Crossing the Line

by Lauren Landish

  I know what I need to do. I need to help her come back to life, to recognize the potential and worth she has inside her. The question is, how deep do the scars run? Where exactly are they?

  In my mind, I picture her exactly as she was, standing at my door half-turned, her breasts and hips outlined against the fabric of her outfit, her eyes sparkling with intensity as she tells me she won’t give up. My cock stirs, and I reach down, adjusting it in my jeans, telling it to shut the fuck up for a few minutes. One of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, and the fact that she isn’t perfect turns me on. But she has something I lack, something drilled into me from the time I was born with the need to seek out and conquer. I can't fight that urge inside me, but at least I can acknowledge it without giving in to it.

  “I'm going to go back to my room and find out the answer. I'm pissed off that I got stumped. If I can say, though, Professor . . . I don't give up,” she said, her eyes burning with twin needs, a deep desire for acceptance and deep-seated agony. I don't think most people would see it, and those who can . . . are often the same type of asshole who hurt her in the first place.

  So what do I do? There's a simple answer, which is to do nothing. She's seeing a counselor. That's their job. But that doesn't sit well with me. I can see that at night, she's still caught up in the nightmare of that lake house in Georgia, and I don't think the counselor is going to be able to help her in time before she's taken advantage of again.

  Maybe it's time to risk it all. As weird as it sounds, I need to seduce her—I need to show her that she can be safe in her body and her sexuality again. Problem is, Stanford isn't going to look kindly on me fucking a student if word got out. Even with tenure, fucking your TA is not something the administration smiles upon.

  I just have to keep control of myself and my baser needs. I've done it for twenty-six years. I’m strong enough to do it this time too. I need to build her up, not just fuck her. I need to show her that she has value and worth. I need to show her that she’s not broken, or at least if she was, that she can rebuild herself. It’ll take some time, so I have to keep control. I can do it for a little while at least.

  I've still got forty-five minutes until my dinner date, but now I've lost all appetite, both for dinner and for anything else. I send a text message, breaking it off. She'll be pissed, but I didn’t really know her anyway.

  Chapter 5

  The Counselor

  So Shawnie, you look like you're having a good day today. How have the first few weeks of the new term been going for you?

  It's going really well. After shadowing Professor Meyers for the first week, he had me take over one of his classes, an undergrad class. It's a good challenge, and I'm doing well so far.

  He's having you teach the whole class?

  Not really. I kind of just follow the curriculum and materials he set up, so it's not like I have to do a lot of prep work. I like it though. Rafe's got a unique way of doing things. Different than the professors I had at Tech.

  You just called him Rafe. Any particular reason?

  That? He insists that I call him that around the office. I guess it just slipped out. He's an interesting man.

  How so?

  And what does this have to do with my counseling?

  I'm curious. Seeing you talk about academics is a good break from the more painful side of what we discuss on these weekly sessions. And after last week's hour-long talk about your nightmares, I think it’s good for you.

  He's interesting, that's all. He pushes me. He even checks my coursework for my other classes, making me do corrections on it until it’s perfect. And he gives me homework for me to do on my own just for him, stuff that’s light years ahead of what my other courses are asking me to do. And he doesn’t let up in the least with any of it.

  So he’s demanding.

  He is, but he just has a way of making me want to be better. I don’t know how to explain it.

  From what you've told me, you haven't been challenged academically in years.

  Good point. That might be it.

  Is that all there is to it?

  I know what you’re asking. I guess it doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes. Let’s just leave it at that for now.

  Okay, I notice you’re starting to get short on your answers, so we’ll move on for now. How's your . . . what is it you call it again—your demon?

  It's been difficult this past week. I made another trip to The Club Saturday night.

  Well, at least you are going to a place where you can be as safe as you can be. I’d prefer you didn’t do it, though. What happened?

  I met up with a man, one of the more dominant ones at The Club. He whipped me, spanked me bright red before he took my ass.

  Shawnie, I guess it goes without saying that the way you usually talk about this, it doesn’t seem like you enjoy it that much. You speak of it all matter-of-factly, never with any emotion.

  I don’t enjoy it. That part inside me does though. But no matter how much I try and fight it, I just can't stop. I see something, the demon breaks out, and I'm getting dressed to go down there and be humiliated or abused just so I can satiate that need that’s so strong.

  As a counselor, I'm supposed to just sit back and let you talk, but sometimes it’s hard. Especially when it's compared to the obvious pride you take in the academic side of your life.

  It's hard to say, but I almost never feel any sort of arousal for the past year except when I'm being treated roughly.

  You say almost. That means there’s hope, at least. When are the other times?

  Well . . . I get aroused around Rafe. It’s not just his body, which you’d have to be a corpse not to notice. But he’s a professor, and I’m just a student, so I hide it pretty well. Still, he’s handsome, but I think it has to do with how hard he pushes me.

  That's quite normal. Many people are attracted to powerful people in their lives that way.

  Yeah, but not too many fantasize about Rafe the way I do.

  You might be surprised. But can you tell me, your fantasies—are they different from what you do at The Club?

  A little.

  How so?

  I don't think I'm ready to share that with you yet.

