by Autumn Grey
“What do you want, Elizabeth?” I ask, choosing to be the first to attack in this silent battle.
Before she can answer, I hear footsteps echoing down the empty hall in the direction I just came from. My breath catches like it does every single time Elon is within my vision. Even standing next to danger, knowing full well she could destroy me, my body can’t hide the pull toward the woman walking in the opposite direction.
Elizabeth flicks a glance over my shoulder, surprise flickering in her gaze, then looks at me.
Fuck.
Her warped brain must be formulating all kinds of scenarios right now. What the fuck does she want? I thought after our exchange in my office a few weeks ago, she’d never talk to me again. From the way she walked past me every time our paths crossed after her visit, you’d think I was nothing but air. At some point, I believed I no longer existed in her world.
Yet, here she is.
I’m quick to wipe off any feelings I have for Elon, while my brain searches for a way to get us out of this predicament. The morbid curiosity in her eyes sends shivers down my spine. She saw me leave the practice room for fuck’s sake, Elon following behind in the space of a few minutes.
“So you conduct private music theory lessons in the practice room these days.” It’s more of a statement than a question.
Apparently, I wasn’t quick enough in hiding my reaction to Elon.
If she’s trying to bait me, then she’s barking up the wrong tree.
“Did you need anything?” I question in a bored voice.
Her eyes narrow, her mouth twisting in an ugly sneer. “Stalking students, I see.”
My temper flickers to life and I get in her space, looming above her, my eyes narrowed. “I’m going to ask you again. What do you want, Elizabeth?” My voice is low, barely hiding the anger brimming beneath the surface. She blinks up at me, and I can see she’s trying to hold on to the nonchalant facade. “Now, unless you have more bitchy commentary, I have a class to teach.”
Her arms drop to her sides as she straightens, a calculating look in her eyes. “You seem quite fond of her.”
I ignore her, snake my left arm around her, and open the door.
“You were looking at her the way you used to look at Camille.”
Every part of me locks as I turn around to stare at her coldly.
“You have no fucking clue about how I looked at Camille, how I felt about her. You lost that right when you left her to fend for herself. She was mine. My responsibility. Mine.”
The disgust on her face morphs into guilt and something like regret, but swiftly disappears, replaced by impassiveness.
“And Elon Blake is my responsibility. Remember that,” she throws the words in my face, and a knot coils in my gut.
She turns and walks down the hall, the sound of her clicking heels fading as she rounds the corner and disappears from sight.
This time the pain coursing through me is more intense, slicing through my heart as my two worlds collide.
Guilt from my past consumes me. Desperate craving for my present burns hot in my veins.
Camille.
Elon.
Straightening my shoulders, I school my features to my usual unreadable expression. I stride into class to face my students.
As soon as the lesson ends, I leave Brown Hall with my bag gripped in one hand and stride out to the parking lot to my car. I have a free period, and I know exactly how to make use of that time.
When I’m seated inside my car with my windows up, I pull out the bottle with my pain medication and uncap it. Holding a pill in my hand, I do something I haven’t done for almost two years. After peeling the coating on the pill, I break it into pieces, place them in a piece of white paper and fold it. Then I pull out my phone from my pants pocket and crush the pieces further, using the screen of my phone as a flat surface. After making sure the powder is the right consistency, I pull my credit card from my wallet, open the paper and make a perfect line. I reach up and flip the mirror above my head and pull out a crisp dollar from the little pocket there. I lean forward with my index finger holding my nostril down.
And freeze.
What am I doing?
This is wrong. So wrong.
If I take this path again, I might not be able to stop this time around.
My family’s faces flash inside my head: Mom, Izzy, Bennett. After my rehab stint two years ago, I promised I’d stay away from snorting medication. The thought of seeing disappointment in their faces has me throwing the crisp note on the floor and crumpling the paper with the powder inside it in my hand, then shoving it inside my bag. I shake two pills from the bottle and pop them in my mouth, then roll my head on the headrest and close my eyes, waiting for the soreness in my shoulder and bicep to fade.
It takes several minutes before the pain fades. I’m tempted to pull out the paper and unwrap it, finish what I started, craving the immediate effect of crushed medication as it shoots through my veins.
Chasing the pain away.
Making me forget for just a little while.
My therapist would drag my ass back to his office if she suspected what I was considering, but the elation coursing through me would be worth it. I know what would follow after I came down from my high: the need for the next hit. And before I know it, I’m back to square one.
I push the craving aside and search my mind for something to latch on to.
Elon.
Quirky, sexy as fuck Elon.
TWENTY-EIGHT MINUTES PAST ONE O’CLOCK in the afternoon. I got here at 1 p.m. but couldn’t bring myself to leave the car. I look at the three-story building. Earlier on in my car, I awoke the sleeping beast. It’s getting harder and harder to not think about taking a hit.
The worst thing is that my body now remembers how good it feels to be on a forty-five minute high, all physical and emotional pain gone. Forty-five minutes of sweet surrender, until the euphoria fades and I’m back to wanting to forget again. Wanting forty-five more minutes of pure ecstasy where nothing matters, where I can forget the fact that I couldn’t save Camille when she needed me the most or that my arm will never play the cello again.
