Give In

by Layla Frost

  For all that was said about the slacker antics of students, we were really creatures of habit and needed structure. The open-ended paper—with no real right or wrong answers—was the source of a lot of freak-outs.

  Due to the high volume of frantic emails and panicked office visits he’d been receiving, Professor Caine had pushed his planned lectures to the following week. In their place, he’d given everyone a set time to meet with him to discuss their outlines.

  Well, almost everyone.

  Because, shocker of the century, one student didn’t get an email with a meeting time.

  Me.

  And that sucked more than the usual amount of Professor Caine suckage, because the paper may have given me a nerdtastic amount of excitement, but I was still overwhelmed.

  I needed that meeting.

  And I was going to get it.

  Somehow.

  Just as soon as I figured out what that somehow was.

  Maybe it’s an honest mistake. Emails get lost all the time.

  I snorted.

  Riiiiiight.

  And maybe he shows up at Sinners because he gets lost and is only looking for directions home.

  And maybe he’s an asshole because he wants me to have an ‘Oh Captain, my Captain’ moment.

  Or, and I’m just spitballing here, maybe he’s an egotistical asshole who finds torturing me hilarious.

  Grumbling to myself, I shoved my stuff in my bag.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” Brooks greeted, wrapping his arm around my tense shoulders. “My next class got cancelled. Where ya heading?”

  “Comparative Politics with Ceaders.”

  He grimaced. “That dude creeps me out.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve never noticed anything with him.”

  Maybe my warning bells are too busy sounding off about Professor Caine.

  “Wanna play hooky with me?” He grinned. “I’ll buy you the biggest coffee we can find.”

  My mouth literally watered at the idea, though my already heated blood and riled thoughts didn’t need the caffeine boost. “I wish. I have stuff to hand in, and he’s a big fan of the pop quiz.”

  “Good decision, Miss Wilder,” I heard from behind us. Turning, I saw Professor Caine standing in the row below us, picking up stray papers. “I’d have hated to speak to Professor Ceaders privately.”

  I saw the way his lips curved up in a small smirk, his brow arching infinitesimally.

  I heard the emphasis.

  His phrasing hadn’t been a coincidence.

  It’d been a dig.

  God, he’s a dick.

  Since walking away without acknowledging him would draw attention, I kept my expression and voice as neutral as possible. “No need for that, Professor Caine.” Then, because I couldn’t help giving him just a tiny taste of his own medicine, I turned and ignored him. I smiled up at Brooks and asked, “What’re you doing with your copious amounts of free time? Building a house? Writing a novel? Reading War and Peace?”

  He laughed. “I was planning on walking you to class then grabbing lunch.”

  “That works, too.” When his smile grew, I couldn’t help but grin up at him. He was cute and incredibly sweet.

  Brooks grabbed our bags and slung them both over his shoulder before curling his arm around me. “See you Wednesday, Caine.”

  We were almost to the door before he responded. “Yes, see you Wednesday, Mr. Crosby.” His voice dropped slightly before he continued. “Miss Wilder.”

  I didn’t need to look back to see his smirk. His arched brow.

  He’d be seeing me Wednesday. And not just in class.

  I hate him.

  *******

  Sure enough, Wednesday night came and there he was. Sitting in one of the chairs that lined the stage, he was leaning back, his bored eyes on me.

  There may have been some close calls before, but I’d always been able to keep it together. Through my panic. My confusion. My mortifying embarrassment.

  But right then, I was struggling not to fall apart. Being distracted was dangerous. One wrong step in my teetering heels, and I could fall and do serious damage. Hopping on a pole was no easy feat, and a mistake could leave me with a broken neck.

  After I finished my set, I used the allotted ten minutes to regroup. I tried to calm down and remind myself I was at work. Instead of helping, I got angrier.

  He’d watched me take my clothes off. He’d paid me more than I’d deserved for the half-ass dances I’d given him. And he’d kept coming back. I’d have to be stupid not to read into that.

  But the cold disdain—or worse, the bored indifference—told the real story.

  I was mad he was a professor with a god complex, the same as the rest. I was mad he played power games. I was mad I’d let myself hope—even fantasize—he wanted me.

  More than anything, I was mad about the way he treated me at school.

  No, I was furious.

  My work had continued to come back with limited notations. The whole point of theories was they weren’t facts. There were views, opinions, and factors to be considered, along with numerous competing theories. Even drastically different theories could end up with the same result.

  I wanted the notes he penned on everyone else’s papers. The ones offering different ideas to challenge everyone to think larger and expand their viewpoints.

  One of Brooks’ papers had been almost completely red. When we’d studied together over coffee, I’d gotten to read it. It was articulate and well-formed, with valid theories. The notes weren’t there because he was a floundering student who Professor Caine was trying to help. It was how every paper was.

  All but mine.

  I got nothing.

  Just because he’s shit at his job doesn’t mean I’m shit at mine.

  I’m a professional, dammit.

  I stormed out, my eyes shooting to the bartender, Mia. She lifted a finger, and I went to the first room. There was a chance it was someone else waiting behind the curtain.