  That's okay then. How about we move on to something else . . .

  Chapter 6

  Shawnie

  “So do you have those tests done yet?” Rafe asks, coming into the office from the field house, probably after getting his workout in, his arms rippling with muscle as he smooths his shirt over his body and sits down. He always goes in for a workout right around lunch. It’s a predictable habit of his.

  I look over the pile that's in front of me. Forty-two tests to go. Twenty-five of them are from the class I teach and are four pages long, none of it multiple choice, and I wonder if he’s insane. “Not yet. I'm working through the undergrad course now.”

  Rafe nods and pulls his computer keyboard over, typing away while still multitasking and giving me all the attention I need. “Okay, well when you finish with that, I'd like to talk with you about an opportunity that dropped into my lap yesterday afternoon. Think you can get those tests done in the next two hours?”

  Two hours? It’s going to probably take twice that long. There’s just too much math to go through. He looks up, his eyebrow cocked, but I nod. This is just another Rafe Meyers challenge. “Two hours. By the way, I got my midterms back already.”

  “I know. What’s up with the 97 on the one Hardwick gave you?”

  I shrug, no longer surprised by the fact that he probably knew my scores before I did. “Transcription error. I wrote three instead of eight in my final answer. All of my calculations up to there were perfect though, so Professor Hardwick only took off three points.”

  Rafe shakes his head, sighing. “Hardwick. Brilliant man, but too soft. You know, a transcription error cost NASA about a hundred million dollars when someone did a similarly boneheaded move, and a probe crashed into Venus rather than sliding in
to orbit. Remember that next time you think it was just a transcription error.”

  I fume and put my head down, grading my pile of tests. Rafe types away for a while, leaving me in silence at least. I finish four tests, slamming each of them down before I start the next, when Rafe's voice cuts through my pity party. “You made a mistake, Shawnie. I'm not saying you have to be perfect. I just know that you’re better than that. I've seen it over the past two months.”

  I look up and see the burning intensity in his eyes that always gives me butterflies in my stomach, and I nod, taking a deep breath. “I understand, Rafe. But it kinda fucking sucks to be working for Mr. Perfect when he expects you to be the same way all the time. I'm anything but perfect.”

  “You don't need to be. And newsflash, I’m not perfect either.”

  Could’ve fooled me, I think. I give him a little smile and go back to work, finishing the last few I have left.

  Finally finished, I pick up the pile of papers and set them in the box for Rafe. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” Rafe says, his eyes flickering around on the monitor, checking seemingly a dozen things at once. “Have a seat.”

  “What else do you do?” I ask as I sit down, curious as to what else Mr. Perfect does with his time. “I mean, the rumors have you embarrassing the NCAA athletes on your lunch workouts, but they can’t all be true, can they?”

  Rafe gives me a raised eyebrow, just enough that it makes me wonder if the rumors are true before he goes back to his monitor. “I think you know that I spend most afternoons working on non-class related stuff.”

  “Your Pentagon projects,” I reply, perking up. This is interesting. “You haven't said much about that.”

  “For good reason,” Rafe replies, pushing his keyboard away and turning his attention to me. I don't think he knows how much it turns the butterflies in my stomach to a roiling, melting ball of desire when he does that, and how much his eyes have started to intrude on my dreams at night. “You did a summer internship at the Jet Propulsion Lab, Shawnie. Don't tell me you were content running around and getting forty-ounce Pepsis for the geeks and taking out the trash.”

  “I did real work, thank you very much,” I reply, feeling my heat rise again. How is it he does this to me, needling me one minute and complimenting me the next? “I worked on some of the civilian projects there.”

  “You obviously went through the steps for a secret clearance to even be let in the labs,” Rafe replies. “You know what that entails—I can’t tell you everything I’m working on unless you join the team.”

  The team? “Wait, are you asking me to . . .”

  Rafe smirks and raises an eyebrow again. “Yes, I’m asking if you really want to work for me. Not this bullshit you do around here. You said you wanted to work on some cutting edge stuff. So, you wanna change jobs or not?”

  “Of course I do!” I answer before getting control of my excitement. “I mean, yes. Yes, I do.”

  “You'll have to undergo a background check, but I don’t think it’ll be a problem. It’s going to mean a lot of secure lab time,” Rafe comments, his eyes still twinkling and that maddening, sexy smile on his lips. “And if you think that I'm putting the screws to you now, just wait. I've been accused of whipping my teams raw.”

  He doesn't know it, but his choice in words is turning the desire in my body into a raging inferno, and the image of me under him, naked and begging for him, flashes through my mind. I take a deep breath, which thankfully only slightly shudders, and nod my head. “I understand, sir.”

  It's out of my mouth again before I can even think about it, but I'm not as frozen by it as I was last time. Calling Rafe that makes sense, but he reacts with a slight scowl. “I told you I prefer being called Rafe.”

  “I . . . I'm sorry,” I answer, taking a deep breath again. “I got a little excited. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  “I know you didn't. But that word carries deep meaning for a lot of people. You should be careful just slinging it around until someone's proven himself worthy of it. A lot of people who demand it aren't deserving of being called sir by someone as capable as you.”

