“Well, I’m offended you think I’m that ignorant.” I tug at the hem of my shorts. “No worries, Mr. Marceaux. Thoughts of love haven’t even crossed my mind.”
He stares at the pond. “I know you’re not ignorant, Ivory. It’s just…”
With a hand resting against his mouth, he bends against his knees and watches the ducks preen and splash in the water. But he’s not really watching, not with his gaze turned inward and his expression morphing with whatever he’s thinking about.
Why would he even mention love? If his mind went there, does that mean he’s feeling something? It was a good kiss. For the love of God, it was a kiss I’ll remember for the rest of my life, one I’ll compare all future kisses against. But love? What does he even know about that?
I glance over at him, and something clicks painfully in my mind. “You loved her, didn’t you? That teacher in Shreveport? Joanne?”
Please say no.
He drops his hands, holding them between his knees, forearms braced on his thighs, as he stares at the ground.
“I still love her.” He meets my eyes. “As much as I hate her.”
Jealousy fires ignorantly through my insides, surging like bile in my throat. I would love to be loved, even if it comes with hatred. It’s better than nothing at all. “Will you tell me what happened?”
He reclines and rests an arm along the back of the bench. “I value the honesty between us.” His hand sifts through the ends of my hair. “I don’t want that to end.”
My heart squeezes at the thought of anything ending between us, but I’ll never lie to him. At least, not about the stuff that won’t get me expelled.
“We were together four years.” His fingers move through my hair, softly, hypnotically. “With Shreveport’s non-fraternization policy, our relationship was a secret. We owned separate houses, but lived together in one. Drove separately to school. Kept our interactions professional at work. Until…”
He doesn’t have to finish that sentence. I’m consumed with images of her mouth gagged with his tie, wrists bound by his belt, and her body bent as he fucked her on a desk. Is she a better musician than me? Smarter? Prettier? Did he tell her she’s so fucking beautiful, too? I ball my hands into fists. The sexual positions don’t affect me nearly as much as the idea of him doing those things with someone else.
With one hand in my hair, he scoots closer and places the other over my fists, prying them open. “We were just playing out a fantasy. Having a little fun after hours.”
“Then what happened? How did you lose—? Shit, did she set you up?”
His fingers twitch against mine. “No. But getting caught like that put her in a precarious position. She could admit she violated the non-fraternization policy, that she was willingly tied up, and lose her job in a shroud of shame that would follow her everywhere. Or she could call it what it looked like. Bound and gagged and raped. Either way, I was getting fired.”
Rape. I turn that word over in my head, examining it from all angles. I think I experience it sometimes, but I never know what to do about it. A girl can say she was forced. A man can claim she wanted it. The police decide who’s telling the truth, and if they side with the man? He will retaliate against the girl.
But it doesn’t sound like Mr. Marceaux struck back.
A crazy surge of protectiveness—for him—buzzes through me. “You could’ve defended yourself. Told them about your relationship. Proved you were living together. At the very least, she would’ve lost her job and you wouldn’t have been charged with forcing her.”
“The rape charges didn’t stick. The stigma did, but I don’t give a shit about that. There are a million things I could’ve done to ruin her job. Things I can still do.”
“But you love her.” Oh God, why does my heart hurt so badly?
His expression darkens with a deep scowl. “And she loves her career.” He pulls his hands away and sits forward on the bench, his profile etched in pain. “She’s Head of School at Shreveport now.”
What a bitch. “I’m sorry, but she sounds awful. How can you possibly love her?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Sometimes you love people you shouldn’t, and in the endless space of that love, nothing else matters.” When he lifts his head, his entire demeanor changes. The man in the waistcoat and tie returns with a fortified jaw and hard eyes as he rises and clasps his hands behind his back. “No more touching and kissing, Miss Westbrook. I’m your teacher, your mentor, and nothing more.”
I jump to my feet. “I would never do that to you. I can’t even fathom ruining your career.”
