by Logan Fox
Playing with Fyre
Fyre & Ashes Book One
Logan Fox
Contents
FREE NSFW AGE-GAP ROMANCE
Playing with Fyre Playlist
1. Charlotte
2. Fyre
3. Charlotte
4. Charlotte
5. Fyre
6. Charlotte
7. Charlotte
8. Charlotte
9. Fyre
10. Fyre
11. Charlotte
12. Charlotte
13. Fyre
14. Fyre
15. Fyre
16. Fyre
17. Charlotte
Books by Logan Fox
FREE NSFW AGE-GAP ROMANCE
Want a copy of my deliciously dirty student-teacher book, Blackbird? Click the link below to download your copy!
https://smarturl.it/ldfox-fm-cta
Playing with Fyre Playlist
Good For You — Selena Gomez, A$AP Rocky
#1 Crush — Garbage
You’re The One That I Want — Lo-Fang
I Want You to Want Me — Children of Paradise, Chantel Claret
Play with Fire — Sam Tinnesz, Yacht Money
Animals — Maroon 5
Somebody’s Watching Me — Hidden Citizens
What Do I Say — Landon Tewers, Seanzy
This Empty Love — Innerpartysystem
Happy Together — Spin
Sugarbread — Soap&Skin
Monster Inside — Ilya ID & I, The Ocean
Check out my Playing with Fyre Playlist!
Chapter One
Charlotte
My gaze is glued to Professor Gideon Fyre’s tall, commanding frame as he stalks through the clinically neat arrangement of tables, easels, and workbenches inside his classroom. Every few seconds he’ll stop beside someone, whether they’re standing or sitting, and murmur a few words to them. I can’t help but watch him, and it’s not just because he’s handsome. He has power over me—over everyone—and it’s obvious he knows it.
Today’s art therapy class is about identifying. Identifying with ourselves, identifying the root of our issues. We’re eight weeks into our course at the local community college. I never thought art could be so…well, therapeutic, but the credit undoubtedly goes to Professor Fyre.
When I laid eyes on him the first time, I thought I’d walked into the wrong classroom. Tall and broad-shouldered with thick dark hair, he didn’t look like a college professor. He introduced himself with a laundry list of qualifications during that first lesson—including but not limited to a psychology and an art degree. He also told us he enjoys heading out to his cabin in the mountains for some deer hunting when his schedule allows.
Professor Fyre looks up. Our eyes lock, and I blush crimson. When he heads in my direction, I quickly go back to my scribbling. He encourages us to use any medium we want. Something that speaks to us. That expresses our emotions. That ruled out pasta art—I went straight for a thick piece of charcoal and got my fingers dirty.
Now they’re pitch black, just like my soul.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile, Charlotte,” a voice murmurs beside my ear.
I drop my piece of charcoal. Fyre knows he’s dealing with goddamn trauma victims—how dare he sneak up on his students?
“I smile all the time.”
“Less often than you lie, it seems.”
I stiffen. “You said we’re supposed to concentrate. Can’t go around grinning like an idiot.”
He’s standing so close I can smell his cologne—earthy, woody, and spicy, just like I imagine his cabin must smell like—and feel the warmth of his body, despite the layers of clothing I’m bundled up in because the heating is on the fritz. Pneumonia wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me the past few months.
Fuck…it wouldn’t even crack the top five.
Fyre lets out a low chuckle that makes my insides tingle in response. How often does he go to his hunting cabin? Has he ever considered taking one of his students with him?
Ha! A man like him? He says he does this class because he loves helping people discover themselves, but I’ve seen how the other college students and teachers treat him out in the hall. He has clout. Probably getting tenure in a few years. He’s at least a decade older than me, and that should put my fantasies to rest, but it just makes me wonder what it’s like to be with an older man. Especially one as mindbogglingly good-looking as him. With his dark hair, and his warm brown eyes. Those thick brows and strong nose. The dimple in his chin and the sensuous curve of his mouth.
Fyre makes a sound in the back of his throat. Does he know what I’m thinking? My heart pounds at the thought.
“Are you challenging yourself, Charlotte?”
I quiver at the sound of my name. It happens whenever he speaks to me.
Professor Fyre crouches beside my chair, laying a hand on the desk before grabbing the back of my chair with the other. He brushes my shoulder, and that touch sends a shiver through me that I barely suppress.
I stare at the sheet of paper in front of me. I never know what I’m going to draw—I just pick up a piece of charcoal and start doodling. He told us this wasn’t an art class, so what is he expecting from me?
“I want you to bleed,” he says.
I turn to stare at him, my lips parting. His dark eyes have the tiniest flecks of gold in them. Heat flashes onto my cheeks when I realize he’s studying me as openly as I’m studying him. Which doesn’t explain why he looks so fascinated. I’m as interesting as a brick.
“Bleed?” I murmur.