The number on the clock on the dashboard changes to thirty after one. My fingers slide inside my bag and wrap around the paper, already tasting rapture on my tongue. I meant to dispose of it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Elon’s eyes flash in my head, looking at me as if I’m more than my useless arm, more than my medication. I remember the hunger warring with uncertainty in her face, the smell of lime crowding my senses when I pinned her against the wall in class, her soft panting, the little moans. . .
I pull my hand out of the bag with a groan and glance down at my lap.
Fuck, I’m so hard.
I press my palm flat on the front of my pants and grit my teeth, imagining those pretty lips of hers around my cock. That thought has me exiting the car, slamming the door shut and crossing the street with one target in mind.
Elon Blake.
Her invitation to her place, her beguiling eyes, her pouty lips and neck I want to bite.
I glance around for any potential witnesses before scanning the numbers on the buzzer in front of me, pressing number 5, and waiting. Several seconds pass, and it feels like I’ve been waiting for hours. I almost give up and return to my car when a female voice accompanied by loud music in the background speaks through the intercom with a cheery, “Elon and Amber’s humble dwellings.”
I blink at the numbers in front of me, half-amused, half-surprised by the greeting.
“Hello!! Anyone there?”
I hear someone yell in the background, “Who is it?” Miss Blake’s voice. Then, a distinct male voice yells, “Margaritas for my ladies.”
She’s not alone. Coming here was a mistake—
Elon’s voice joins the cheery female. They talk rapidly for a few seconds. Silence follows, punctuated by soft footfalls fading away before Elon whispers, “Prof—Nathaniel?”
The barely-hidden surprise and excitement in her voice sends blood rushing into my groin, and I know I have to see her or I’ll die. A little dramatic, but it feels that way right now.
“Nate?” I call out in a low voice, my eyes on Elise’s retreating back. My heart’s racing so fast I can’t breathe properly. “Is that you?”
Several seconds of silence pass, then, “Yeah. You have company. I’ll—”
“No! No, I’ll buzz you up.” I press the button quickly before he has a chance to protest, then grab a pair of flip flops at the door and duck my head around the corner. Elise and Nick are arguing over what to watch on TV: Game of Thrones versus a live car racing event in Monaco.
Perfect. That will keep them busy for a while. “Guys, I’ll be back in a sec. Keep those margaritas coming, Nick. And we’re watching MI Rogue Nation when I return!”
“Where are you off to?” Nick asks at the same time Elise yells, “Who was that at the door?”
Think fast. “Alex. He needs the keys to my locker—”
I’m dismissed quickly when Nick grabs the remote control, muttering “Rogue Nation, my ass” and starts flipping through the channels.
I quickly straighten my white tank top and plaid shorts, turn around and dash out the door, pulling it shut behind me. Everything around me sways a bit when I move too fast, feeling the lovely effects of the margaritas I’ve had the past hour.
I’m surprised Nathaniel is here. I didn’t even think he’d show up. When I got back to my apartment, I changed into my tank and boxer shorts, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed with a book and read my heartache away. Instead, I called Nor to check on Josh. She informed me he had stabilized, and there was no need for me to drive down to Willow Hill. So I texted Nick and Elise to let them know I was home and needed company. Within a few hours they were here, hanging out with me. Elise is doing her residency at St. James Hospital where Josh is currently admitted.
I round the corner just as the door to the stairwell swings open. In walks in my professor in all his brooding glory, long toned legs in black pants, broad shoulders draped in a white button-down shirt and a blazer. His eyes snap up to mine, the frown on his forehead vanishing.
“Hey,” he greets in that deep voice of his, his gaze searching mine, taking in my features.
“Hey.” A shiver trails a hot path up my spine. Even tipsy, my body still reacts to his addictive voice, basking in the concern in his tone.
We stare at each other, his eyes roaming over me, pausing on my thighs where my checked boxer shorts end. He swallows hard before lifting his darkened gaze back to mine.
When he doesn’t say anything, I whisper, “I didn’t think you’d come.”
He shoves his balled up fists in his pants pockets. “Feeling better?”
I snicker, not sure why I find his question hilarious. “You came all the way to ask me that?”
He blinks, probably wondering why I find his words funny, steps closer, his head tilted to one side. “What do you think?”
“You tell me.” I move forward, and I can smell his cologne and him.
He narrows his eyes. “You’re drunk.”
I roll my eyes. “Just two margaritas.”
“Isn’t it a little early for margaritas?” he asks, tucking stray hairs on my forehead into the lopsided bun hanging over my shoulder.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere.” I grin at him, feeling high because of him.
He studies me, a frown forming on his face, changing to a deep scowl. “He’s in there with you,” he growls, jaw tight.
Is he jealous? Even after telling him who Nick was to me, he’s jealous.
And why does that make me feel giddy?
I choose not to answer his question, just to see where he’s going with this.
“Go back inside.” He jerks his chin in the general direction I came from. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He turns and stalks back the way he came.
“Why are you here, Nathaniel?” I ask, crossing my arms on my chest.
He stops and turns to face me, and I can’t read his expression anymore.