  There was also a chance I would start spraying confetti out of my boobs.

  I ripped the curtain to the side and narrowed my eyes at the man waiting.

  Professor Caine’s legs weren’t outstretched, but his arms were spread along the back of the couch. He tilted his head toward the controls.

  I didn’t move. I didn’t press the buttons, anxious to get it over with.

  Placing my hands on my hips, I stayed where I was and glared harder.

  Not that it did anything. He didn’t look intimidated by my fierce expression. Nor did he look remorseful. Hell, he wasn’t even amused.

  Disinterest poured off him as he met my gaze, locked in a silent standstill.

  I wasn’t going to be the one to break. As far as I was concerned, I would happily spend our time together making it clear with my eyes that I hated him.

  Loathed him.

  Then his head tilted again.

  Still, I hesitated. I’d have pushed my luck had it not been for one thing.

  His arched brow.

  A challenge.

  A quiet growl started somewhere deep in the pit of my clenched stomach and traveled up, full of animalistic frustration.

  Damien Caine had taken a lot from me. More accurately, I’d sold it to him for a hundred dollars a dance.

  My sleep. My comfort. My peace of mind.

  I wasn’t letting him get my pride.

  Ever.

  And if that meant sacrificing a little more of myself—bending so he’d break—I’d do it.

  I’d cut off my nose to spite my face, and I’d grin the whole time.

  Because I hated Damien Caine.

  Reaching over, I touched play on the screen and was surprised when one of my stage songs began. He must’ve adjusted it because the slow and steady rhythm of Don’t Stand So Close to Me filled the room.

  Okay then.

  If he doesn’t want me close to him, I’m going to get as close as possible without violating decency and sanitation la
ws.

  Slowly, I sauntered toward him. I stopped a few feet away and untied my white top, letting it fall open, though it still covered my breasts. Bending, I dragged my palms up the inside of my calves to my thighs and farther, my skirt rising and falling with the motion, but my hand placement hid even the brief glimpse of my white panties.

  Continuing up my stomach to my chest, I crossed one forearm over my breasts and slid my shirt off the opposite arm. I switched and repeated the movement, keeping my chest covered the whole time.

  I kept up the guise of modesty as I moved closer and lifted my knees to the couch. Straddling his thighs, I lowered my ass to sit on his knees. I paused, giving him the chance to back down.

  C’mon.

  Back down, asshole.

  Say chicken.

  When he remained impassive, I went up onto my knees and dropped my arms, the motion causing my breasts to bounce.

  I was aware that my nudity and a lap dance were hardly a punishment. Even as I moved, following through with my impulsive plan, my mind yelled at me for being a fool.

  Yet, I couldn’t stop myself.

  He wasn’t there to see me dance. It wasn’t lust or want. Those were hot emotions.

  But when Professor Caine looked at me, there was no heat. Not even warmth. His eyes were cold and emotionless.

  He came to Sinners to make me uncomfortable. To watch me squirm. To assert his power. I might as well have had strings tied to my limbs, a puppet for my master.

  I wanted to push back and force his hand. Maybe make him uncomfortable for once.

  My plan had backfired, though.

  His expression was as stoic as ever, whereas I could feel my tremors vibrating from the inside out. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how he affected me, though. I also wasn’t going to chicken out. Steadying my hands, I made myself unhook the fasteners at the side of my skirt. My knuckles grazed down his abdomen as I went, burning my skin from the barely-there contact.

  Pulling my skirt off with one hand, I leaned back and curled the fingers of my other hand around his knee. I arched my back and flung the skirt behind me. I knew the position emphasized my chest and rubbed my barely covered pussy against his abdomen.

  When I felt him move as I sat forward, my breath caught.

  I won.

  He wasn’t ending the dance, though. He’d simply dropped his arms, letting them rest on the cushion.

  Moving in time with the tempo, I rocked against him. Feeling him.

  All of him.

  And it was an impressive all. The all-iest of all the alls.

  Seems the good professor doesn’t need the pointing stick he uses in class.

  I’d wanted a reaction, and I got one. His was physical. Mine was soul searing. Body scorching. An empty ache that had me squeezing my thighs together. My nerves sizzled, hyperaware of each spot that touched him. My brain crackled, a white noise hum drowning out reason and common sense.

  Moving on instinct, I dipped so my breasts pressed against him. They skimmed along his torso as I ran my nose up his shirt, breathing in his scent. When I reached his neck, I let my lips graze his skin.

  His sharp inhale was harsh in my ear, another sound echoing it. It cut through the fog that’d surrounded me.

  Like someone had flipped a switch, all the raucous laughter, thumping bass, and rumbled conversations unmuted, roaring to life around me. I became painfully aware of where I was, who I was with, and what I’d just done.

  I hadn’t won the battle.

  In fact, based on the fire that blazed in my veins, I may have just handed him the whole war.

  As the song tapered off, I dropped my eyes to the cushion, unable to face what I’d done. My eyes zeroed in on a large tear where the cushion connected to the back of the couch.