“Slice yourself open, Charlotte. Pour all your anger, your rage, your pain—” he glances away, taps the corner of my black drawing “—onto this page.”
It’s difficult, but I finally manage to face forward again. “But…I have.”
He grasps my wrist, but as soon as we make contact he tugs his hand away like I burned him. His fleeting touch leaves behind an ephemeral ache. “Dig deeper, Charlotte. Dig until you see bone.”
I’m still trying to catch my breath when his warmth fades away. My head is forward, my chin dipped down. I scan the class through my curtain of black hair. Fyre reappears a few tables away. He walks with his hands tucked behind his back, gripping his wrists, his eyes darting to every artwork he passes.
I can still hear his voice.
I can still feel his touch.
He glances across the room as if he knows I’m watching and gives me a faint, knowing smile.
Look away, Charlotte!
But I can’t. I’m transfixed. This must be what a deer feels like when he’s scoping them with his rifle.
“Sometimes it’s difficult to expose your most hidden self when there are strangers around,” Fyre says, his eyes on me. I’m convinced he’s talking just to me, but then his gaze flicks to someone else.
I let out a soft, rueful laugh and drop my head. Why on earth do I have this recurring fantasy that the world revolves around me? I’m one of his students. A troubled soul in need of healing. That’s it.
“Well done, everyone. You can put away your things.” There’s a general clatter and shuffling as my classmates start packing up. Fyre watches them, and I watch Fyre. As soon as everyone’s settled back in their seats, he says, “I have another assignment for the class.”
My fingers become jittery. I like Fyre’s assignments—he always gives us interesting ways to apply our creativity. Even me with my lowly piece of charcoal. Last week’s lesson was hope.
“You will begin a new project.”
I purse my lips and glance around at some of the other students. It’s weird callin
g them that since they range in ages anywhere from fifteen to seventy. But we have something in common. We’ve all been attacked and left traumatized.
By disease. By a criminal. By an event or significant other in our lives.
Some of the students shared their stories during that first class. I wasn’t one of them. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to share what happened with another human being. It was traumatic enough when I had to give my statement at the police station, then again when I was assigned a therapist. Even she doesn’t know everything, despite prying session after session after goddamn session. I have to see her again later this month, and I’m already dreading it.
“This time, you’ll work in the privacy of your own home, or any other place where you feel safe.” The professor’s voice draws my attention back to him. Not that it’s ever off him for long. “Your project must be completed by the end of this semester.”
A few heads turn to look at each other. Winter break is a month away. Four more lessons, then my art therapy classes are over.
Forever.
“And you will use a different medium than the one you’ve been using in class.”
I look down at my mess of charcoal scratchings. What? This is all I know. What the hell does he want from me, a finger painting?
“And class, I need this piece to tell a story. Your story.”
It feels like I’ve just swallowed ten frozen lead weights. My first instinct is to throw up my hands and storm out of class.
Who gave him the right to snoop? I came here because my counselor suggested it. Because I was so doped up on anti-depressants she had to prescribe me shit for the side effects. She told me this class was a safe space, that I’d never have to talk about what happened if I didn’t want to.
Telling my story doesn’t sound like me not having to talk about what happened.
Somehow I swallow down the rage and the sullen, angry ache in my lower belly that never goes away. The doctor told me I’d healed down there, that I shouldn’t be experiencing any pain, and refused to prescribe me more Oxy. He probably thought I was addicted after all the morphine I had in the hospital. But I’m not imagining it.
I breathe, I hurt.
I’m already craving that small pill in my nightstand, the one that sends me into oblivion, the one that stops everything. The anger, the pain…the memories. Something to help me sleep, but it does more than that. It frees me.
The bell sounds for the end of class. The other students begin to file out, but I’m still wrangling with my emotions. I manage to calm myself by the time the last person—an elderly woman with a headscarf that makes me think she’s fighting something terminal—walks out of the door.
Fyre looks up, and there’s not a trace of surprise on his face when he sees I’m still in my seat.
“I’m counting on you,” he says, remaining standing behind his desk as if it’s a trench between two warring nations. “Don’t let me down, Charlotte.”
I was going to tell him I won’t do it. That it wasn’t part of the deal. But then he smiles at me, and that smile promises so many things. So I nod. Dip my head. Gather up my things and shove them in my bag as I hurry for the door.
“Remember, I’m always here to help.”
I stall by the door, look back at him. “What?”
His smile is still there. It feels even warmer now. Even more genuine. But I guess that’s just the teacher in him. The healer.
He walks up to me and holds out a slip of paper. There’s a telephone number on it. I know I shouldn’t take it. It’s all kinds of wrong. But I can’t stop myself. Our fingers touch, electric.
He doesn’t let go. “Call me anytime. Day or night.”
“Why-why would I need to call you?” I ask weakly as I struggle with the myriad butterflies suddenly swarming in my stomach.
