With the knot hanging loosely beneath his collar, he crooks his finger. “Come with me.”
Three words, spoken without effort, yet they have the power to devastate my future. Fear jolts through my stomach. If he takes me to the dean’s office, will it be a suspension? Or is hurling objects at my teacher grounds for expulsion?
But he doesn’t walk toward the exit. He strides deeper into the back of the room and around the corner, out of sight. I look through the small window in the door, into the empty hallway, and tremble with indecision.
Running will only make this worse.
I push myself forward on wobbly legs and weave through the rows of desks. Every inch of my body is strung-out, running on a live wire that connects the path of my feet to whatever awaits me around that corner. By the time I reach the piano and find him sitting sideways on the end of the bench, my pulse is a reedy, struggling vibration in my veins.
He points at the floor beneath the space of his spread thighs and flicks his wrist, as if adjusting the position of his heavy watch.
The sleeves of his gray and white pinstriped shirt gather around his elbows. He’s wearing another one of those waistcoat-vest things, this one black with little gray buttons. My attention shifts from the yellow tie to the dark shadow of his jaw, the flat line of his lips, and as I fall into the chilling trap of his eyes, I realize with renewed panic that I’m making him wait.
I hurry forward and stand where he indicated, swaying unsteadily between his spread feet.
There’s that crooking finger again, gesturing me closer, closer, and lord help me, when I’m finally in the position he wants, my boobs are right in his face. I curve my spine, attempting to rein them in, but dammit, they’re there and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Heat tingles across my cheeks as he blatantly stares down the scoop of my shirt. It makes me feel gross, cheap, and really fucking angry.
I grab the neckline to yank it up.
His hand catches my wrist, pulling my arm back to my side. “Stop fidgeting and straighten your back.”
I do as he says, even as I’m about to implode with anxiety over the position of our bodies and his silence on the marker incident. “Are you going to report me to the dean?”
“I administer my own punishments.” He gestures at his forehead. “Fix this.”
“Fix it?” A swallow sticks in my throat. “Like rub it off?”
He glares up at me like I’m the dumbest girl in the world. Yes, well, only a dumb girl puts herself in this situation.
With a trembling hand, I press the pad of my thumb against the ink above his eyebrow. I don’t know what I expected—cold, reptilian scales?—but his skin is smooth and warm and human. As I press harder, my free hand catches the back of his head, and my fingers slide through soft black strands. It feels so…personal, affectionate, abnormal.
His face hovers inches beneath mine, the muscles in his cheeks relaxed, lips slightly parted and thick lashes fanning downward. He really is handsome, even if everything about him is potently male. From the woodsy scent of his shampoo and the boxy shape of his jaw to his tapered waist and the way his muscular legs stretch the lean cut of his black slacks, it’s all there to remind me my future hinges on the whims of a man.
A man with ink on his forehead.
I rub harder. “It’s not coming off.”
“Use spit.”
My internal ick-meter swivels toward Eww, but I’m already up to my tits in trouble, so I lick my thumb and resume scrubbing. “What’s my punishment?”
“Is it coming off?”
“Yeah. I’m really sorry, Mr. Marceaux.” I wipe away the final traces and drop my arms. “It’s gone.”
“Put your hands back where they were.”
Why would he want my hands in his hair? On his face? It feels so…foreign. Improper. But he asked. No, he ordered. Dammit, why is it so hard to disobey him?
I return my hands exactly where they were, and for some reason, it’s easier this time, less awkward. He stares up at me, and the multi-shades of blues in his eyes glimmer beneath the fluorescents. His mouth is kind of pouty, not in a displeasing way. His full lips make him appear softer somehow. I think they’re my favorite attribute.
The fact that I have a favorite attribute on any man gives me pause, but I don’t remember ever seeing someone as attractive as Mr. Marceaux. Not on TV or in magazines or in person. Certainly, not this close up. I’m acutely aware of the press of his thighs against the outsides of my legs, the crotch of his slacks brushing my knees, and the warmth of his breath whispering across my collarbone. But it’s his head in my hands that makes me want to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.
I’ve never touched a man in this way. The tickle of his hair between my fingers, the brawny lines of his face beneath my palm, the scratch of his barely-there stubble, every sensation beneath my fingertips fills me with fear and excitement and all the chaos in between.
I wonder again about the rumor, about why he left Shreveport. Can the same thing happen here, with me? My fingers clench against his head.
He licks his lips. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I want to yank my hands away, but I don’t dare. “I overheard a couple girls whispering about you in first hour.”
“Go on.”
“They said your first name is Emeric.”
“Hardly enough to whisper about.” His wrists rest on his thighs, his fingers dangling behind me, and the proximity causes them to graze my legs. “What else?”
“Shreveport.”
“Ah.” His fingers brush the backs of my knees, and this time I’m certain he’s doing it deliberately. “Miss Westbrook, don’t make me drag every detail from you.”
“They said you were fired.” My palm feels too clammy against his cheek, so I drop my hands to the crisp collar of his shirt. “Because someone walked into a classroom and found you with a woman.”
He arches a brow. “Is that all?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “Supposedly, her mouth was gagged with your tie.”
