Falling For The Forbidden

by Hawkins, Jessica

  “Oh God, oh God, this can’t be happening.” He wraps an arm around his stomach and gives me a pleading look. “You won’t tell my mom?”

  I should’ve broken him. Should’ve left him in a bloody pile for the vultures to feed on. “This is between you and me. Keep your mouth shut, stay the fuck away from Miss Westbrook…and when I say stay away, I mean don’t think about her. Don’t talk to or look at her. Erase her from your fucking mind. Do that, and the dean won’t hear of your crime.”

  “Okay.” He grips the steering wheel, nodding, swallowing. “I can do that.”

  I’m not convinced. If he’s half as addicted to Ivory as I am, he won’t be able to stay away. But for now, scaring the shit out of him is the best option I have.

  I slam the door and stalk toward the GTO.

  Did she enjoy fucking him? Will she hate me for breaking them up?

  No way. She compared him to a bloody tampon.

  But what about other boys? Other customers?

  Deep in my gut, I know she didn’t want to be here. She didn’t even understand the concept of sexual desire until she met me. But finding her with someone else is a crushing hit to my pride. Christ, I can’t even bring myself to look at another woman, yet here she is…with him.

  Jealous rage claws its way through my chest, stealing my air and speeding up my gait.

  She should’ve come to me, confided in me, asked me to help her. Instead, she chose this. Him.

  Flashbacks of the back seat crash through my mind, tormenting me with images of her spread legs, his bare ass, the condom.

  My legs tense to turn around, my fists tingling to pulverize his throat until he stops breathing. But I keep walking, focused on her, on what I intend to do.

  Of all my passions, disciplining a woman is the most exhilarating. The most arousing. The reason I work and fuck and breathe. I can do this without destroying her. If I keep my temper in check, I’ll be able to open something inside her she has no idea exists. Pain and pleasure. Fear and arousal. Give and take. Once she understands how these things work together, it will change her, strengthen her, and tie her to me irrevocably.

  The rational part of my brain demands I take her home, quit my job, and end this dangerous infatuation. But I’ve reached the point of no return.

  It’s no longer a matter of if or when.

  Tonight, she’ll bend for my punishment, tremble for my touch, and I’ll risk it all to show her exactly what she means to me.

  Emeric

  The tension in the GTO is as stifling and disorienting as my anger. I welcome Ivory’s silence, but the secrecy of her thoughts winds me tighter and tighter with each passing street.

  When I speed past the turn off for Treme, she twists in the seat and points.

  “My house is…” Her gaze flies to mine. “You’re not taking me home?”

  Pulling up to a stop light, I turn toward her. “Will anyone notice if you don’t return home tonight? Your mother? Brother?”

  I thought her eyes were dark before, but now they’re the color of nightmares. Even in the passing headlights, they coax me in and chill me to the bone.

  She looks at her lap, shakes her head, her voice a soft shivering pianissimo. “What are you going to do to me?”

  She’s thinking the worst. I hear it in the serrated gusts of her breaths, and it infuriates me. But I can’t blame her. She watched me lose my shit with Prescott, and as sure as I can feel her fear, she can sense my vibrating need for atonement.

  I reach over and grip the hand in her lap. “Listen very carefully, Ivory.” I squeeze her trembling fingers. “I would never hit you in anger. When I welt your ass, you’ll love it as much as you hate it. Tell me you understand.”

  Her breath catches, and a sob hangs on the edge of her voice. “You won’t hurt me in anger.” She touches the broken skin on my knuckles. “How did you find me?”

  “Sebastian Roth was all too willing to give up his friend’s favorite parking spot.” A torrent of animosity invades my throat, and I’m unable to stop it. “You’re fucking him and Prescott? How many others?”

  She attempts to pull her hand away, but I hold tight. Her fingers fall limp while mine continue to shake from the lingering adrenaline.

  It’s probably best that she doesn’t answer while I’m driving. Seconds from detonating, I’m liable to jerk the damn car off a bridge.

