by Pam Godwin
With the tips of my fingers in my pockets, thumbs out, I shift to stand before her. “Your name?”
Her bottom lip is, indeed, cut and swollen. She sucks it between her teeth as her shoulders make a slow decent to self-assurance. Then she raises her chin and meets my eyes. “Ivory Westbrook.”
Ivory. That conjures an image of paleness with hard, worn edges like piano keys or teeth. Doesn’t fit her at all. She’s a dark portrait of soft curves and chestnut hair with deep golden skin that seems to absorb shadows in the room I hadn’t noticed until now.
Fuck, I’m definitely going out and getting laid tonight.
“Miss Westbrook, find a seat with fewer distractions.” I point toward the girls.
Ivory’s enormous doe eyes stare up at me, as if caught in the glare of stage lights. She blinks, glances at the girls, and looks down at her desk when they cast her uninviting sneers. That answers my question about her seating choice.
“I’m not here to indulge in your sensibilities.” I slam a hand on her desk, making her jump. “Move.”
With a ragged inhale, she grabs her satchel and walks toward the snickering girls, her gait leaden yet determined.
Every male in the room watches her stride along the front row of desks, and I don’t have to follow suit to know what they see. Stripper-pole legs, tits almighty, and a high, round ass that flexes with each step.
The primitive, hungry part of me wants to join in their appreciation while the protective part wants to cover her with an over-sized coat. Instead, the disciplinarian takes over and lands an admonishing smack on the back of the closest juvenile head.
Sebastian flinches and casts me a startled look. “What was that for?”
I pluck his phone from his hand and toss it in the vicinity of my desk. It overshoots, slides off the other side, and hits the floor.
The rest of the room erupts in a flurry, shoving phones into pockets and bags. Everyone except Ivory. Hands folded together on the desk and no phone in sight, she watches me with a guarded expression.
Sebastian plays with a clump of his over-oiled hair. “If you broke my phone…”
I arch my eyebrow, my tone hard. “Go on.”
He shrugs. “My dad will buy me a new one.”
Of course, and it would be hypocritical of me to condemn this kid for being an entitled prick. I was no different at his age, with wealthy parents and an inflated sense of self-importance. Hell, I’m still a prick, only now I’m held accountable for my actions.
I move to the front of the room, hands clasped behind my back. “Welcome to twelfth-grade Music Theory. I’m Mr. Marceaux, and I’ll be your music director for your last year here at Le Moyne Academy. After this class, you’ll head to your master classes in specific disciplines. Piano students will remain with me. Before we begin, what do you want to know about me?”
The Asian girl who Ivory chose to sit by raises her hand.
I gesture toward her. “Introduce yourself, please.”
She stands beside her desk. “Ellie Lai. Cello.” She bounces on her toes. “What’s your background?”
I give her a nod and wait until she settles in her seat. “I hold a Master of Music from Leopold Conservatory of New York. I’m a member of the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra. And my most recent employment was Head of School at Shreveport Preparatory, where I also directed the music program.”
Prescott makes a show of stretching and smiling. Then he nonchalantly tosses an arm in the air and speaks without my prompt. “What are you, like…twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?” His voice drawls with antagonism. “How did you get a master’s, do the teaching thing and become dean, all in such a short amount time? What’s up with that, Mr. M?”
I worked my fucking ass off, you lazy little cocksucker.
And to think, in one hasty slide of a zipper, I lost it all, including something I never set out to have, which ended up being the only thing that mattered.
The very thought of Joanne sitting behind my desk in Shreveport makes my rib cage vibrate with rage. But imagining her continuing her life without me evokes a toxic fume of poison so invasive I can smell the betrayal with every choking breath.
I slowly roll my neck, clearing my thoughts and reining myself in. “I received my undergrad early and taught high school in Manhattan while I worked on my master’s. Any other questions?”
Ivory raises her hand.
“Yes?”
