazes combined with the hint of underlying envy.
“And who might this lovely lady be?”
With each greeting Nico receives, this question tags along behind it. And without fail, the hand he has draped at my waist firms as if he inherently understands my reticence at being on display. As though he recognizes my discomfort and feels the need to soothe me with his words as much as his touch.
With a slightly husky voice possessing barely subdued pride, he peers down at me. His eyes gleam with what appears to be affection each time he announces, “This is my better half, Professor Olivia Wright.”
It’s official: Nico Alcanzar is a chameleon. He dresses the part and schmoozes with these investment bankers, CEOs, educators, and independently wealthy individuals as if it’s his job.
As though it’s ingrained in his DNA, he lays on charm that seems so natural and forthcoming and puts those around him at ease. He converses with these individuals in an utterly flawless manner; his vernacular has even shifted to be more proper around them.
He’s so much more than a rich criminal mind in charge of a drug cartel. Each comment or remark he makes is intelligent and thoughtful.
He surprises me at every turn, and I certainly don’t find myself welcoming it. I prefer knowing facts and having concrete expectations. Yet the psychologist in me thrives on circumstances like this and craves to delve deeper into his psyche.
While I remind myself that Nico needs me alive to get to Santilla, it’s the little things he does that have me feeling as though I’m a human metronome. I’m thrown off-kilter, swinging back and forth from what I thought I knew to what is now my new “norm.”
Nico’s hand lingers at the base of my spine each time he introduces me as his girlfriend. A few instances, when men who’ve overindulged in champagne held my hand a beat too long or laid lingering kisses to the back of my hand in greeting, he tucked me protectively against his side.
When the string quartet begins playing Louis Armstrong’s “What A Wonderful World,” every fiber of my being goes still while my heart wrenches.
Nico interrupts the conversation, startling me. “Excuse us, but I need to dance with my lady.”
Ignoring my surprised look, he leads me to the small designated dance floor a few feet away from the quartet.
My body’s instinctive reaction to his potent masculinity has me stiffening when he draws me close.
“Easy, Professor.” Though he speaks in a low, gravelly voice, his words are sharp with an air of reprimand. “Just dancin’ with my woman.”
His meaning is clear: he needs me to appear relaxed and at ease when he touches me, especially while others are watching.
Holding my hand in his, he settles his other low on my hip, and I force myself to relax. He falls quiet while we sway to the music, and I’m grateful for his silence as my mind shifts from the present.
It’s funny how something as simple as hearing a song or spotting an image in passing can trigger a memory. How it has the power to create such a visceral reaction that it seems like just yesterday you were there at that given moment.
That’s what this song does for me.
The instant I stumbled upon the little music box in an antique store with my mother, I’d been drawn to it. Carvings of birds on either side of a rose had adorned the dark wood of the lid. When I lifted it and turned the crank, I’d become entranced as soon as the first few notes began to play. It was as if I somehow recognized the song even though I couldn’t recall ever hearing it before.
Every time I felt a little lost in life, I’d open the music box, and the song would offer me a sense of peace.
The last place we’d rented in Liverpool had been broken into, and my music box had been one of the items taken. I remember sobbing afterward, wondering why on earth anyone would’ve taken something that had clearly seen better days.
For the longest time, whenever I’d pass by a shop selling antiques or other kitschy items, I’d look inside, my heart in my throat with the hope that I might find it.
When my life went to shreds my first year on that university campus, I’d made myself stop searching for it. It was another cruel life lesson that things you treasure most can be taken from you when you least expect it.
“You okay?”
Nico’s question jars me from my thoughts. But it’s the gentle delivery, in extreme contrast with the fierce frown etched on his features, that has me answering before I realize it.
“The song...it just...” I mash my lips together to cease my inane muttering. “It brings back memories, that’s all.”
Lines bracket his mouth, causing that frown to dip farther. “Good or bad?”
“Good…mostly.”
A flicker of something indecipherable crosses his face, but it’s gone in a flash. “Sometimes, you gotta make good memories to chase away the bad ones.”
So startled by his thoughtful remark, I nearly lose hold of the placid smile for the ever-watchful crowd of people.
“Tell me.”
“What?”
He leans away a fraction. “Tell me ’bout this song. What put that crease”—he moves his hand from my hip to lightly caress the area between my eyebrows—“right here.”
I attempt a noncommittal, “It’s just something from my childhood.”
“Tell me.”
I raise a brow at his demanding tone. “Anyone ever tell you you’re bossy?”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re gorgeous when you’re fired up?”
My breath catches, and I look away.