“And?”
“Her wrists were bound by your belt.” I rush forward with the rest. “Her body was bent over the desk while you had sex with her from behind. That’s the extent of what I’ve heard.”
His hands close around the backs of my knees. “Wow.”
Wow is right. The crazy things people say…
A smirk slithers across his lips. “That is surprisingly accurate.”
“What?” My chest heaves as I push against his shoulders.
But he anticipates me, his arms hooking around my legs then shifting upward to circle my waist as he stands. He kicks the bench out of the way and spins us toward the closest wall.
My back presses against the bricks with his chest flush with mine, pinning me there. “Deep breaths, Ivory.”
Ivory. The most intimate word I’ve heard from his mouth. My skin shivers with bizarre delight.
He touches his lips to my neck. “You’re not breathing.”
I fill my lungs, but it doesn’t help. I feel so small and insubstantial in his strong arms, fastened against his huge body. His chest, biceps, stomach, thighs…my God, he’s hard everywhere I’m soft. And hot. Too hot. I think I’m running a fever. I’m definitely going to puke if he removes his tie and belt.
With my hands clenched on his shoulders, I try to shove at the unmovable muscle. “Please don’t do those things to me.”
He sighs, stroking his nose along my jaw. “It was consensual. Do you know what that means?”
I shake my head, not sure, but maybe I do know. “Like an agreement?”
“Yes. Only she didn’t just agree. She begged.”
“Why? Why would she want that?”
“Joanne is…” He looks away and stretches his neck to rub his chin against his shoulder. His brows pull in, and his entire demeanor seems suddenly and strangely subdued. When his gaze returns, so does his intensity, and his arms tighten around m
y waist. “She’s like you.”
“Me?” I squirm against him. “I don’t want those things. You don’t even know me.”
“Tell me what you feel right now.”
“Scared. You’re scaring me.”
His lips hover a kiss away, the hint of cinnamon gum scenting his breath. “Yes, but there’s something else. Describe it.”
“My heart’s pounding. I’m burning up, and my stomach feels like an ice block.”
“Your heart and stomach. Where else? Describe the feeling in your nipples.”
A flash of heat sweeps across my neck, through my chest, and builds between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together, humiliated by the reaction, confused by the flush of weird emotions, but I latch onto the feeling I understand. “This is wrong.”
“Not wrong. It’s inappropriate. But we went way past inappropriate the first day. Tell me how your nipples feel. I won’t criticize your answer as long as it’s the truth.”
I suck in a shaky breath and give him what he wants. “Itchy and tight.”
“Good girl.”
The tingle between my legs grows stronger, heavier, more demanding.
He pushes his hips against mine to stop my squirming, and the hardest part of him, the part I hate most, jabs against my stomach. “Now put a name to all those feelings.”
“I don’t know.” I can’t breathe. I can’t think. “I can’t.”
“Dig deep, Ivory.”
My throat closes up.
“What do you feel when you haven’t eaten.”
“Hungry.”
His hard eyes are too close, too unsafe. “How about when you see a beautiful piano?”
“Want.”
“And when I gave you praise after your performance of Islamey?”
“Desire for more.”
“Hunger. Want. Desire. Is that what you’re feeling as I hold you against the wall?”
Is it? The aching hunger for something between my legs, my out-of-control heartbeat, and the burning need to express it, talk about it? My head is too mixed-up. Yes, he’s a beautiful man, and I hear all the girls talk about wanting to do him. And yes, I crave his appreciation for my talent and his good-girls and his warm hand on my face, but this? The length of his body against mine? Holding me immobile?
He’s just holding me. Not grabbing my boobs or thrusting between my legs. He’s giving me attention. Asking me about my feelings. Without taking.
Jesus, I do want this, from someone I can trust, from my teacher, and I shouldn’t. “I think it’s desire. And shame.” Humiliation.
He presses his lips against my forehead. “Mmm. There’s my girl.”
“I don’t want to be gagged and tied and—”
His finger falls across my mouth then returns to my back. “Not now. But you’ll think about it. The idea will consume you. Then we’ll talk about it again.”
“But you’re my teacher!”
“I said we’ll talk about it.” He leans back and rests his hands on my hips. “Where will you get the money to pay me back?”
The subject change gives me whiplash. “I’ll have it by Monday, I promise.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I close my eyes, blocking out his perceptive gaze. He knows my mom is unemployed. I’m here till seven every night and practicing at Stogie’s till eleven, so he knows I can’t work. There’s no way I can tell him I’m doing Prescott’s homework and essentially whoring myself out to pay the bills. And I don’t know why, but lying to him scares me more than him discovering the truth.
Opening my eyes, I do the only thing I can. I shake my head.
His expression hardens, and his scowl overtakes my entire world. “Let’s talk about the punishment for throwing shit at your teacher.”
He’s only inches from my face, with a frightening glare and a body twice my size. Isn’t that punishment enough?
“You have a choice. Tell me where you get your money. Or bare your ass for a spanking.”
All the blood drains from my face to my feet. There is no choice.