She remains seated, doesn’t fidget, and her dark gaze hones directly into mine. “You play piano? I mean, of course you do, since you’ll be my tutor. But you play piano in the Symphony Orchestra?”
Christ, her voice… It’s not lazy and high-pitched like girls her age. It’s complex and entrancing, like raindrops at midnight.
“Yes, I play piano in the Orchestra.”
Her smile is a slow-building nocturne, a tranquil expansion from her mouth to her eyes. “Solo?”
“Sometimes.”
“Wow.”
Not only am I shocked by her line of questioning, but the reverent way she’s looking at me makes my goddamn skin hum. I don’t like it. I’m proud of my achievements, but not when that lofty feeling distracts me from my hard-earned bitterness.
I dismiss the remaining raised hands with a sharp tone. “Open your Music Theory books to chapter three. We’re going to jump right into…” My attention snags on Ivory as the entire room follows my directive except her. “Do you need a hearing aid, Miss Westbrook?”
“No.” She drops her hands in her lap and meets my gaze head-on. “My other teachers gave me the week to buy my books.”
“Do I look like your other teachers?”
“No, Mr. Marceaux.” A female voice pipes up in the back. “You definitely do not.”
A chorus of giggles follows, and irritation curls my fingers.
I swipe my text book from my bag and drop it on her desk. “Chapter three.” I lean in, putting my face in hers. “Try to keep up.”
She blinks rapidly. “Yes, sir.”
Her whispered response strums at a pulsating, destructive, very adult hunger deep inside me. My skin heats, and my palms slick with sweat.
Jesus, I’m going to need a screaming-hard fuck tonight. Leather, rope, and chafing strokes. No safe words. No clingy aftercare. Chloe or Deb will do. Maybe both.
Focus, Emeric.
“Take out your tablets and open a browser to my website.” With my back to the class, I continue talking while scrawling the url on the whiteboard. “You’ll find all my lectures here. I expect you to follow along.”
When I face the room, Ivory hasn’t moved to follow my directions.
I feel a vein throbbing in my forehead and anchor my fists on my hips. “Let me guess. No tablet?”
“She can sit here,” Prescott says, patting his lap, “and share mine.”
She clenches her jaw and flips him off.
I waver between wanting to punch Prescott’s face and whip Ivory’s perfect ass. Neither is a lawful option, and the latter boils my blood just for thinking it.
My focus dips to her lips for a breath too long before I address the class. “Read the chapter and answer the questions at the end of the lecture.”
I curl a finger at Ivory in a follow-me gesture. “I’ll see you in the hall.”
I follow Mr. Marceaux out of the classroom, my mouth dry and hands damp. As the door clicks shut behind him, my insides writhe under the barrage of a thousand fists.
He’s not a huge man, but he seems gigantic in the empty hall, a towering pissed-off mountain of repercussion.
If my future depends on his first impression of me, I’ve fucked my life to hell.
He rubs a hand down his face, over his mouth, and glares at me for an eternity. “You come to my class unprepared and—”
“I cleared the text book issue with the front office. They always give me the first week to—”
“Do not interrupt me,” he says harshly and leans in, bracing a hand on the wall beside my head.
“Are you deliberately trying to waste my time?” His jaw hardens. “No sniveling excuses or lies. You have five words to explain why you don’t have your supplies.”
Five words? Is this guy serious? He can eat a dick, because I’m only giving him four.
“I live in Treme.”
“Treme,” he echoes, deadpanned.
I hate how stiff and uncomfortable I feel in the confines of his glare. I want him to look away, because I hate his eyes, hate the vivid facets of sapphire and the way the icy specks sharpen under the fluorescent lights. Nothing could ever be gentle or safe in that gaze.
His throat moves in the deep pocket of shadow above his tie. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you live in Treme?”
He doesn’t just ask the question. He snaps it like a whip. Like a punishment I didn’t earn.