  Lasalle Street, fifteen blocks, two turns, and a high-security gate later, here I am, sitting in my driveway, about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

  A nearby gas lamp illuminates the interior of the car, but we’re parked around back, shrouded by massive oaks and hidden from the street.

  When I turn in the seat to face her, she’s not staring at my enormous estate with envy in her eyes. She’s not surveying the million-dollar landscape with parted lips. She’s looking at me. Like I’m the only thing that exists in the world. Like I’m more important than all the wealth surrounding her.

  I fall helplessly into her gaze, lost in the shadows of tragedy and fear and neglect. But there’s a glint of light in the dark depths. As she sways closer, seeking, my heart kicks with realization. That tiny glimmer in her eyes is trust.

  That’s when I hear it.

  The tempo of our breaths. The drum of our heartbeats. The crackle in the air.

  The exquisite cadence pulses through me, awakening sensations I’ve never felt, composing a melody I’ve never heard.

  Our hypnotic, dark notes.

  This is so much more than punishment or forbidden pleasure.

  She could never be a mistake.

  “Are we going to…” She tilts her head and searches my face. “Do the vibe thing all night? I’m okay with that, but not knowing what comes next has me…um, a little jumpy.”

  I trail a finger across her cheek and along her bottom lip. “Tell me you trust me.”

  She nibbles the corner of her mouth. “You’ve given me every reason not to.”

  I drop my hand, but she catches it and lifts it back to her face.

  “You’ve also shown me every reason I should.” She holds our hands tightly against her cheek. “Thank you for finding me.” Her fingers trace the cuts on my knuckles, and her eyes shimmer with tears. “For protecting me.”

  Christ, this girl… She’s my music, my place in this life, my part in it all.

  I move in and touch my lips to hers. “You’re going to follow me inside.” I slide a hand into her thick hair. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know.” I tighten my grip and yank her head back. “Then I’m going to test the depth of your trust. Say yes.”

  Her eyes flicker with vulnerability and desperation. Then she blinks, breathes, and relaxes in my hold. “Yes, Mr. Marceaux.”

  Ivory

  I follow Mr. Marceaux through the wide, echoing passages of his monstrosity of a mansion. Between the questions I’ll have to answer and whatever punishment that will follow, my legs threaten to buckle with each step.

  He touches my lower back and steers me forward. Oddly, the tremors in his hand give me strength. Like maybe he’s as freaked out as I am.

  His fingers have been shaking since he climbed into the GTO, his breaths fluctuating in volume and tempo all the way here. I’m well-acquainted with the indicators of a man in need, but this feels different, safer somehow. Maybe it’s because he’s not attacking me like the other men I’ve encountered. Or perhaps it’s because the hand on my back is guiding me, not forcing me.

  We pass a living room filled with plush leather furniture, a hearth room with more couches, and a massive kitchen gleaming with stainless steel. Compared to the gloomy Victorian Gothic exterior of stone and steeples, the inside is warm and bright, flaunting the kind of luxuries I’m not sure a teacher’s salary can afford.

  Wrought iron chandeliers, long heavy draperies, shiny wood floors, black damask wallpaper, it’s all so old-world-ish yet modern at the same time. Such a profound reflection of his personality. He seems like such an
old noble soul in the sense that he loves knowledge and truth—those pursuits interest him far more than the latest gossip or high-tech car. But after two months of lectures, I’ve learned he also appreciates the transience of life, the fleeting trends, and the way people and music change over time.

  After countless rooms, a spiraling staircase that wraps around the atrium, and a maze of corridors, I’ve lost my bearings. Why would a single man need so much space?

  I really don’t care how much money he has or where it comes from. I’m more interested in the man himself, what he has planned, and where he’s taking me.

  “Mr. Marceaux?”

  “It’s Emeric.” He stops, turns me to face him, and strokes the pad of his thumb across my cheek. “I’m Mr. Marceaux when I’m your teacher.”

  His touch races a shiver across my skin and electrifies my heart. “If you’re not my teacher right now, what are you?”

  The mechanisms in his watch tick beside my ear as he slides his fingers through my hair and holds my head in the frame of his hands. “I don’t think you’re ready to hear that.”