Emeric
I flex my hands against Ivory’s waist, my entire body strumming with the thought of reddening her tight ass. But my brain screams for her to make the other choice, to tell me her secrets and steer me away from this dangerous temptation.
With the wall at her back and her gorgeous tits rising and falling against my chest, she lifts her brown eyes and whispers, “The spanking.”
Her breathy response hits me in the gut and tunnels to my groin, wrenching a guttural sound from my throat and propelling my hips into a hungry grind against hers. She gasps when she feels me. Fuck, how could she not feel me? I’ve never been this hard in my life.
This is a mistake. It’s Shreveport and Joanne and a goddamn slippery slope to ruination all over again.
I hold my body stock-still against hers, my fingers digging into her waist.
She’s not Joanne. This isn’t love or attachment. It’s not even sex. I’m in control, and her punishment is due.
Releasing her, I step back and calm my breaths.
I gave her the choice, and I’m a man of my word. “Turn around. Hands on the wall.”
Her face is a sheet of white as she pivots slowly and follows my order. The slim brown skirt cuts an erotic outline around her pert ass—much better than the black tarp thing she wore a few days ago. The swells of her cheeks are neither too big nor too small, proportioned with her narrow waist and perfect for my hands.
But the frayed hems and roughly faded material of her clothes are reminders that this isn’t just about what’s under her skirt. Beyond my hunger for discipline and pleasure, I feel this deep aching desire to provide for her in all ways.
“Don’t move.”
I back up and adjust the bulge behind my zipper. Stepping out of the alcove and into the main part of the classroom, I glance at the door. It’s still closed. There’s no lock, but the hinges will creak if it opens, giving me about five seconds before an intruder makes it through the room and around the corner.
As I head back to Ivory, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Irritated at the interruption, I consider ignoring it, but maybe it’ll distract me away from the mistake I’m about to make. I glance at the screen.
Joanne: I’m in town this weekend. I need to see you.
The hollow space around my heart clenches tightly. I pull a stick of gum from my pocket and gnash it between my molars.
The phone buzzes again.
Joanne: Need your address.
She’s persistent enough to find it, but she won’t get it from me.
And now I’m more worked up than I was thirty seconds ago.
I power the phone off, toss it on the closest desk, and return my attention to Ivory.
Hands flat against the wall and gaze on the floor, she hasn’t moved. Except her feet. They’re closer together, and her knees visibly shake below the hem of her skirt.
She knows this is improper, that we’re doing something we shouldn’t be doing. But I doubt she’s aware that the thrill in that risk, the chance of getting caught, is currently increasing her brain’s transmission of dopamine and heightening the excitement spiraling through her body.
The possibility of getting away with something so wickedly forbidden only feeds my beast and makes me hungrier.
I prowl closer. “Widen your stance.”
She slides her feet apart and tilts her head, as if listening for me. I soften my steps, forcing her to concentrate harder to track my approach.
When I reach her, I invade, pressing my arousal against her backside. Not grinding. Just letting her feel how well we fit together as I hold her against me with my hands on her hips. Her shoulders tighten around her ears, and her inhale catches in her throat.
I brush her hair to the side, trailing a finger across her nape, as I slide my cheek along hers. “Last chance to change your mind.”
Don’t change your mind.
Her words rush out on a shredded br
eath. “Just get it over with.”
My heart races as I shift to the right and slam my dominant hand against her ass. It’s just a warm-up strike, but she flies up on her toes and lets out a sexy squeak.
My cock swells, pulsing and trapped against my leg. My fingers tingle to touch her, to stroke and welt her flawless body. “Open your mouth.”
Her profile pinches. Then her lips part, hesitantly, her chin quivering with apprehension. So damn beautiful.
I remove the softened gum from my mouth and place it inside hers. She jerks back, but I hold her head and set the cinnamon adhesive between her molars with a swipe of my finger.
“Bite down.” I stroke her jaw as it flexes. “Good girl. Now hold it there. No screaming.”
I glide my hands down her thighs, stretching to reach bare skin. Her breathing quickens as I gather the skirt in my fists, inching it higher, higher, above her gorgeous butt and around her waist.
Goosebumps prickle beneath my hands as I caress the backs of her legs, the crease between her thigh and ass, and the trim of panties where they cut high on her cheeks. Hooking my fingers under the bottoms of the lacy edges, I drag the material upward, pulling the tiny scrap along her crack to expose more flesh.
Her glutes flex and twitch in my hands, and my pulse revs. She’s so soft and firm, shivery and warm. So goddamn responsive.
I want to rip her panties off for this, but a glimpse of her pussy would make it impossible to keep my dick in my pants.
Listening for the door, I step back. The sight of her ass trimmed with lace and the pull of the cotton cupping the titillating shape of her cunt threatens to buckle my knees.
“Four strikes,” I say gruffly and strengthen my voice. “Two on each cheek.”
She stares at the wall, her fingers curling against the bricks as a series of twitches ripples across her buttocks.
With a deep breath, I let my hand fly, applying more force this time, but I still hold back. The slap echoes through the room, and her body responds like a guitar string, stretching, vibrating, her vocal chords humming exquisitely. Then she settles, becoming stable and still.
Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels Page 11