Damn it, I really hate seeing that look on his face.
Being here is dangerous. Anyone could walk in on us, yet, I’m rooted on the spot, staring at this siren of a girl. A woman. I’m nine years older than Elon, but when I’m around her, I feel like I’m back to when I was fifteen, trying to impress a girl. Trying to be cool and lock my gaze with hers, jealous of the boy in her apartment. My body hasn’t gotten the memo though. I’m rock hard to the point of pain.
Jesus, those tiny shorts were made for her. Seeing her wearing those boxers makes her even more sexy. I’ve seen her wearing dresses and jeans, and they look great on her, but those shorts, my fingers itch to rip them off her body, bend her over on the stairs and pound into her hard and fast.
She steps closer. I take a deep breath as a tangy scent hits me hard. Orange? Lime? I’m too intoxicated to tell the difference. All I know is that she smells like something I want to eat, preferably not here. If I’m going to eat her, it has to be in private. No witnesses. All fucking mine.
“I feel better,” she says in a low, husky voice, answering the question I almost forgot I asked. “You’re looking at my mouth. Want to have a taste?” She bites her lip, moves forward but wobbles a little, trying to right herself, then stares at me through her lashes.
She’s drunk, you idiot.
“You are inebriated. You’ll regret this tomorrow,” I say sternly.
She rolls her eyes. “Not too drunk to know what I want.”
I raise a brow. “And what do you want, Miss Blake?”
Her mouth pulls into a coy smile. How is that even possible?
“To feel the shape of your mouth with my lips. I want to know if they are as firm and cruel as they look or if they soften when you kiss.”
Christ. This girl.
Those words send heat rushing through me. It takes a lot of effort to take a step back from her just to save my sanity.
She smirks and says, “Lie to me and tell me you don’t want to kiss me right this second. I see the way you look at me. I know you feel this.” She points the space between us.
“You do, huh?” I wet my dry lips, then swallow hard. “How do I look at you?”
She slightly dips her chin and looks up at me through her lashes. “The way you’re looking at me right now.”
If what I’m feeling inside me reflects on my face—the sheer need to consume her whole—then I know exactly what she sees.
She places her palm flat on my chest. I feel her touch seep through my shirt and into my bones, searing heat to the part of me that hasn’t seen light in three years. It scares the shit out of me, makes me lose my breath.
“Elon,” I groan, pressing a hand atop hers and opening my eyes. “This should be the end of you and me. I shouldn’t want you like this, craving you, aching for you. But here I am, standing in front of you, wanting this. Wanting you any way I can get you.” I release a long breath, knowing what I have to do. It’s wrong, but I do it anyway.
Tossing the code of ethics out the proverbial window, I grasp her wrist with my left hand, pull her toward the stairs, away from the hallway and push her against the wall. I drop my arm around her waist and yank her to me. The chaos, the hunger for medication has been replaced by the need to consume and be consumed.
“Little Wolf has come out to play, hmm?”
Her eyes widen at the pet name. She recovers quickly and smiles. “Are you finally going to kiss me?”
Christ, that mouth. “Just so we’re clear, if we cross this line…” I squeeze her ass like I’ve wanted to do for weeks now—tight to the point of pain—moving my palm in firm caresses up her stomach, her tits, her neck, stopping at her mouth. “Every part of you will belong to me from this point forward until we fuck each other out of our systems. This—” I stroke her full top lip with my thumb. “—And this—” I move my hand down, cup her betwee
n her legs. “Mine. You okay with that?”
She nods, watching me through hooded eyes, quick pants rushing out of her parted lips. “All yours. Just kiss me before I die,” she says desperately.
A sound between a laugh and groan escapes through my lips. My head dips, catching her off guard. She gasps, tangles her fingers in my hair and tugs hard.
I pull back. “Easy. I know what you need. I’ll give it to you. Just let me enjoy this fucking moment.”
She huffs, her nostrils flaring. “Are you serious right now? Someone could walk in on us.”
My head jerks upright at her words. I glance around, then feel my body relax a little. We’re squished in a small alcove where the window dips in. Besides, the floors in this place have a way of announcing someone’s arrival before their appearance.
I lean down and run my tongue along her bottom lip, letting myself be swept away by this moment, this thing, whatever is happening between us, this force field pulling us together. A moment to remember who I am and who she is to me. This feeling, so fragile, yet powerful at the same time. A dissonance of notes.
She wiggles, grinding her pussy on my cock. Her breasts are pressing into my chest now, her nipples hard, her breath fanning my lips. Her eyes are dancing with mischief and promises of making me forget.
“Stop it,” I ground, ready to come in my pants.
“Are you going to punish me for disobeying?” she asks playfully.
Elon has a wild streak, and I cannot wait to discover what it is.
“You know, the first time I met you I thought you were a shy, quiet little thing.”
She raises her chin in that stubborn way. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not shy and never have been. Just because I don’t talk a lot doesn’t mean I’m shy. Or stuck-up.”
My eyes leave that mouth and rove all over her face, taking in the sultry look in her eyes, then wander back to those lips I just tasted and want to destroy with my own. “Oh, Miss Blake. Stuck-up is not a description I would use for you.”