Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  She lowers her hands and meets my eyes. “Also, as you already know, every single student accepted into Leopold receives a full-tuition scholarship. Doesn’t matter who you are or what your background is…”

  We share a look, and in that space of understanding, I mentally finish her sentence. Leopold has enough prestige and wealth that it doesn’t concern itself with student bank accounts. The school evaluates its applicants on talent alone.

  “Very well.” I rub the back of my neck and hope to hell she’s a terrible pianist. “I’ll update your file, and we’ll go from there.”

  Under normal circumstances, being best in her class would get her into Leopold. But Beverly hired me to ensure that wouldn’t happen. Leopold will accept Prescott Rivard because I’ll make it happen. Everyone else from Le Moyne will be overlooked. That sucks for Ivory, but life’s a bitch.

  “Thank you.” She smiles, her posture loosening.

  “We have one more matter to discuss.”

  I tuck the file away, rise from the chair, and walk around the desk to sit on the ledge beside her, facing her.

  With her legs pinched together, she stacks her feet—one bare foot atop the other—against the leg of my desk. I scan the floor and spot her beat-up shoes beneath her chair. I suspect the torn plastic edges irritate her skin after wearing them all day.

  When she looks up, I place a finger beneath her chin, holding the position of her head. “What happened to your lip?”

  As expected, she tries to lower her chin. An evasive response. Every instinct in my body tells me someone hurt her.

  I apply a small yet unmistakable pressure against her soft skin. “Stand up.”

  Her breaths quicken as she lifts from the chair, guided by my touch beneath her jaw.

  When she reaches her full height, I drop my hand. “I asked you a question, and before you answer, remember what I said about lies.”

  She presses her lips together.

  I try another tactic. “As your teacher, I’m a mandated reporter. Do you know what that means?”

  Her eyes, like liquid ebony, blink. She’s distressingly beautiful, and I’m so fucked.

  I unfold from my perch on the desk. Standing over her, I’m a head taller and a lot bigger. “It means I’m required to report suspected child maltreatment to protective services.”

  “No!” Her fingers fly to the cut on her lip. “You don’t need to do that. My brother…he and I got into it this morning, like siblings do. It’s totally normal.”

  Normal? I don’t think so. “How old is he?”

  She leans a hip against the edge of the desk, a casual pose, but she’s not fooling me. “He’s twenty-six.”

  Twenty-six is ten years past knowing better. If the fucker hit her, I won’t report him. I’ll find him and break his fucking face. “Did he hit you?”

  “He…uh, well, we were arguing and uh…” She picks her words carefully, forehead pinched in concentration, no doubt trying to avoid a lie. “I ended up eating the frame of a door.”

  “Did. He. Hit you?”

  She releases a breath. “He backhanded me. This”—she points at her lip—”was the door frame.”

  A raging fire erupts inside me, rushing to the surface and searing across my skin. “How often?”

  She hugs her midsection, eyes on the floor, further enraging me.

  “Answer me!”

  “Don’t do this. I can’t…I have enough problems to deal with right now.”

  “Lift your shirt.” What am I doing? Fuck, this is a bad idea, but I have to know. “Show me your ribs.”

  She peers around me, her eyes locked on the hall.

  “If someone walks by, they can’t see around my body.” I bend my knees, putting my face in hers. “I’m required to hotline you, Miss Westbrook. Prove to me you’re not covered in bruises, and I won’t make a report.”

  I’ll beat the shit out of her brother instead.

  Her fingers grip the hem of her shirt, her expression tight, eyes squeezed shut. She’s so still I’m not sure she’s breathing.

  “This is just an examination, for your own good. Nothing inappropriate.” It’s illegal as fuck, but I can’t stop myself. “I’m waiting.”

  She directs her gaze on the buttons of my waistcoat, up to the knot of my tie, lingering there, before she drags her focus upward in a painfully slow trip over my mouth. When she connects with my eyes, a sharp hum rattles in the back of her throat.

  Then she raises her shirt.

  Ivory

  He’s a teacher. He won’t hurt me.

