The Dating Games Series Volume One

by T. K. Leigh

  I take a few seconds to compose myself, feeling unnaturally exposed without the panties I can only assume are still stuffed in Lincoln’s pocket, and meet Owen’s confused stare, which doesn’t leave me the entire time I walk in his direction and sit down, shrugging out of my coat.

  I pull a notebook from my bag, flipping to a free page, squirming in my chair. I smooth my hair over my shoulder, ensuring it adequately covers the mark Lincoln left. I should have sat on the other side of Owen so he wouldn’t have as many opportunities to see it. Better yet, I should have kept my coat on.

  “Where have you been?” he asks once I’m situated. “I figured Professor Prick kicked you out. And since you haven’t responded to any of my texts—”

  “He didn’t kick me out. I had some…personal stuff come up.” I fidget with my dress, tugging the skirt to cover a few bruises on my thighs. But as discreet as I try to be, it doesn’t escape Owen’s attention.

  “Is something going on?”

  “What?” I shoot my eyes to his. I notice his gaze flicker to my neck, so I quickly hide the mark with my hair once more. “No. I just…” I stammer, needing to come up with something to tell him, to bring his attention away from the questionable bruises that cover my body. “My mom’s sick.” It’s not a complete lie. “That’s why I haven’t been in class. I had to take care of her.”

  “Oh god,” Owen responds with all the compassion I’ve come to expect from him, his shoulders dropping. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” He shakes his head. “Do you need anything?”

  “Thanks, but she’s doing much better now. We both are.”

  “That’s good to hear, but next time, answer your damn texts. I was worried about you.” He reaches for my hand, covering it with his before I have a chance to pull away. “Worried the Big Bad Wolf ran away with Little Purple Riding Hood.”

  “Mr. Campbell!” A booming voice fills the room.

  Owen and I jump in our seats and I yank my hand from his, hiding it in my lap. I expect Owen to shift his attention to Lincoln, but he doesn’t, his analytical eyes studying me. I straighten my spine, feigning confidence, praying he doesn’t put the pieces together. He wouldn’t, would he? Then again, the last time I was in this very room, class ended early due to some unexpected fireworks.

  “Do you mind? Or is your conversation with Miss Davenport more important than, say, a journalist’s privilege to keep their source anonymous?”

  “No, sir. I apologize, sir.”

  Lincoln glares for several uncomfortable seconds before turning around, scribbling on the whiteboard. I keep my eyes glued to the blank page of my notebook, ignoring the way Owen steals a glimpse of the bruise on my leg, then shifts his attention back to Lincoln, as if on the brink of putting a puzzle together.

  “Now, Mr. Campbell,” Lincoln begins when he turns around, a cocky smirk on his face. “What can you tell the class about the Branzburg cases?”

  I blow out a breath. As much as I hate when he intentionally picks on Owen because of our friendship, I’m grateful for it today, since it forces Owen to focus more on Lincoln’s line of questioning and less on me.

  All throughout the three-hour class, I do my best to focus on the material and compartmentalize this Lincoln from the Lincoln who called me his sweetest addiction, from the confusing Lincoln who recoiled the instant I suggested we leave the hotel together.

  The more I stew over his behavior, the more my irritation grows. He can’t order me to a hotel room, treat me like he’s only interested in getting between my legs, then get mad if Owen, a friend, appears genuinely concerned about my mysterious absence. He wants to have boundaries about where we’re seen together. Well, I need boundaries, too.

  When the class finally ends, Owen turns to me, raking his hand through his sandy hair. “I didn’t think I was going to survive that.”

  Thankfully, any earlier suspicion has disappeared, probably because Lincoln called on me, much to everyone’s surprise. But I suppose it’s best to remove any appearance of impropriety.

  “You did great. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.” I playfully nudge him in the side as we walk toward the door. I pay no attention to Lincoln, pretending to be more interested in whatever Owen’s telling me. If he wants to treat me like I’m disposable, two can play his game.