He laughs, but it sounds more like a snarl. “If we were caught doing something inappropriate, you would have to choose between my career and your education, between a man you’ve known for a week and a dream you’ve chased for three years. What choice would you make?”
Leopold shoves itself into my mind, but I fight it back, refusing to admit it. “We’ll be careful.”
“Exactly. Go home.” He thrusts his finger in the direction of my house.
I glance over my shoulder. If it weren’t for the trees, I’d be able to see my house from here. How does he know where I live? The address in my file?
When I look back, he’s walking away, hands tucked in his front pockets and head down. A bleeding, miserable kind of longing cleaves through my chest. He’s done.
I grab the uneaten sandwich from the bench and trudge along the track toward my house, each step heavier and harder to take. Maybe I don’t have to obey him this time? Maybe this is one of those rules that are meant to be broken?
Spinning around, I race after him. He pauses at the clapping sound of my ballet flats, his broad shoulders tightening the t-shirt. But he doesn’t turn.
I circle the towering pillar of his body, and holy hell, he’s so tall and dark and beautiful. And angry. Deep lines fan from the corners of his icy eyes, his lips a slash of displeasure, and the cords in his neck stretched beneath whiskered skin.
Bolstering my spine, I step up to him and wrap my arms around his waist. Every solid inch I touch flexes with muscle.
He holds his hands in his pockets, his chest lifting with a deep breath. “You’re disobeying me.”
I press my cheek against the ledge of his pecs. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
“I will hurt you.”
“Okay.”
His hands grip my shoulders, forcing me back a step, but he doesn’t let go. He bends his knees, putting his eyes at the same level as mine. “Tell me who hurt you, and I’ll give you anything you want.”
My pulse hammers, and my molars crash together. Did he plan this? Did he touch and kiss me until my head spun, only to take it all back so he could dangle it as an incentive to talk?
I back up, shifting out of arm’s reach and shaking my head.
His face tightens, and my stomach caves in. I hate disappointing him.
With a hand on his hip and the other pointing toward my house, he stares at the ground.
Good, because I hate his eyes. And I adore them, too. Especially when he touches me and tells me I’m beautiful. And now, he’s punishing me by refusing to look at me.
In a fog of shame, I hug the sandwich to my chest and drag my feet home. As I walk, I sneak peeks over my shoulder. He doesn’t move. I can’t see his eyes, but I know they’re following me, watching me, protecting me.
Whatever this is, however inappropriate and risky, he doesn’t want it to end. Spending four private hours a day together for the rest of the year, it’s only going to become more. More punishments, more music, more Mr. Marceaux. I don’t care what he says. This isn’t over.
Emeric
“It’s over.” I slam the beer bottle down harder than I intended and cringe at the cracking sound on Mom’s glass table. Shit. I rub a finger over the chip and glance at her apologetically. “Sorry, Mom.”
“I don’t care about the damn table. I’m concerned about you.” She corks a wine bottle
on the back counter and crosses the kitchen to sit beside me, a glass of red cupped in her hand. Setting it on the table, she twists the stem and gathers her words. “I know you’ve been unhappy for a while, but this is different. You’ve been a hot-tempered, sulky pain-in-the-ass for the past few weeks.”
Five weeks, to be exact.
Five weeks since I kissed Ivory. Since I felt her skin beneath my hands. Since I punished her the way we both need. Five agonizing weeks since I sent her home in the park with regret overrunning my nervous system.
“Honey.” She places her hand on my forearm and gives it a firm squeeze. “Does Joanne know it’s over?”
Joanne is still texting me, but her messages go unanswered. I know what she wants, she knows what I want, and neither of us is willing to compromise.
“She still stubbornly refuses to accept my terms.” I shove a hand through the overlong strands touching my forehead. Christ, I need a haircut. “This has nothing to do with her.”
“Oh.” Mom’s persistent blue eyes roam my face, searching for answers. “This isn’t about your car, is it?”
“No, I got the car back yesterday.”