  Maybe not, but I think he’s showing me. As I stare into the stormy blue of his gaze, the wall sconces, arched doorways, and dark woods in the hallway all melt into oblivion. He’s wearing his dead serious face, the one that says I want to fuck you and so much more.

  That look in his eyes turns my insides upside down, pulling my breaths through a diaphanous haze of happiness and confusion. He doesn’t temper the hunger in his expression, but doesn’t act on it, either. It’s as if he’s letting it build naturally while keeping it contained. As if he’s enjoying the way it makes him feel without thrusting it against me.

  I could stand here and stare at him all night, at his model-perfect features, the barely-there stubble on his sculpted jaw, and the heat dancing in his eyes. My fingertips tingle to run through his hair again. Softly, though, unlike the way he stabs his hands through the black strands when he’s angry.

  He’s just…so…damn gorgeous. Way too hot to be a teacher. But it’s his self-control I’m attracted to the most. Funny that, since he showed zero restraint with Prescott. Or maybe he did? Prescott is still breathing.

  When it comes to me, though, his control is evident in his tight expression and even tighter breaths. He wants, but he doesn’t take. That alone makes me feel more drawn to him.

  I grip the gathered sleeves at his elbows and glide my fingers along his sinewy forearms. “Can I bandage your hands?”

  “Later.” His face moves an inch closer.

  “I don’t get you, Mr. Mar— Emeric. You went from spankings to five weeks of nothing to swinging fists to…” I hesitantly reach up and touch his warm, chiseled cheek. “To looking at me like this. Why?”

  “Well, something happened recently.” He gives me a half-smile. “About ten minutes ago.” He turns his face toward my hand and presses his lips to my wrist. “I had an epiphany.”

  In the car? My heart rate jumps. “What do you mean?”

  “I realized I’ve been in denial since…” His gaze lowers to my mouth momentarily then returns to my eyes. “For a while.”

  “Denial about what?”

  He steps closer, strokes his hands through my hair, and holds my cheek against his chest. “Let’s not give it a name yet.”

  Love pops into my mind, unbidden, quickly followed by hug. Instinctively, my arms wrap around his torso. My hands grip the back of his wool waistcoat, and muscle by muscle, I relax against him. His fingers trail down my spine, shooting shivers from my head to my toes. The circle of his arms tightens, and every molecule inside me becomes hyper-aware of every inch of his body.

  His towering height and hard physique feels intimidating and protective, immovable and warm, strange and wonderfully right.

  My dad used to hug me, and I miss that love with excruciating heartache. Stogie loves me in a non-huggy, protective-uncle way. But that’s the extent of my experience with the concept.

  Exploring something like love with Emeric is terrifyingly reckless. He’s too volatile, unpredictable, and insanely intense. Would he give it one day and take it back the next? Would he taunt me with it, make me beg for it, and use it against me?

  Even so, I’d rather receive it in rations than never have it at all.

  Except he’s my teacher. He specifically told me I cannot fall in love with him. And he loves another woman.

  What exactly am I to him? My stomach boils with jealousy and trepidation, but it doesn’t hurt as much with his arms holding me close and his mouth resting on the top of my head.

  Whatever this is…this thing he’s been in denial about, it seems to be making his heart race. Or maybe it’s the hug causing those heavy beats against my ear. Maybe it’s all the same.

  I tilt my head and look up at him. “Are you afraid?”

  He releases me and steps back, his focus on his hand as he smooths down the black and white striped tie.

  I grit my teeth. Dammit, I want him to own his feelings, not pull them back and brush them away. I open my mouth to say just that, but his eyes ensnare mine, and I forget to breathe.

  That moment…my God, it feels like a lifetime in the making. His hands curl around my neck, wrenching me into a kiss so consuming it touches me everywhere. Seconds pass like hours. The caress of his mouth robs the strength from my knees. The instant he offers his tongue, a chill of electricity runs wild across my skin. His soft groan vibrates against my lips, eliciting a warm throb between my legs. And his answer…

  “Yes.” His hands collar my throat, snugly, possessively, as he kisses a shivery path to my ear and rasps, “I’m afraid.”