  Charlie had been trying to convince Ted to replace the couches, but Ted was frugal with unnecessary upgrades.

  Looks like Charlie wins.

  Wonder what that feels like.

  Standing to dress, I worked to shake off the mental weight that pushed down on me. I kept my emotions to myself and hid my dejection behind a blank mask. Only when I was to the door did I look over my shoulder to give Professor Caine a small smile before heading out.

  We were supposed to smile wide, like we were happy about what we’d done, but I couldn’t muster up phony emotion.

  “You’ve got three more waiting, sweetie. Gonna be a busy night for you!” Mia yelled to me.

  By the time I collapsed in bed that night, both physical and mental exhaustion made me ache.

  But sleep wouldn’t come.

  I tossed and turned, my brain trying to replay a certain dance. I did my best to focus on something—anything—else. It was my crap luck that the thing my brain decided to shift to was the full bank deposit envelope that sat in my purse, instantly tensing the muscles that’d just begun to relax.

  He didn’t tip me again.

  Damn.

  For a brief moment, I wondered if my dance had called his bluff. If he’d leave me alone, taking the confusing feelings he elicited with him.

  Even as I thought it, I knew it wouldn’t happen.

  Double damn.

  *******

  Damien

  Eden would be the death of me.

  No, that wasn’t quite true.

  She’d be the death and damnation of me.

  Sitting in my office, I leaned back and looked at the number I’d punched into my phone. A better man would delete it and let things be.

  A better man wouldn’t do half the things I’d done where Eden Wilder was concerned.

  When I’d left Sinners the night before, I’d been shaking.

  Fucking shaking.

  I’d pulled over to take some calming breaths and had instead taken my dick in hand. A few pumps and the image of Eden on my lap were all that was needed to make me explode. When I’d started driving again, I’d passed a couple other cars pulled over. My fists had clenched the steering wheel as I’d thought about what they’d been doing. Or who they’d been thinking of.

  God, the way she’d moved had been mind-blowing. Almost load-blowing. I’d ripped the damn couch to keep from touching her.

  It hadn’t been her practiced moves. It was the unconscious ones that’d seared themselves into my brain, a constant torture each time I closed my eyes.

  The lip licking and biting.

  The subtle and graceful movements between the strategic ones.

  The way the lighting hit, making her golden hair glow like the halo of a naughty angel.

  Some people believe that at death, an angel comes to guide souls to heaven.

  If that was true, Eden was the angel they sent to guide souls to hell. She’d give them a glimpse of heaven before they spent their eternity in fire.

  And every soul would follow her willingly.

  I knew that for a fact because it was exactly what I was doing. I craved that little bit of heaven with Eden, knowing full well I was condemning myself to hell in the process.

  Something as simple as her smile was enough to have me signing away my soul. Not that I got the bright ones directed at me. Those were for everyone else. Like Crosby, when she’d look up at him as if the damn world wasn’t a shit place. Like everything was fucking rainbows and glitter.

  No, I didn’t get those smiles. But I’d been inordinately pleased when she’d looked over her shoulder to give me a small one.

  Having it back, I knew I’d never let her take it away again. It was like oxygen to me. I needed it to survive, which showed how fucked-up I was.

  Fucked-up enough to watch her on her date.

  Fucked-up enough to visit her at work, torturing us both.

  Fucked-up enough to risk everything I’d built. Everything I’d worked for.

  Fucked-up enough to push her away before I clutched her at the last second, refusing to do what was right.

  No, not me. I was a selfish bastard.

  Everything she did seemed l
ike a taunt. An attack. And I was so out of my mind when it came to her, I had to strike back.

  That’d been the only reason I’d gone into the room with the bottle-blonde—Diamond or Emerald or some stupid shit. When she’d started stripping, I’d stopped her, telling her I just wanted to talk. Other than her sharing one usable piece of info, the time had been a waste.

  I hadn’t been tempted to repeat the experience because Eden hadn’t been fazed by it.

  Looking back at my phone, I smirked as I connected the call.

  I wanted Eden fazed.

  I wanted her as fucked-up as she had me.

  If she was dragging my soul to hell, hers was coming, too.

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  Footloose, but With More Boobs

  Damien

  “Professor Caine, did you try to get me fired?”

  I hadn’t expected a confrontation, but when Eden had stormed into the classroom, I’d known I was getting one.

  And it made me hard.

  Just like when she called me ‘Professor Caine.’

  At the start of each semester, I made it clear I preferred Caine. Students were always happy to drop the formality.

  But not her. She always called me ‘Professor Caine,’ and it always made me so hard, it hurt.

  Thank Christ for this desk.

  My expression was apathetic as I met her fiery gaze. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Somebody called and told my boss I’d tried breaking one of the rules.” She worked to appear nonchalant as she spoke, but her voice shook with fury.

  Adorable fury.

  “What rule?” I asked.

  She opened her mouth before slamming it shut. “It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t you?”

  “No,” I lied. “Did you get fired?”

  Relief slumped her shoulders as she shook her head. “They know me well enough to know I wouldn’t.”