I’m only inches away from him, my back against the wall, and I feel defensive, cornered, my hackles bristling with vindication. “Oh, right. I forgot you have a big fancy degree, so I’ll dumb it down for you.”
“Watch your fucking tone.”
It’s barely a whisper, caught and held in the small space between us, but I feel it vibrate through me like a thunderous roar.
He said no sniveling excuses or lies? Fine.
I wipe the attitude from my voice and give him raw, unpolished honesty. “I live in Treme because my family can’t afford a mansion in the Garden District, Mr. Marceaux. I can’t afford a cell phone or any kind of phone. I can’t afford running shoes or food for my cat. And those…those electronic bracelets all my classmates wear when they work out? I don’t know what they do, but I can’t afford one of those, either. And right now, I don’t have the money for school supplies. But I will. I’ll have it by the end of the week.”
Straightening, he steps back and lowers his head. Is that a fucking smile he’s hiding? I swear to God I glimpsed one. Is he actually enjoying the pathetic appraisal of my life? What a horrible fucking person! This is the teacher I’m supposed to look up to? The one who will make me or break me? My lungs heave and slam together.
When he lifts his head, his mouth is a flat line, and the frigid depths of his eyes seem to manipulate his entire expression, twisting it into a collage of other faces that haunt me when I sleep. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”
“Never,” I seethe through grinding teeth. “I never want that.”
“No? Then what? Seems you expect me to make exceptions for you?”
“No. Just—” I’ve never met a more callous, self-righteous dick. “Just write me up or whatever you’re going to do.”
I know something isn’t right the moment he looks down the hall and checks to make sure we’re alone. I know this entire confrontation is inappropriate when he bends toward me and places his hands on the wall, trapping me in. And I know there isn’t a goddamn thing I can do about it as he whispers through the pounding in my ears.
“Don’t worry about your punishment.” His attention falls to my lips, returns to my eyes. “I’ll take care of that later.”
Just like that, my strength, my bravery, all the things I wish I had right now abandon me in the heavy arms of fear. I’ve been in this position countless times. This is a first with a teacher, but he’s no different than the other takers. I could report him, but who are they going to believe? The girl with a slutty reputation or the former dean of Shreveport? And while I can’t overpower him, I know I’ll survive it. I might even master my emotions while it’s happening, like a Chopin nocturne in D-flat major.
I’m startled when his hand lifts, not to grab my breast but to pinch my chin so he can see my lip. “You need to go to the nurse and have her put something on this cut.”
It’s not until he releases me and slides his hands into his pockets that I realize I’m shaking. He steps back, elbows wide, shoulders loose. A heavy chill diffuses through my body.
He watches me with those arctic blue eyes, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to head toward the nurse’s office or wait to be dismissed. For some reason, it matters. Like he’s testing me. So I wait.
He’s a mercurial, heartless asshole, but he also surprised me. He didn’t force his mouth against mine, didn’t dig his fingers between my legs. He…stepped back?
Maybe I still have a chance to prove I’m not just a poor girl or a five-minute grope in a hallway.
A recurrent of sharp clicking sounds fills the silence between us. I follow the noise with my gaze, trailing over his tie and waistcoat, visually tracing along the dark dusting of hair on his exposed forearm, and pause on the mechanical watch on his wrist.
Moving wheels with tooth-like points whirl inside the enormous face, ticking, measuring the rhythm of time, like a metronome. Will each ticking moment I spend with him be an irreversible succession into the future? Or will he hold me here, stuck in the present, in this life?
“Miss Westbrook.”
I snap my attention to his face, the angled lines of his jaw, the darker shades of his cheeks where stubble will grow in, and the curve of lips that haven’t been injured by circumstance. He seems untouchable. Maybe his fists are as brutal as his beauty. Just looking at him feels like I’m inhaling a lungful of fire.
Because he’s dangerous, and he seems to know this, too, as he thrusts an impatient finger in the direction of the nurse’s office, his voice fueled with urgency. “Go.”