  Slowly, shakily, I gather the hem of the shirt above my navel.

  He’s just doing his job.

  Goosebumps shiver across my skin from the unwavering press of his glare, the rush of my heartbeat, and the chilly air as I inch the cotton higher, baring my ribs.

  He promised nothing inappropriate.

  So why does this feel so wrong?

  It is wrong.

  I shove the shirt down and turn to collect my belongings. His hand catches my upper arm, fingers digging in as he swings me back into position. “Show me or I’ll report the injury.”

  His voice ricochets through my skull, sharp and uncompromising. If he reports me, I could lose my home, my education, and my cat. And Shane… God, my brother would strike back with a wrath of pain.

  My stomach quivers as I lift the shirt. He releases my arm as I hold the fabric beneath the weight of my breasts and meet his eyes.

  All I see is blue ice, an endless arctic landscape, like I’m staring into an unknown world.

  His nostrils flare, and the muscles in his face harden with emotions I don’t understand. I’m not hiding anything. Nothing under my shirt anyway. Other than the cut on my lip, Shane hasn’t left a scratch on me since the night I walked in on him fucking some poor girl on the couch—on my bed. Failing to knock on my own front door earned me a nasty bruise on my stomach. But Mr. Marceaux won’t find that. The discoloration faded last week.

  He lowers into a squat, his glacial gaze traveling over my torso, the low waistband of my skirt, then dropping to the knee-length hem. “Now raise your skirt.”

  I snap my attention toward the doorway and the empty hall beyond. His bent position puts him eye-level with my pelvis, his body no longer shielding me from hallway traffic. The final bell rang an hour ago, but lots of kids stay after for private lessons. Even now, the legato of a clarinet sings down the hall.

  Anyone can walk by and assume the worst. Here I am, the resident slut, flashing my body for the teacher.

  The cold floor beneath my bare feet makes me feel even more naked. I wish I hadn’t slipped my shoes off during our meeting. “There’s no privacy. Someone might see me.”

  “That’s for me to worry about.” His arms drape over his bent knees, his strong hands flexing in the V of his thighs. “I won’t give the order again.”

  I shove the blouse down and cover my stomach. Now the skirt? Holy smokes, what should I do? Physically, he’s in an unusual position for a man, lower than me, his face below my waist. More vulnerable, right? Yet he’s still trying to take in a way. I could knee him in the nose and run. But I’m not sure I need to. Or want to.

  Shit. I curl my fingers around the front of the skirt, bunching and lifting until my legs are exposed to mid-thigh.

  “Higher.”

  I raise the hem another inch. Surely he can see my legs shaking? How high does he want me to go?

  “Higher.”

  His voice whispers roughly into the foot of space separating his face and my thighs. His hands are right there, too, dangling between us, close enough to grab me between the legs if that’s his plan. A slight tremble twitches through his fingers, and my muscles tighten.

  But he’s a teacher. He’s not allowed to touch me.

  As his student, I’m supposed to trust him and do what he tells me.

  I wad the loose material of the skirt against the crotch of my panties and cup my hand there, giving him a full vi
ew of my legs without revealing too much. “What are you looking for?”

  “Widen your stance.”

  I slide my feet out, wobbling with the effort.

  “Just like that,” he breathes. “Good girl.”

  His praise wraps around me like a warm hug. I can’t remember the last time someone embraced me without hurting me, but if Mr. Marceaux spends the next nine months calling me a good girl, I might never need a hug again.

  He dips his head, angling closer. “I’m looking for marks on your inner thighs.”

  Lorenzo has left marks there, along with numerous other guys. The mean ones always do, grinding and bucking and lasting too long. But Mr. Marceaux doesn’t know about those other guys.

  “My brother would never—”

  “I’m not suggesting he would.”

  My throat closes up. Has he already heard about my reputation? Is he checking for evidence of my behavior?

  “You have a fairly dark complexion.” He looks up, studying my expression, too steadily, too deeply. “Easier to hide bruises.”