“Ain’t lyin’ to you.” When I don’t respond, he dips his head closer, grazing my cheek with his lips. “Or I could try my hand at PDA. You never know what—”
“When I was a little girl, I had a music box I loved that played this song.”
Desperation to deter him has me blurting this out. Inwardly cringing, I clear my throat and attempt to remain unemotional. “It was stolen when our house was broken into.”
“Never easy to lose somethin’ special when it’s taken from you with no warnin’.” His gently delivered words have me softening, and I nod. I focus on the quartet and attempt to lose myself in the music.
His voice drops, taking on a huskier tone, yet it’s threaded with frustration. “Don’t know what the hell it is ’bout you. Shouldn’t care. But I do. And I don’t fuckin’ like it when you’re sad, Professor.”
“I’ll get over it.”
“Yeah?” His lips graze the skin near my temple. He mutters something that sounds like, “Well, maybe I won’t,” but it doesn’t make sense. Why on earth would it make a difference to him?
He’s playing me. That’s what this is. It’s a game to him, and I’m simply one of the game pieces he needs in order to win. I need to remember that—keep my head straight.
Nico eases back to peer down at me, tenderly fingering my hair back to tuck it behind my ear. The gesture is far too intimate and has the room closing in on me, overwhelming me at this moment.
“I need to use the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.”
He studies me with distrust swimming in his eyes, as though he doubts that I will, indeed, return. Finally, he nods and steps back, releasing me.
Attempting not to appear as though I’m fleeing him, I force myself to maintain an easy stride in my heels as I go in search of the hall leading to the restrooms…and my soon-to-be haven.
As soon as I push through the door of the small four-stall restroom, I release a breath of relief when I find it empty. Closing myself in a stall, I place my clutch beneath my arm and hike up my gown, quickly relieving myself.
Once I’ve flushed and smoothed down my dress, silence cloaks the room. Before I can move the sliding lock on the stall door and step out, a woman’s whispered voice has me going still.
“Meet tomorrow at the Bayside Coffee Company near your department’s building. Noon. Find the table near the windows with a newspaper on it.”
I slide the lock, but when the door doesn’t budge, I realize the person’s pressing against it, keeping it shut. The only clue I’m allowed is a glimpse of plain black shoes, similar to those the waitstaff wears this evening.
“Count to twenty before you come out, Professor.” The warning is palpable when she adds, “Tell no one and come alone tomorrow, or you won’t be given information. And trust me, you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
Reeling from the encounter, I remain within the stall. After counting to twenty, I step out into the empty bathroom I hadn’t even heard the woman enter or exit.
What kind of information will I be given? And how the hell am I going to carry this out right under Nico’s watch?
After washing and drying my hands, I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror. How did things become so complicated? I was simply going about my business, doing my job.
Drawing in a deep breath, I release it slowly, letting my eyes fall closed. Internally, I repeat the mantra embedded in my mind ever since the year my life imploded.
That which tries to break me will fail.
Tossing the paper towel in the trash, I tug open the door and step out…only to discover someone’s waiting for me.
Hands in his pockets, he stands across from me, appearing nonchalant. But it does nothing to detract from the air of menace surrounding him. “Thought you mighta got lost or somethin’.” His eyes narrow on me suspiciously.
Steeling my spine, I lift my chin and force out clipped words. “I always hold up my end of the bargain.” There’s no masking the irritation in my voice. I resent being treated like a child who can’t visit the bathroom in peace.
Forcing a placid demeanor, I tip my head toward the hallway leading back to the gala. “Ready to join the others?”
Without a word, his fingers encircle my upper arm and he leads me in the opposite direction. I toss him a bewildered look, but he pays me no mind, evidently in search of something.
He bursts into a darkened office, and a couple jumps apart, guilt etching their features.
“Hey! What the—” The man pales when he notices Nico’s dark expression illuminated by the hallway lighting.
“Leave.” Nico’s dangerously lethal tone grants no room for misinterpretation.
As the woman scuttles away from the man, tugging her dress back into place, I notice he wears a wedding band while she does not. The two of them rush out, and Nico immediately closes us inside.
The soft click of the lock reverberates through the silence of the sparsely lit office. Backing me against the door, he cages me in, hands splayed on either side of my head.
His minty breath permeates my senses, as does the scent of his bodywash. Anger glitters in his eyes, his body radiating with tension, and it breeds a hefty dose of wariness that snakes through me.
“You look edgy.” Those eyes bore into mine as if he expects to uncover hidden secrets.