  I know it’s juvenile and a bit rash, but after this afternoon, he deserves a taste of his own medicine.

  As I’m about to leave with Owen, Lincoln’s voice sounds from behind me. “Miss Davenport, I’d like a word, please.”

  I turn to face him. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “I insist,” he grits out, his jaw clenched. “We need to discuss your absences and devise a plan going forward.”

  “You can email me. I need to get to an appointment,” I lie, although I am supposed to meet the girls for happy hour.

  “You’ve already missed enough classes for me to fail you, Miss Davenport. A few minutes of your time to discuss this is the least you can do. Rest assured, despite any…connection I may have to your father, I have every right to fail you.”

  I clench my jaw, my hands balling into fists. The room is still, dozens of curious stares watching our conversation. The last thing I need is to draw any more attention to us. That’s the last thing Lincoln needs, too. So why is he doing this?

  Fixing my expression, I give him a saccharine smile. “I apologize, Professor. You’re right. There are things we should discuss regarding expectations going forward.”

  Nodding curtly, he adjusts that damn tie, then grabs his messenger bag. “Follow me, Miss Davenport.”

  “With pleasure, Professor.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “What the fuck was that?” I strain in an irate whisper the instant the door to Lincoln’s office clicks closed. “You think you can order me around in class? Threaten to fail me just to get me alone? Like this is some fucking game?”

  “I know it’s not a game.” His voice is soft, a complete juxtaposition to mine, which only aggravates me more.

  “You don’t get to treat me like that,” I choke out. “You don’t get to fuck me, toss me onto the street, then act all jealous when I talk to a classmate, a friend.”

  He grabs my hips, his earnest gaze attempting to put out the fire within. “I know. And I’m sorry.” His lips part as he struggles to find words, a rarity for a man who always seems to know what to say. “We’re skating on very dangerous ice here. One slip and we can both sink. I just…” He releases me, pacing the office, tugging at his hair.

  “We don’t have the luxury of being able to go out to dinner wherever we want, or going to see a show, or going away with friends for a weekend. Hell, even if you weren’t my student, I still wouldn’t be able to tell any of my colleagues at the paper about you because you’re the goddamn boss’ daughter! Did I overreact when I saw Owen squeezing your hand? Joking with you?”

  I open my mouth to say something, but he interrupts me.

  “Absolutely. But I can’t help it around you. I can’t reel in this insane jealousy that rips me apart, Chloe.”

  The vein in his neck throbs with the passion and intensity with which he speaks, and I remain still, speechless, my earlier anger dissipating with every word.

  “I can’t even hold your hand in public without worrying about who could be lurking around the corner. About someone snapping a selfie that has us in the background, then posts it on Instagram for the world to see. For the wrong person to see.”

  He clutches my hands, his expression frantic, a man on the edge. “I want to be able to take you out. I want to be able to show you off and shout to the world how fucking amazing you are.”

  His face falls and he drops his hold on me, heading to the window. “But I can’t.” He peers at the city surrounding us, his shoulders drooping as his realization this will never work rings out between us.

  I stare at him, swallowing hard through the lump in my throat, my heart sinking to my st
omach. It was nice while we were in our own fantasy world earlier, but the fantasy never lasts. It’ll fade and all we’ll be left with is the sad truth of who we are. Two people who can never be together. We were fooling ourselves to think otherwise.

  “I understand.” With timid steps, I turn around, heading toward the door, using every ounce of resolve not to look back. Now I know why Orpheus did. Because it is so fucking hard not to.

  “But that doesn’t mean I can let you go.”

  His emotion-filled statement reviving my hope, I pause with my hand on the doorknob.

  “That night I found you and your mother struggling in the snow…” Lincoln approaches, his hands sliding down my arms. “I told you I was willing to risk it all for you, as long as you were willing to let me in.” He spins me around, his eyes searching mine. “Are you still willing to let me in? Even knowing things aren’t going to be perfect. That it’s going to be hard. That we’re going to fight.”