I turn and hurry down the hall with the weight of his gaze pressing against my back.
As Ivory darts down the hall, she doesn’t look back, doesn’t dare meet my eyes. But the frantic rush of her steps tells me enough. I affect her. Not my professional bearing, but my masculine presence. I terrify her.
A wide grin stretches my mouth.
Separated by the length of the corridor, I still feel the what-ifs firing between us. I know she imagined us together when I corralled her against the wall. I’m certain she felt the power exchange, maybe even detested it, as it stuttered her inhales and dilated her pupils. And still, she waited for my permission to leave.
Knowing that, watching her run away, the sight of her curvaceous body swaying innocently, all of it ignites a predatory need inside me. The need to chase.
But I won’t. Not here. Not ever. I release a breath and wait for my hard-on to receive the message.
The moment she vanishes around the corner, I slouch against the wall.
She’s exactly the kind of woman I’m drawn to. A woman who flees when hunted and comes alive when she’s caught. A woman who bends beneath punishments and seeks acceptance in her humiliation. A woman who bites at a heavy hand, only to melt around the unforgiving grip when it cuts her air.
I demanded her honesty—no sniveling excuses or lies—and expected her to recoil, disobey, or tell me to fuck off. But she didn’t, couldn’t. It was the moment I realized it’s her nature to give me what I want. When she exposed the embarrassing details of her poverty, offering up her vulnerabilities for me to mock at, heaven help me, it was beautiful and tragic and seductive—a trinity of temptation.
A greedy throb tightens the front of my pants, but the reaction means fuckall. It’s simple, really. I want sex. Filthy, kinky sex. Nothing more. As raw and enraged as I am about my last mistake, I’m unwilling to move on, unable to let go of Joanne. But I’m also vicious in my resentment and vindictive enough to fuck as many women as possible with the brutal dominance Joanne craves and can no longer have. Maybe she’ll choke on her poisonous jealousy.
Which makes Ivory a tantalizing tease. I can give her exactly what she needs. I can train her, objectify her, and defile her, and she’d let me, because surrender is the very fabric of her sexuality.
But I could also lose myself in her, because she’s the kind of woman I make mistakes for.
Ex
cept she’s not a woman.
As a senior, she’s at least seventeen, the legal age of consent. But she’s still a child, ten years my junior, and sexual conduct between teacher and student is punishable by imprisonment, regardless of age.
The notion is sobering, deflating my dick and making it a hell of a lot easier to keep my hands to myself.
Back in the classroom, the students bombard me with questions about the chromatic scale and the circle of fifths. Slowly, my fixation with Ivory slips into the recesses of my mind.
Until the door opens, and her dark eyes instantly find mine.
I continue the lecture as she slides behind her desk, her bottom lip glazed in a sheen of ointment. I don’t give her more than a half-second glance. I’m the adult here, the one in control of our interactions. Ignoring my fascination with her, pretending I don’t want to devour her with my gaze, sets appropriate boundaries. I’m here to teach her, and that doesn’t include instructions on how to properly suck my cock.
To be honest, despite my disgraceful end as Head of School in Shreveport, I’m excited to be back in the classroom. Nothing fills me with a sense of belonging like standing before a rapt audience and commanding attention with the sound of my voice. This isn’t a job. It’s a creditable use of my need to influence and dominate, a place where I can discipline weaknesses, mold trustful minds, and inspire students with my passion for music.
My veins thrum with energy as I listen to the class discuss the application of an invariant hexachord. I straddle a chair at the front of the room, nodding in encouragement and interjecting only when they stray off topic. They look to me for knowledge, shiver beneath my directives, and I get off on it.
This is why I didn’t fight to keep my job in Shreveport. I need this…this freedom to leave all the administrative bullshit behind and focus on my love of teaching.
The class discussion grows in volume, voices clashing, as a debate arises about the use of tone rows. I’m seconds from putting an end to it when Ivory jumps in.