  My fingers find his hair and pull his mouth back to mine. “Afraid of?”

  “Getting caught.” He turns us, presses my back against the wall, and whispers between drugging licks along my lips. “Going to jail.”

  I want to argue, but I have no voice, no breath, only his sinful mouth and the support of his strong chest against mine.

  He angles his head, twining our tongues, deeper, faster, and I float on the thermal currents writhing between us. The crotch of my panties feels wet, my body temperature dialed to feverish levels. The cotton of my shirt and the elastic of my bra itch and squeeze my skin. I want them off.

  “I’m afraid of hurting you.” He tilts his head in the opposite direction, a new angle, eating at my mouth as if he can’t reach deep enough. “But I’m not stopping, Ivory.” Another hungry kiss. “You’re mine.”

  A sense of belonging swells in my chest. It feels so big and full and too good to be true. I don’t know if I can trust it. As I waver, his heat and strength vanish, leaving me swaying against the wall.

  He grips my wrist and yanks me ahead of him in the hall, steering me forward. I attempt a wobbly step, but he’s behind me, his strong fingers sliding from my waist, over my hips, and curling around my thighs.

  His mouth traces the line of my shoulder and nibbles along my neck. He pauses at my ear, his tone husky. “Last room on the right.”

  With a staggering inhale, I walk ahead. His footfalls trail a few steps behind, and I can’t help but crane my neck to hold his heated gaze. When I reach the doorway, I pivot and back in, my attention paralyzed by all the unnamed emotions hardening his fierce expression.

  I should be anxious. I should be fucking terrified. But he’s not Lorenzo or Prescott or the countless others who make me want to die. Emeric has made me feel more alive tonight than I have in seventeen years.

  The periphery of my vision catches a bed, some furniture, lots of grays and blacks. His bedroom? I don’t glance around, don’t avert my eyes from the man who is jeopardizing his career, his freedom, to be with me.

  He prowls closer, his overwhelming proximity chasing me backward, slowly, breathlessly, deeper into the room. Will he ask his questions now? Will the truth disgust him to the point of hatred? There have been so few people in my life who believe in me. I can’t bear the thought of losing that protective look on hi
s face.

  He catches my waist and pulls me against him, his voice low and guttural. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

  “What?”

  “The way you stare at me like I’m worth more to you than”—he glances around the room—”a big fancy house.”

  A burning flush sweeps across my cheeks. What is he saying? That because I’m poor, I should be star-struck and gaping at his stuff? I care more about him than all the money in the world. But maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe he thinks I’m a lovesick high school girl.

  I narrow my eyes. “The molding in this place… It’s everywhere. Scalloped designs on the living room ceiling, square panels on the walls, chair rails run the length of the hall. I could peel it all off and hock it while you’re—”

  “Brat.” His beautiful face splits into a smile as he shuffles me backward and sets me on the edge of the mattress.

  He leaves me there and strides to the dresser. As he empties his pockets, I’m hit with a heavy dose of reality. I’m in Mr. Marceaux’s bedroom. Sitting on his bed. Watching him do things, personal things in his private space, that no one else at school has witnessed.

  With his back to me, he places his wallet and keys in a wooden dish. His phone and mechanical watch go next. His waistcoat falls over the back of a stiff leather chair. His necktie follows.

  When his hands fall to his belt, my breath catches.

  He shifts to face me, his fingers slowly unclasping the buckle. “It’s time to address the issue we’ve been avoiding.”

  My stomach sinks, and a wave of vertigo shivers through me.

  He slides the belt free, winds it into a coil, and sets it on the nightstand beside the bed.

  “No lies.” He clasps his hands behind his back, squared shoulders stretch the white button-up across his chest, and his glare hardens. “Omitting is the same as lying.”

  Shit! I squeeze my eyes shut. Shit, fucking shit.

  “Ivory.”

  I open my eyes and find him studying me. Of course, he is. Always watching. Always seeing too much. I bite my lip. This isn’t going to end well.