  I reach up, pushing back a lock of his hair. “If you ask me, perfection is grossly overrated. And let’s not forget the most important thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That make-up sex can be really hot.”

  His mouth kicks up into a smile as he cups my face, a flicker of desire in his eyes. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

  Without a moment’s delay, he crashes his lips against mine, desperation and devotion and everything in between consuming him. I part my lips, treating myself to a taste of him. But like that first kiss, I won’t be satisfied with just one taste. I need more.

  Wrapping my arms around his neck, I arch into him, running my hands through his hair. I dig my nails into his scalp, and he emits a hungered groan, pushing me across the room.

  When we reach the desk, I slide onto the edge, parting my legs as I hook them around his waist, tugging him even closer. His lips never leaving mine, he places his hand on my back and carefully lowers me onto the surface.

  “Say you want me.”

  I grin. Some things never change. And this is one I don’t want to change. I never want to go a day without Lincoln begging for my reassurance.

  “I want you.”

  “Say you need me.”

  “I need you.”

  Tremors follow the line his hand draws up my leg, my pulse increasing as it disappears into the slit of my dress, his hold on my thigh possessive, sending sparks throughout my body.

  “Do you have any idea how difficult it was to focus during class knowing you were a few feet away and weren’t wearing any panties. How, if I turned your way at just the right moment when you uncrossed your legs, I may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of what’s mine.”

  I close my eyes as his tongue traces a line from my mouth, down my throat, then across my neck. When he reaches the tender spot where he marked me, he’s surprisingly gentle, peppering the most delicate kisses on my bruised skin.

  “And you are mine, Chloe.” His hand continues traveling north along my thigh. When he hits my center, I moan, succumbing to his touch once more. “Say it.” His voice isn’t demanding. Not like it was earlier today. It’s more pleading, as if he can’t go another moment without my declaration.

  “I’m yours. All of me.”

  His lips find mine, and he breathes into me. “And I’m yours, Chloe. Have been since I first saw you. I knew back then that there was something different about you. That I had to have you. And not just your body.” He slides a hand up my torso, tweaking my nipple before he affectionately rests his palm my chest. “But your heart, as well.”

  I grab onto his wrist, keeping it there as his other hand continues exploring me, pushing a finger in, then withdrawing before stretching me even more.

  Unable to endure another second without feeling him, I sit up and reach for his waist. With my gaze locked on his, I loosen his belt and lower his zipper, wrapping my fingers around his erection and pulling it out. I stroke him as he continues fucking me with his fingers.

  His nostrils flare, his jaw twitching, his eyes dark as they look upon me with pure lust.

  “Enough,” he hisses, clutching my wrist, stopping me from jerking him off. Blind to all reason, he pushes me back and enters me in one quick thrust, filling me to the hilt.

  Closing my eyes, I release a low moan, forgetting where we are.

  “Shh…” He brings his hand to my mouth covering it. “Quiet.”

  I nod. He takes his hand away, his pace slow and languid so as to not make too much noise.

  “Put it back.”

  He pauses, furrowing his brow.

  “Your hand. Put it back over my mouth.”

  His pupils dilating, he does as I command. “Like this?” he asks in a husky voice.

  I nod again, the temperature in my body rising, my core clenching at how dark this man can be. He continues pushing into me, filling me completely, just as a knock echoes between our labored pants.

  “Lincoln, are you in there?” a deep voice calls out from the other side of the door.

  We freeze, neither one of us so much as breathing. His wide eyes dart to the door, the seconds stretching. My heart is in my throat, adrenaline coursing through me.

  “It’s John Morrison.”

  “Shit,” Lincoln utters under his breath.

  “Do you have a minute?”

  He blinks, his gaze shifting between the door and me. “I—” he stammers. “I’m on the phone.”