  I blush. I can feel it creeping up my neck, and I nod again. “Okay. I'll keep that in mind. So what can you tell me?”

  “You heard of the CyberFighter?” Rafe asks, and my eyes widen. Anyone who's really interested in aircraft has heard of the CyberFighter, the first in what some are calling the next generation of fighter aircraft for the military. Next-next-next generation capabilities, so stealthy that nothing in the world can pick it up in time. “I take it from your expression that you have.”

  “I . . . yeah, I have,” I say, trying to keep myself under control. “But everything that I've read says that it's supposedly just in the planning stages, computer modeling and running . . .”

  Rafe glances at his desktop, then back at me as my voice trails off. “No, I don't do that on this thing. There's no way in hell the Pentagon would let me do that. Like I said, it’s a lot of secure lab time. They want the data locked up tight. Most of the basic modeling is done anyway, and the Pentagon wants to take things to the next level.”

  “The next level as in . . .?” I ask, and Rafe smiles. A warm shiver runs down my spine, and I have to admit that not all of it is because of the sexy man that I have sitting on the other side of the office from me. My inner geek is doing backflips too.

  “I've been told to put together a team for the first small-scale concept test. This is a proof of concept. You've shown a lot of promise, Shawnie.”

  “I don't even have my Master's yet,” I point out. “Are you looking for another intern or an actual team member?”

  “Actual team member,” Rafe says, smirking. “I don’t need degrees. I need minds, and you’ve got a good one. But make no mistake, it’s not going to be fun. There’s going to be a lot of hard work. And it won't be a democracy, but a dictatorship.”

  I nod, thinking that’s exactly how I like it. “That's a lot to take in. And if I say no?”

  “Then you stay on as my TA. You're doing fine, but like I said, this is bullshit. You're better than running to get me coffee twice a day, teaching undergrad courses, and grading papers. You could be so much more.”

  “And if I take the position?”

  Rafe chuckles and leans back. “Then you join a very long and not-so-distinguished group of assistants I've had who've been fired before the end of a term. But you'll be the first who was fired due to promotion rather than being a fuckup.”

  An opportunity. It's one that rarely comes along. But can I handle it? Inside me, the demon whispers, saying that I'm just as worthless here in the academic world as I am in The Club and that I can't hang unless I get dirty. But I've never backed down before, and I don't know what to do. “Rafe . . .”

  “Wait,” he says, holding up a hand. “I know what you're going to say. I can see it in your eyes. Don't give me your answer now. I'm breaking quite a few rules even saying this, but . . . have dinner with me.”

  What? Did Mr. Perfect just ask me on a date? Did I just hear correctly? Did I just hit my head or fall through the looking glass or something? “You can't be serious.”

  “I'm dead serious,” Rafe says, sitting forward. “Shawnie, this team, it's beyond the scope of Stanford. Sure, we'll be using university property, but we'll also be going places, some places that you may never get an invitation to again. So before you give me an answer, let's have dinner.”

  Dinner? Does it have to be just dinner? “Okay. Dinner. What time and where?”

  “I'll pick you up here at seven. It's early for me, but the place I'm thinking of is a little bit of a drive. In the meantime, I want you to do two things.”

  “What?” I ask, and Rafe leans back.

  “First, after your next class, go for a swim, a bike ride, anything. You're spending far too much time cooped up behind that desk, and there’s a lot more to learning than what’s in a book or behind a computer monitor. And then, aft
er you go shower and change, wear something casual and short sleeved for dinner. Think of it as . . . a show of confidence.”

  I swallow, rolling my shoulder, but I nod. “Okay. I'll meet you here at seven.”

  I thought when Rafe told me he'd pick me up from the engineering building that he'd be wearing the same jeans and collared shirt he wore in the office. Instead, I'm surprised when someone taps my shoulder and I turn around to see him wearing the same jeans, but he's changed into a t-shirt and sports coat, with aviator sunglasses covering his eyes. “Hey, you changed.”

  I look down, trying to cover my forearms with my hands, nodding nervously. I can see the white lines that slash down my forearms from my elbows, and I hate them. They're the marks of the bastard who made me the way I am. “Yeah . . . I guess.”

  I expect Rafe to say something, something supportive like he's done before, but instead, he just puts his hand on my shoulder and I look up into his sunglasses, repulsed by the reflection I see. “Come on, Shawnie. Let's go have some fun. I have reservations for us in an hour, and it'll take us nearly that long to get there.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask, and Rafe gives me a dazzling smile, looking for all the world like a television star ready for a trip to the French Riviera or something.

  “You'll see. Come on.”

  We walk over to the parking lot, where I'm surprised again. I guess I shouldn't be. I mean, I've never seen Rafe driving, but I assumed he has a license. But the silver classic Jaguar that gleams mellowly in the late afternoon light is amazing.

  “You wanna drive?” Rafe asks, and I look inside only to realize that the Jag is an authentic British model, with the steering wheel on the right side. I blush, embarrassed, and go around to the other side, getting in when he leans over and unlocks the door. “Sorry, older model—doesn't have automatic door locks.”