by T. K. Leigh
Unsure where this is going, I remain silent.
“I overheard your conversation with Lincoln.”
I glance at her sideways, hesitant. “What part?”
“Enough to realize how selfish I’ve been.” Her gaze searches mine before she asks, “Did you really drop out of school to take care of me? I thought you left because you got a job in the field.”
“I couldn’t let you end up on the streets.” I lower my voice. “You’re my mother.”
She closes her eyes, a few tears trickling down her cheeks. “And I’ve been a horrible one at that.” She returns her determined gaze to me. “I want you to know that you bear no blame in any of this.”
“But—”
“No. I won’t have you blaming yourself. I’m the one who decided being numb would solve all my problems. I knew it wasn’t the answer. I should have focused on my daughter, not ignore her for the bottle. Definitely not make her take care of me instead of the other way around.”
“It’s not your fault, Mom.”
“It is. And don’t you dare try to convince me otherwise. I will not let you walk out of this room thinking this isn’t my fault. That you bear even a speck of blame here. You don’t. So don’t you even try to argue with me, Chloe Lynn, because I’ll win.” She winks. Then her light expression falls and she reaches for my hand once more. This time, it’s a little more steady, but not much. “Promise me something.”
“What’s that?”
“I want you to finish this semester and finally graduate.”
On a long exhale, I pull away. “It’s not that easy. Things are…complicated.”
“Why?” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. The way her body trembles makes it appear she’s trying to warm herself, not suffering from the lack of alcohol in her bloodstream. “Because Lincoln’s your professor?”
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach, eyes widening. If she knows, who else does? And how does she know to begin with? Yes, Lincoln’s dropped by on occasion over the past few weeks, but we’d kept our conversations focused on my mother’s recovery. Today was the first time he brought up class.
“When you have kids of your own, you’ll understand how mothers develop this kind of…sixth sense about things. Plus, I’ve spent a lot of time talking to Wendy.” She looks at me thoughtfully, her smile returning. “We actually met once many years ago now. At the company Christmas party a few months before…” She trails off.
She doesn’t need to elaborate. I know she’s referring to the death of Lincoln’s father.
“I remember talking to her about how she felt about her husband’s new assignment as the Southeast Asia bureau chief, especially considering this was mere months after 9/11. She didn’t seem too fazed by it, said the hardest part was being away from him. But it was a mutual decision they made so their son could finish his senior year of high school here in the States. Once he was off to college, she planned on settling in Mumbai with him.”
“But she never got a chance, did she?”
“No, but that’s not relevant here. The fact is I know who Lincoln is, Chloe. Wendy mentioned he worked for the Times and also taught at a local college. The same local college my own daughter currently attends. From there, we both kind of put the pieces together.”
“Then you understand why I have to do this. Why I have to withdraw.”
“No, you don’t. I am more than aware that your father and I have done a horrible job at making you feel like you’re deserving of this risk Lincoln seems willing to take, but you are. You are worth so much more than the hand you’ve been dealt. So promise me. Go back to school. Finish this semester. Graduate. Finally prove that smug father of yours wrong. Don’t give him the satisfaction of being right. Okay?”
I chew on my lower lip, torn. Yesterday, this seemed like the right decision. I assumed Lincoln would eventually realize it was best for both of us, considering how much we’ve muddied the waters. Then again, we muddied those waters the instant I begged him not to report our relationship to the dean and he agreed. There’s only four more weeks left in the semester. What can possibly go wrong?
“Okay.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
My office line ringing sounds Thursday as I catch up on all the articles I’d pitched and need to deliver in the next few days. Despite my initial reluctance, Lincoln was right, as was my mother. I needed to live my life. And that life included returning to work.
Shuffling papers around my desk, I follow the noise of my phone, finally finding it under a folder full of photos of the latest royal baby. Quickly grabbing the receiver, I answer breathlessly.
“Chloe Davenport.”
“Ah, Miss Davenport.” A deep, gravelly voice comes on the line, the timbre making my body buzz to life. “It’s Professor Moore. I do hope it’s not too forward of me to call you at work.” There’s a flirtatious quality to his tone that has me playing along with his little game. And if I know anything about Lincoln, it’s that he loves games.
“Not at all, Professor,” I reply softly, facing the corner of my cubicle to have a bit more privacy.
“I was calling to see if you’d be available for a bit of a chat today before class. Regarding your…past performance.”
“Past performance?”
“Precisely. Fifty-two West Thirteenth Street. Near Fifth. Meet me there in thirty minutes. Go to the front desk and give them your name.”
“Not your office?” I ask in a demure voice, swiveling in my chair. “Isn’t that against school policy?”
“It is frowned upon.”
“Then I—”
“Don’t play coy with me, Miss Davenport.” His tone is gruff, demanding, a complete change from the flirtatious quality mere seconds ago. I snap my mouth closed, involuntarily clenching my thighs together in an attempt to dull the ache. “I see how you look at me every week.”
“And how’s that?”
“Like you want to part those legs of yours and let me have my way with you.”