  We both wait in anticipation, praying he walks away. But when no response comes, Lincoln hangs his head and reluctantly pulls out of me, offering a silent apology.

  “Give me a minute to wrap things up.”

  “Certainly.”

  “On the phone? Is that the only excuse you can come up with?” I whisper as Lincoln helps me to my feet, remembering his use of the same excuse mere weeks ago when Professor Gordon interrupted us.

  “Would you rather I tell the dean I was in the middle of screwing one of my students and I’d be with him when I made sure she came?”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, I can’t help but laugh quietly. “I’d give anything to see the look on his face when you told him that.”

  “You may get your wish if I can’t figure a way out of this.”

  “Relax…,” I soothe, standing on my toes and kissing his cheek. “You’re lucky you chose to screw the shortest student in class. And probably the most flexible.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I can fit in some remarkably tight spaces.” I waggle my brows, grab my coat and bag, then head behind his large cherrywood desk, crawling into the alcove between the drawers on either side.

  “Chloe…” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down in a hard swallow. “You don’t—”

  “It’s okay. There’s no other option right now. So go see what he wants before he gets suspicious.”

  He readjusts his composure, straightening the lines of his suit before walking to the door and opening it. I do my best to remain still, despite my uncomfortable position. I pray it’s a quick conversation. My legs are still sore from this afternoon’s calisthenics, not to mention the pain already screaming from my ass. I won’t be able to stay here for too long.

  “Dean Morrison,” Lincoln greets, his voice deep and professional.

  “I hope I’m not disrupting you.”

  “Not at all. Just had to answer a few questions on a filing we’re making at the office.” His steps draw closer and I see his shoes appear a few inches from me. I glance up at his intimidating physique, oddly turned on at how commanding he looks behind this desk with me at his feet. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  “Thank you.”

  There’s a slight stirring as Dean Morrison assumes one of the chairs in front of the desk. Lincoln catches my gaze as he sits, but his eyes don’t linger.

  “What can I do for you this evening?”

  “I heard through the grapevine that Chloe Davenport is back in class.”

  He shifts, discreetly adjusting his belt. “
She is.”

  “That’s good. At least she’ll be better prepared for next semester.”

  He cocks his brow. “What do you mean?”

  “The school only allows students to miss ten percent of class hours. For most courses that meet for an hour three times a week, that amounts to four missed classes. But since yours is three hours once a week, anything after two is grounds for an automatic failure. Well, technically, anything after the first hour of the second missed class is, but I’m being generous. If my calculations are correct, Miss Davenport has now missed three classes.”

  “I understand the school policy, but I’ve decided to excuse the absences due to extenuating circumstances.”

  “I see.” There’s a pause before Dean Morrison speaks again. “Professor Gordon mentioned you both saw Miss Davenport outside a bar in SoHo several weeks ago.”

  The tension in the room thickens, his line of questioning sounding more like an interrogation than a conversation between colleagues.

  “Yes.”

  “She also mentioned you shared a cab with Miss Davenport.”

  I hold my breath, the seconds stretching uncomfortably. I crane my head, stealing a glimpse of Lincoln, his expression unaffected. I suppose that’s the upside of being a lawyer. He has a damn good poker face.

  “I did. Again, there were extenuating circumstances.”

  “I see.”

  I hear the chair push back, followed by footsteps. I send a silent prayer that the dean isn’t about to walk behind the desk. I’d never forgive myself if Lincoln lost his job, lost everything because of me. But isn’t that the game we’re playing?

  “The same extenuating circumstances you’re using as grounds to excuse Miss Davenport from missing too many classes?”

  Lincoln stands, straightening his tie. “As a matter of fact, yes. Since it’s a confidential matter, I’m not at liberty to discuss the exact nature of the problem without Miss Davenport’s permission, but it is sufficient enough to warrant excusing her. Last I checked, the school policy allowed professors the discretion to determine whether or not to excuse absences, and I’ve used that discretion here. These were the first classes she’s missed—”