  I choke on a nervous laugh. “My mom tells me I’m too pale. Hell, she complains she’s too pale, and she’s half-Black.”

  “Lower your skirt.” He stands, hands anchored on his hips. “Tell me about your mother.”

  I straighten the fabric around my legs. “Everyone says she looks like Halle Berry but—”

  “I don’t care what she looks like. What does she do?”

  Drugs. Men. When she doesn’t have both of those, she sits in her room and cries.

  If I share that with him, he’ll probably smile at my misfortune. “She’s between jobs.”

  “What was her position on your father selling his business for you?”

  She hates me for it, so much so her lip curls whenever she looks at me.

  “They argued about it.” I adjust the pin and buttons on my shirt. “She’s not happy about losing that fight, so don’t expect her to show up for parent-teacher conferences.”

  “Human beings are miserable disasters. They make mistakes. Do the wrong things.” He rubs the back of his head. “If she doesn’t come around, that’s on her.”

  Wow, that was…unexpected. Surprisingly thoughtful and really quite profound. Though now I wonder what kind of mistakes he makes. Hopefully none that will affect my goals.

  He lowers his hand and makes a swirling motion. “Turn around and show me your back.”

  My pulse spikes. More examinations? Only this time, I won’t be able to see his hands.

  I open my mouth to argue, but the hard look in his eyes changes my mind.

  With a deep inhale, I give him my back, hook shaky fingers under the shirt, and drag it from hips to armpits.

  The creak of his leather shoes, the whisper of his breaths, the heat of his body, everything about him feels like a violation of privacy. I wish I could see his expression, because he’s likely abandoned his search of bruises to stare at the tattoo on my back. The faded scrollwork wraps from one side of my waist, up my spine, and curls around the opposite shoulder.

  I brace myself for one of his sharp-voiced reprimands. I’m too young. Tats are too trashy. But I don’t care what his opinion is about this. The tattoo is personal and treasured and mine.

  Without warning, his hands land on my back, not on my skin but on the folds of my shirt. He yanks the material from my grasp and shoves it to my waist.

  Startled, I spin around. “What’s wrong?”

  He’s farther away than I expected, several feet between us, with his hands clasped behind his back and his attention on the doorway.

  I follow his gaze just as Ms. Augustin walks in.

  She pauses on the threshold, clutching the strap of her purse against her shoulder. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were with a student.” She flicks furtive glances between Mr. Marceaux and me, back and forth, up and down, and stops on me. “Hi, Ivory. Did you have a good summer?”

  I curl my toes against the marble, longing for my damn shoes. “Sure.”

  “Awesome.” She returns her attention to my teacher, her hand lifting to trail up her neck, sweeping up and combing through a tendril of blonde hair. “Mr. Marceaux, will you be…uh…heading out soon?”

  She stares at him the way my mom looks at her boyfriends, with over-bright eyes filled with adoration and stupidity.

  Of all the music teachers, Ms. Augustin is the youngest and prettiest. She’s also annoyingly nosy, but Ellie raves about her, so I guess she’s a good strings teacher.

  Mr. Marceaux cocks his head. “Miss Westbrook has private lessons until seven every night.”

  I do?

  A sudden lightness lifts my chest. Mrs. McCracken kept late hours to tutor me, but I hadn’t worked up the courage to ask him for extra time.

  He stands so tall and confident beside me, feet planted wide, every inch of his posture sculpted with authority as he studies Ms. Augustin. “I won’t be heading home soon. Tonight or any other night.”

  “Oh.” Her face falls, and her whole body seems to deflate. “Okay. Well…”

  The only thing she moves is a long slender leg as she drags the toe of her high-heel backward and rocks it on the floor behind her, lingering. Waiting for him to say something else?

  Finally, she straightens. “I’m headed home.” She points down the hallway, laughing softly, smiling, and acting really fucking weird. “So, I guess, have a good evening?”

  The question in her voice bugs the piss out of me. He already told her he’s staying for my private lesson. She should go.

  But then I would be alone with him again. How is it possible that I feel both possessive and terrified of him?