“Professor,” I gasp, feigning indignation when, in reality, everything about this game turns me on in a way nothing has before. I’ve always craved Lincoln, am always desperate for more of him. But this… This takes carnal desire to a level I hadn’t expected.
“Don’t even try to deny it, Miss Davenport. Because I’ve been fantasizing about you all semester. How can I not when you come in and flirt with those boring classmates of yours, all to make me jealous?”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he barks before softening his voice. “But I know something your male classmates don’t.”
“What’s that?” I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone. It would be just my luck that an audience of coworkers would be assembled, eavesdropping in on bits of our juicy conversation. Thankfully, that’s not the case.
“That they can fawn over you all they want, then go home and jerk off as they imagine how you feel and taste. But the truth remains.”
“And that is?”
“Every single one of them… They’re just boys. You need a man. Someone who can satisfy even your most hidden desires.” His voice becomes breathy, carnal, wanton.
“And you think that’s you?”
“I don’t think. I know. And you do, too.” He pauses before adding, “Don’t be late, Miss Davenport. You know how I feel about tardiness.” He allows his words to linger for a moment before the line goes dead.
I remain motionless, staring at the wall of my cubicle, my heart racing. Then I jump to my feet, return my phone to the cradle, and hastily collect my things.
I don’t want to be late for Professor Moore.
Or maybe I do.
I check my watch as I hurry down the street, the address Lincoln…Professor Moore requested I meet him at coming into view. I thought I’d be practical and take a cab instead of the subway or bus. I was wrong. I’m convinced the cab driver intentionally took the route he knew would be most congested to pad his fare. The drive
, which should have only taken twenty-five minutes, took close to forty.
Frantically pulling open the door to the boutique, Georgian-style hotel, I burst down the short flight of stairs to the lobby. I scan the area for any sign of Lincoln, then remember his instruction that I give my name at the front desk.
I run my hands over my dress to calm my frazzled appearance, my heels clicking on the tile as I continue toward the registration desk. If I weren’t in such a hurry, I’d take a minute to appreciate the beauty surrounding me. Brick walls. Wood accents throughout. Crown molding. Flecks of gold. All elements I never would have thought to marry together, but it works here. The charming, yet sophisticated space fits in with the style of Greenwich Village.
“How can I help you, miss?” a blonde with a congenial smile asks.
“My name is Chloe Davenport. I—”
“Yes, Miss Davenport.” She retrieves a keycard from the desk area and hands it to me. “Elevators are around the corner and to the left.” She gestures in the general vacinity. “Enjoy your stay.”
I offer her my thanks, then head in the direction she pointed, skirting past a family of tourists as they step off the elevator. I sneak on, glance at the room number, then hit the button for the sixteenth floor. Once the doors close and I’m alone, I rock on my heels, jittery, unsure what awaits me. But if the buildup is any indication, I have a feeling it will be better than any fantasy.
Once the elevator stops, I step off, padding down the short, quiet hallway to the correct room. I insert the key into the slot and turn the knob, stepping hesitantly onto the hardwood of the foyer, praying the woman at the front desk gave me the correct key and I’m not about to walk into some crazy swingers’ party.
But if there were a party going on, there wouldn’t be this striking silence, the only noise that of the air conditioning unit and the faint, ambient city sounds I barely notice now that I’ve lived in Manhattan this long.
I round the corner from the foyer and my feet meet plush carpet, the bedroom coming into view. I halt in my tracks at the sight of Lincoln sitting in a wingback chair, a view of Greenwich Village and beyond visible behind him. A leg rests on a thigh, today’s edition of the Times spread in front of him.
My heart skips a beat as my eyes feast on him. So casual. So smooth. So sophisticated. The way he looks in a crisp, three-piece suit, coupled with his dark-framed glasses and designer tie, has my libido going into overdrive. I’m pretty sure the ol’ girl is stretching in preparation for what she hopes to be a killer workout.
Finally, Lincoln’s eyes lift to mine. Slow. Deliberate. Calculated. The heat in his stare sends a delicious shiver through me, ending between my legs, my core clenching.
“Miss Davenport.” His voice is even, unaffected, as he folds the newspaper, placing it on the small table beside him.
“Professor Moore.”
He raises his arm, using a single finger to beckon me to him, the severe expression he wears not allowing any room for argument. My eyes remain locked on his, ash gray to vibrant green. The closer I get, the more I’m attuned to the raw masculinity and sexuality coming off him.
I stop when I’m mere inches away. Closer than would be considered socially acceptable, but still far enough away that I’m not right in front of him. Not yet anyway. He places both feet on the floor, resting a hand on either thigh, but makes no move to get up, a king holding court over his subject. And I am more than willing to be his subject.
“You’re late. You’re aware I have a very strict policy when it comes to tardiness.”
“My cab driver gave me a nice tour of Fifth Avenue, instead of taking a less congested route. Otherwise, I would have been on time.” My voice is little more than a squeak, a complete shift from my normally assured tone.