“Because I’ll always be there for you.” His chest expands as he inhales, and his eyes touch my mouth. “Anytime. Anywhere.”
I tug the paper out of his grip and scurry out of his class like I’m being dragged by wild horses.
Hope. It’s something I hadn’t felt in months until last week’s assignment. My piece for that theme was a glossy-black charcoal mess, of course. But the half-hour I spent on it was one of the few times I didn’t think about killing myself.
Chapter Two
Fyre
Charlotte is special. I’ve been holding these art therapy classes for three years, and I’ve never met a student like her. Her uniqueness would explain why I’ve been following her home every day since she joined my class, why I watch her as she draws in my classroom.
I’m hoping that’s why I’m considering pulling over my truck and finally giving her a ride home. I’ve been flirting with the idea for weeks, but I’ve been holding back because I know it will change everything between us.
I’m not sure she’s ready for the next step yet.
Charlotte is on her bike a few yards ahead of me, plowing through rain puddles with grim determination, her black hair in ribbons down the side of her face. She makes no attempt to shield herself from the rain. It’s like she doesn’t even realize she’s soaked through.
It’s easy to imagine how that wet fabric will cling to her skin when she undresses at home—as reluctant to leave her body as I am to stop watching her.
I won’t lie. It’s become an obsession.
And it’s getting worse.
I’ve never given my students homework. Not once. But I saw attraction in Charlotte’s eyes today. She’s trying to fight her feelings, hell so am I, but she’ll lose the fight.
I have.
Ahead, the light at the intersection changes to amber. The universe, it seems, is tossing me a bone. I speed up before detouring to the side of the road, slowing hurriedly so I won’t spray Charlotte with the rainwater puddling by the sidewalk. I honk the horn, but she doesn’t look back. She would have been gone a second later had a car not skipped the intersection ahead and turned right in front of her, speeding so it won’t have to stop at a red light.
My heart flies to my throat, and I’m only dimly aware of rain hitting my face as I kick open the truck’s door.
“Charlotte!”
Her wet hair swings in the air as she whips her head around to stare at me. My loafers splat wetly on the sidewalk as I slow from a sprint to a jog. She gives me a double take and then shakes her head. “Professor Fyre?”
God, I love the sound of my name on her tongue. “Are you alright?”
Her lips part, and my cock hardens—just like it does in class when her mouth forms that same shape. I’ve had to come up with ingenious ways to hide my erection whenever Charlotte’s in my classroom. It’s laughable how many times it’s happened.
I’m aware that I should explain why I’m here, but instead I say, “That idiot could have hit you.”
“But he didn’t.” Her frown deepens. “What are you doing here?”
Swiping wet hair out of my face, I give her a lopsided smile. “I wasn’t following you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I tell her through a laugh.
Her lips seal into a tight little smile. She balances easily on the bike for such a slip of a girl, and from how her body moves, she looks like she wants to start pedaling again.
She scrunches up her nose. “Then what are you doing here?”
The lie comes easy. “Meeting a patient at her office. She’s a few blocks down from here.” I point at one of the tall office buildings littering this street. This isn’t the greatest neighborhood, but I’m aware that most of my students usually can’t afford better accommodation.
“I didn’t know you still practice,” she says.
I don’t. I did try once, a few years ago, but then came Red Friday. My entire world fell apart—and I became unhinged. I could no longer stand those intimate face-to-face meetings. Depression, anger management, grief, they would just keep pouring burning oil over my soul. I left my practice, my town, the tattered remnants of my life behind and started f
resh here at the college.
But my Charlotte doesn’t have to know that. There are many things she doesn’t have to know, and I prefer to keep it that way.
For her safety, and my sanity.
“Please—” I half-turn and gesture at my truck. “Let me take you where you need to be. I can’t stand the thought of you riding around in this weather. Not with these idiots on the road.”
Her lips twitch, and her eyebrows draw together. She balances on the bike again, a second away from pedaling off. “What about your meeting?”
Rain starts trickling down the back of my jacket. “I’ll call ahead, tell her I’ll be late.” I flick my head, sending rain-slicked hair off my forehead.
“Really, I’m fine.”
Christ. If I had fucking candy, I’d be using that to lure her into my truck. But I can’t push this. She has to make the decision herself.
“Okay. But I won’t accept any excuses for that project being late, even pneumonia.” I smile easily at her, turn, and head back to my truck. I shove a hand in the pocket of my trench coat and use it to keep my dick flattened. Just the thought that she might have accepted my invitation is giving me a hard-on.
The rain is insistent enough, cold enough, wet enough that Charlotte makes up her mind a few seconds later.
“Professor!”
I give my dick a relentless squeeze, willing it to subside, and glance at her over my shoulder. She’s biting down on her bottom lip as she takes a quick scan around, and then hurries up to me.
I can already feel her skin against mine. Wet from the rain, wet from something else entirely.