  He ends her embarrassing shuffle with a firm, “Good night, Ms. Augustin.”

  As she vanishes into the hallway, I replay their conversation with subtext. “She just asked you out, didn’t she?”

  He turns toward me with an irritated frown on his face. “That’s none of your business.”

  Probably so, but I feel wonderfully dizzy about the whole exchange. I mean, he told her no. Not tonight or any night. Because he would be with me, helping me.

  Maybe I didn’t screw things up as badly as I thought. “We’re doing piano lessons tonight?”

  Cords twang in his neck. “No.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Here’s tonight’s lesson.” He erases the distance between us and leans into my space. “Don’t question me. Don’t lie to me. And never look away from me.” He straightens. “Sit down.”

  Those are ridiculous demands, but I find myself falling into the chair and locking my eyes on his.

  He scratches a finger down his whiskered throat and yanks on the collar behind his tie. Giving up on his attempt to loosen it, he crouches before me. “When did you get the ink?”

  There’s no way I can answer his questions about it without lying, but I can give him this. “I was thirteen.”

  Something flickers in his eyes. Comprehension? He knows how old I was when I lost Daddy— My dad. My father. God, even in my thoughts, I’m trying to please Mr. Marceaux. But maybe he’s right about my immaturity. If my dad were alive today, would I still be calling him Daddy?

  Instead of asking questions about the tattoo, Mr. Marceaux reaches under my chair and drags my shoes toward his feet. His bend puts his face inches from my lap, but he keeps his eyes on mine as his arms move around my calves.

  With his knees on either side of my legs, I don’t feel trapped, but my stomach squirms all the same. I don’t understand why he’s holding my beaten up ballet flat, why he’s examining the inside, or what he has planned for me next.

  With my shoe in one hand, he reaches for my foot. The moment his fingers graze the back of my ankle, I jump in the seat.

  He pins me with a flinty glare, his scowl at odds with the tender stroke of his hand. Unhurried, he caresses along my ankle, traces the bony knobs on the sides, and cups the heel of my foot, lifting it.

  I’m tongue-tied, confused
by the gentleness, lost in the sensation. The entire world narrows to the warmth of his palm, the careful way he slides my toes into the shoe, and the absolute concentration he gives the task.

  He lowers my foot to the floor, and I exhale a chestful of air. Then he shifts toward my other leg.

  Why is he doing this? What does he get out of it? Will he expect me to show him my boobs? Give him a blow job? Sex?

  I jerk my foot out of his reach. “I can do this.”

  He fists his hands on his legs and imprisons me with those frigid cobalt eyes. “What’s tonight’s lesson?”

  “Don’t question you?”

  Maybe this is a small thing to him, but it’s not to me. Men don’t touch me unless they want something, and his touch is freaking me out. It’s too nice. Too intimate. Way too intimate for a student and teacher.

  He holds his palm out, waiting. I want to ask him what he wants from me, but that would be failing the lesson.

  I move my foot toward his hand, and he gives it the same attention as before. Fragile strokes. Fingers like velvet wrapping around my breakable bones. Taking? Giving? I don’t know what this is. Every brush of his fingertips shoots tingles up my legs, making my heart flutter and my whole body hyper-aware. It scares me. He scares me.

  When he slides the other shoe on, I tuck my feet beneath the chair, knees pinched together, dreading what he’ll demand next.

  He rises, his expression dark beneath black brows and his breathing noisier than it should be. I know that needful look, that hungry sound. My blood runs cold.

  Now is the time to run, but my feet aren’t moving. Why? I need his permission, I think.

  I want his permission.

  Turning toward the desk, he presses his hands against the surface. “Go home, Miss Westbrook.”

  Relief shimmies down my spine, but it gets cut off by my next thought.

  I can take any one of the exits out of Crescent Hall, race through the parking lot or the park, zigzag along the streets to the bus stop. Doesn’t matter which way I go. Prescott will catch up. He’ll find me. He always does.

  Then home. Where Lorenzo might be waiting. Where Shane might be fucking on my bed.