“You also know how I feel about excuses, do you not?” He glares at me through condescending eyes.
“I do.”
He grips my hips, yanking me between his legs in one swift move, his hands going to my ass, squeezing. I gasp, my pulse skyrocketing, as if this is new. I guess it is in a way.
Leaning toward me, his nose grazes against my waist before he dips lower, inhaling when he reaches the apex of my thighs. He squeezes tighter, a visible shiver rolling over him before he pulls away, his eyes on fire. It sears a hole straight through me. Or at least through my panties.
He releases his grasp on me, sliding a hand along my hipbone, my muscles clenching. I have to remind myself to breathe as his touch leisurely travels down my thigh, pushing back the slit of my skirt.
“Perhaps I should teach you a lesson so you won’t let it happen again.” He shifts his eyes to mine, his voice becoming gruff, unable to hide his own need for me. The heat of his finger looms torturously close to my center, but still too far. He may as well be in Jersey City. “Would you like that?”
“God, yes,” I exhale.
“I had a feeling you would.” Abruptly pulling away, he stands, his sudden shift forcing me to step back.
With purposeful strides, he moves past me, turning to face me once he reaches the bed. Eyes narrowed, he beckons me with that same finger. I could find a better use for that finger, but damn if this entire scenario doesn’t have me running hotter than any previous sexual encounter…including all the other times I’ve been with Lincoln.
I keep my expression even as I walk toward him, my chest rising and falling in a quicker rhythm. When I’m within reach, he spins me around, yanking my body hard and fast against his, my back to his front. He runs a desperate hand along my stomach, over my breasts, up to my mouth, never staying in one spot too long.
“Tell me, Miss Davenport. What do you think an appropriate punishment is for your tardiness?” He finds my nipple through the fabric of my dress. When he pinches, I moan, my body pulsing with need. My libido has checked the laces on her sneakers and is officially ready for that starting pistol. But I know Lincoln. He has no intention of firing it anytime soon. His self-control is excruciating.
“Whatever you think is best…” I swallow hard. “Sir.”
With a hungered growl, he grips my hair, forcing my head to the side, exposing my flesh for his pleasure. He clamps his teeth down on that spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and my legs turn into jelly.
An arm wraps around my waist and tugs me even harder against him, supporting me. He knows how much his mouth on this spot drives me insane. And today is no different, but something about this game we’re playing has my body more alert, more needy, more desperate for him.
Too soon, he releases his hold on me, forcing me around to face him. “Strip,” he orders.
I feign shock and a hint of innocence. “But, Professor Moore, I—”
“Don’t play the virtuous card with me. You’ve been fantasizing about this as much as I have.” He curves toward me, his delicious scent consuming me. “You can’t stand here and tell me you haven’t. I know the truth.”
His hand goes to my chin, tilting my head up, his mouth a whisper from mine. All it would take is the slightest movement and I’d taste his lips. And I want to. God, I want to. But just like the night we first connected, I want this even more. The chase. The hunt. Then the kill.
“And what’s that?”
His finger draws a line down my throat, through the valley of my breasts, then circles my belly button before disappearing into the slit of my skirt. “That you can’t stop thinking about me every time you touch this delicious pussy of yours.” His thumb brushes against me, teasing.
“You are so wet for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes…,” I pant, my eyes rolling into the back of my head.
“Yes what?”
I swallow hard, licking my lips, my chest heaving. “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.”
He removes his hand from me, and I snap my eyes open, watching as he steps back. His demeanor is nothing short of collected and assured, as always. This is simply a game, an opportunity to pretend to be two different people for a minute, but I
doubt I could remain as composed as he. I’m already on the verge of losing what little control I have left.
“Strip.”
“Yes, sir.” I reach behind myself and lower the zipper of my navy blue sheath dress, the sleeves off the shoulders. I take my time as I shrug it off, addicted to the heat building in Lincoln’s eyes as he watches my every move.
“No bra?”
“Benefit of having nearly non-existent boobs,” I answer shyly. “You can get away without a bra instead of having to wear a strapless that digs into your skin.”
Lincoln’s demeanor changes as he closes the distance between us, pressing my body to his. His mouth finds mine and I sigh into his tender kiss, a break in character. He cups my breast, his touch reverent, yet still filled with so much passion.
“You’re perfect, Chloe,” he whispers against my mouth. “Everything about you is perfect. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”
Before I have a chance to respond, he steps back. With the flip of an internal switch, he turns into Professor Moore, stance wide, expression severe. He nods slightly, and I continue pushing my dress down my body, over my hips, allowing it to pool at my feet. I step out of it, about to kick off my heels when his voice rings out.
“No. The shoes stay on.”
My libido gives me a high five. Apparently, she was hoping he’d say that. So was I.
“Yes, sir.”
“But your panties do not.”
“Yes, sir.” Smirking, I hook my fingers in the waist of my panties, ridding myself of my last article of clothing while Lincoln remains fully dressed. I’m about to toss them on top of my discarded dress when he extends his hand toward me.
“I’ll take those.”