I draw on pure bravado. “Perhaps it’s because you’re in my personal space.”
“Nah. Don’t buy it.” Lifting his hands from the door, he grabs my purse from me and flicks open the clasp. Once he paws through the few items I have inside, then feels around the inner lining of the clutch, he snaps it shut and tosses it onto the desk without a backward glance.
Without waiting so much as a second, he begins skimming his fingers over my ears and down to the front bodice of my dress.
I narrow my eyes, irritation flooding me now. “This again? Really?”
“Can’t be too safe.”
His fingers dip inside the front of my dress briefly, but it’s enough contact to have my breath catching in my throat. He shifts, gliding a palm down the fabric until he encounters the single, thigh-high slit. Delving beneath, he grazes my thighs with calloused fingertips before curving around my ass.
That damn smirk flickers on his lips. “Thong again, huh? Ain’t you just full of surprises.”
Once he straightens, I expect him to ease away from me, but he doesn’t.
On an exasperated huff of breath, I cast him a squinty-eyed stare. “Are you satisfied, now?”
A rough-sounding laugh ekes past his lips. “Nah, Professor. Not by a mile.” He leans in closer, and I tense. “See, you and me? We got an issue.”
Apprehension cloaks me. “What’s that?”
“You’re jumpy. Actin’ like you ain’t used to me touchin’ you.” He dips his head, dusting the tip of his nose against mine. “That just ain’t gonna do. People’ll notice. Word’ll get out that my woman don’t like my hands on her.”
“It’s an adjustment, and I just got thrown into it.” Hurriedly, I tack on, “I’ll work on it.”
“Yeah?” His voice sounds as though it’s been raked over thick gravel. “No time like the present.”
He gently nips my bottom lip, then soothes it with his tongue. Shock renders me frozen on the spot, and I brace my palms flat against the door at my back while a bolt of lust courses through me. I’m caught between wanting more and knowing this could easily be a trap. But I fall prey to his touch, to the sensations he elicits when he dusts his lips over mine in a featherlight caress.
His words, spoken against my mouth, are laden with both want and torment. “I should know better, but somethin’ ’bout you…” He feathers his lips over mine yet still doesn’t demand more. “I wanna taste, Professor. Want it bad. But a smart lady like you probably don’t want a man like me gettin’ a taste. ’Cause you got some sweetness I might get hooked on.” Threading his fingers through my hair, he tugs gently, skimming his mouth along my jawline. “Fuck…you’re a goddamn minx.”
My chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. His words combined with the light caress of his lips have me on edge, physically aching for more. I ache for him to kiss me—to truly kiss me—and not leave me with only the barest touches of his lips to mine. I
crave to discover whether he tastes like the champagne we drank moments earlier.
Even though it’s all wrong—even though he’s all wrong—I yearn for it.
Just a taste, I bargain with myself.
Turning my head to intercept his mouth as it skims along my cheek, I fuse our lips, and as if he anticipated my move, he doesn’t hesitate.
I clutch at his tuxedo jacket, our mouths slanting, tongues seeking in an explosion of want. The kiss is ardent, filled with blazing heat, and I cling to him while he presses his body flush against mine. A strangled moan sounds, and I don’t have the cognizance or care to decipher who it’s from. Especially not when one of his hands dives beneath my dress, thick fingers sweeping over my panties and the heat radiating from my core.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth before taking my lips again.
I should stop him, but his touch renders me powerless. This is singlehandedly the hottest kiss of my life, and even though I know it’s wrong on so many levels, I’m giving in to selfish need. When he traces over my clit through fabric so damp that it clings to my outer lips, I gasp into his mouth.
“Fuck, yes,” he groans, dragging his lips over my jaw before grazing his teeth along the column of my neck. “My professor’s got a needy pussy, don’t she?” He suckles my skin hard before soothing it with his tongue. When he trails kisses along my shoulder, I can’t stifle a tiny moan.
Continuing his torment, he toys with my clit through my panties, sending a surge of desire rippling through me. “You gonna let me dip inside?”
Shit. His dirty talk simultaneously depletes my lungs of oxygen and adds fuel to the already raging fire within me.
Of course, he detects this.
A guttural sound rises from his throat. “Ah, fuck. You like that, huh?” Capturing my mouth in another kiss, he singes me with explosive heat. “You gonna let me get a taste?”
I don’t respond and his finger stills. He raises his head, his eyes searching mine. Where I’d expect to find triumph or arrogant satisfaction holds scorching heat intermixed with a hint of confusion instead. As though he’s just as thrown off-kilter as I am at this odd attraction between us.