Though that put me in one helluva mood. After watching Ivory walk away, I made my way back to the parking lot, and the GTO was gone. Stolen. Fucking jacked. I had to call Deb to take me to the police station. When she dropped me off at home, I stood on the doorstep, vibrating with turmoil as I told her, No, I’m not going to fuck you. I should’ve been nicer to her for helping me—with the ride and with Beverly Rivard’s husband—but I was too fucking distraught to let her in.
The GTO wasn’t the only thing I lost in the park that day.
The cops recovered my car, the interior gutted and body stripped. It took weeks to bring it back to mint condition.
But Ivory… My hand clenches around the bottle. I’m making every effort I can to ensure the thing between us isn’t recovered. The attraction remains, stronger than ever, burning like a red-hot ember. It sizzles to be stoked when I sit beside her on the piano bench, hisses with sparks when I slap her wrists for missing a note, and crackles and pops every damn time our eyes connect.
Our first week together moved so fucking fast my nerves are still running wild with hunger. If I hadn’t pulled back, she would be in my bed right now, her seventeen-year-young body bowing and flushing beneath my belt and her huge adoring eyes begging me for things I’m unable to give her. Leopold. An open, lawful relationship. My heart…
She’s too young to separate sex and love, and I’ve lost interest in anything beyond physical pleasure.
Once you have what you want, her distrust in men will be irreparable.
Mom watches me in that intuitive way she does, her soft expression framed by black hair that curls above her shoulders. She reaches up to pinch the ends of a loose lock, brushing the tuft back and forth along her jaw as she studies me. I chug the beer and pretend to ignore her.
She drops her hand and tilts her head. “You met someone.”
Here we go. “No, I—”
“Emeric Michael Marceaux, don’t you lie to your mother.”
I stand and move to the counter, leaning against it and balancing the bottle on the ledge. “Not talking about this with you, Mom.”
I want to, but voicing it makes it real.
Footsteps approach the kitchen doorway.
“Not talking about what?” Dad wanders in, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, his face buried in his phone.
“Emeric met someone.” She smiles over the rim of her wine glass, eyes locked on me.
Without looking up from his phone, he walks past her and glides his fingers along the back of her neck. “Let’s hope she’s better than the last one.”
Better? Joanne is reality. Ivory’s an intoxicating dream, the kind that visits a man at night, veiled by the darkness of dusk and safely pursued in the secret corners of the mind. But in daylight, she’s a dangerous fantasy, tempting a man to do things with his eyes wide open.
“Who is she?” Mom sips her wine.
“She’s off-limits,” I say quickly and turn to Dad. “How’s that new physician you hired at the clinic?”
“He’s…fine.” Reservation deepens his voice.
Of course, he knows I’m evading.
He pockets the phone and lowers into the chair across the round table from Mom. “Is this woman married?”
I shake my head and direct my eyes to my Doc Martens.
It’s Saturday night. I’m supposed to be in a French Quarter hotel room, trussing up Chloe’s huge tits, flogging Deb’s ass, and reeking of sex. But the moment I climbed into the GTO, my mind drifted to Ivory. My subconscious took hold of the wheel and a few minutes later, I was sitting in the driveway of my parents’ estate in the Garden District.
Because I need to talk about this. If there’s anyone in this world I trust enough with this conversation, they’re in this room. They know about the deal I made with Beverly, as well as every dirty detail of my relationship with Joanne. Not once have they judged me. Hell, they hired the team of lawyers that convinced Joanne to drop the rape charge.
“Is she…?” The question in Mom’s tone pitches with alarm. And realization. “Oh no, Emeric.”
Before Mom climbed the ranks to Provost of Leopold, she was a high school teacher. When I was younger, Mrs. Laura Marceaux was too pretty for my comfort, with her gaggle of teenage admirers, including the guys I ran around with. Even in her fifties, she still turns heads with her youthful face, warm smile, and gentle eyes.
Those eyes bore into me now, wide and unblinking, because she knows exactly what I’m not saying.
I pivot toward the counter and brace my arms on the granite surface, my shoulders slumping with the weight of my words. “It’s over.”
“What, exactly, is over?” Her voice floats behind me, full of concern.
“Sit down,” Dad says with less tenderness.
I finish my beer, grab another, and sit in the chair between them. “She’s a senior at Le Moyne.” I let that settle on the table before continuing. “When she walked into my classroom on the first day…swear to God, I thought she was a teacher.” I rub a hand down my face and swallow another swig of hops. “She doesn’t look like a high school student.”
Mom reaches across the table and rests her hand on my wrist.
They don’t interrupt as I explain Ivory’s financial situation, musical talent, my suspicions of abuse, my visit with Stogie, and her desire to attend Leopold. They share anxious looks when I mention the kiss in the park and the past five weeks of hell. I even admit to driving the streets after her private lessons, trying to track her path to the bus stop. But she never takes the same route, and most often, I don’t spot her at all.
I wrestle with the urge to leave out the most implicating part, but my need for full disclosure wins. “I spanked her. In the classroom.”
Their faces pale, but neither asks if it was consensual. Their trust in me is infinite, which makes the final piece easier to spit out.
“I was caught with her in my lap afterward. By a colleague.” Fucking Shreveport all over again. “I blackmailed the teacher.”
Mom reaches for her wine and finishes it off.
When I meet Dad’s eyes, he sits back, removes his glasses, and cleans them with the folds of his shirt. “Blackmail how?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Well.” Mom stands and walks to the counter to refill her glass. “You certainly know how to test the limits of social acceptance, but I know where you get it from.” She returns to the table, her eyes glimmering at Dad. “Your father loves to spank—”
“Mom,” I groan. “Don’t make this more awkward.”
She lowers into the chair, her expression sobering. “You said she’s a gifted pianist? Is she more deserving of Leopold than the one you want me to push through?”
Though retired, Mom still flies out to New York once a month for board meetings. Even after everything I to
ld her, I know she’ll guarantee a placement for one of my referrals.
The deal with Beverly has been plaguing me for weeks. Ivory belongs at Leopold. Not because she’s beautiful and genuine and in desperate need of saving. She’s all those things, but I owe her my referral because she’s the best goddamn musician at Le Moyne.
“Without a doubt, she deserves that spot.” My chest lifts with passion in my voice. “She’s incredible.”
“You’re in a tough position.” Mom’s hand finds mine, squeezing my fingers. “I don’t envy you, but honey, if you pursue a relationship with her, it won’t turn out like Shreveport.”
Because I didn’t commit a crime with Joanne. Our relationship was consensual, not illegal. But Ivory? Student-teacher misconduct doesn’t just get swept under the carpet. It makes headline news. The best lawyers in the world couldn’t save me from the charges that would follow if I were caught with her.
“You need to cut your losses, son.” Dad sets his glasses on his nose and folds his arms on the table, leaning in. “Quit that damn job, end things once and for all with Joanne, and move out of state if you have to. The shit at Shreveport can only follow you so far.”
Mom shakes her head. “Frank, don’t tell him that. Our family is finally back together in New Orleans and—”
“No, Mom. He’s right.” I shove away from the table and empty my unfinished beer in the sink.
I’m already deliriously drunk on Ivory Westbrook, and I don’t know how much longer I’ll last without giving in.
I can keep the job, try to ignore this forbidden attraction, ultimately fail, and risk going to jail. Or I can quit Le Moyne, remove the temptation from my life, and fuck me, never see her again.
My chest hurts with the agonizing truth. I know… God help me, I know what I need to do.
Ivory
“This is all your fault!”
My mom’s tear-drenched screech cuts through me, but it’s the hatred in her dark eyes that makes my insides bleed.
I don’t even know what I’m being blamed for. It’s the middle of the night, and she stormed in here, flicking on the lights and waking me with her crazy wailing.
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