A pink hand print blooms across her flesh. I massage the heated skin, and she wriggles her ass, only slightly, but it speaks volumes. She’s scared, probably terrified, but she’s not running or screaming or pushing me away. She’s rubbing her ass against my touch, ready for me to take her where I want her to go.
Stepping to the side, I fire off the next three smacks in rapid succession, each one harder than the last while alternating cheeks. She whimpers softly, bows her back, rocks her hips, raises up on her toes. And never lets go of the wall.
She likes it rough, wants to be humiliated, needs to be dominated. If she’s aware of this, she would never admit it. Probably because she’s never experienced it in the right environment with the right person.
In a classroom with her teacher…still not right. Yet here she is, hanging onto that wall, with her feet spread and ass out, because I gave her an order.
She’s made for me, to be instructed and punished and enjoyed. I want inside her with such agonizing intensity my body quakes. I want in her mouth, her cunt, and her soul. I want to rip her apart with my shaft, piece her back together, and do it all over again. Fuck, I need this girl.
And I can’t have her.
Her forehead rests against the wall, and with a heavy sigh, the tension drains from her muscles.
I crouch behind her and straighten her panties, gently rubbing the pink skin and thrilling at the way her legs tremble with each of my strokes. I adjust the skirt with the same care, kneading my fingers across her ass and thighs in a soothing motion. When I return to a standing position, I turn her to face me, my hands on her hips to steady her.
She blinks up at me, eyes unfocused, and grooves crease her forehead.
“Where did you go, gorgeous girl?”
“Somewhere deep.”
Endorphins, adrenaline, fear, and arousal make a heady cocktail, and she looks absolutely breathtaking in her discovery.
I grip her chin, lifting it higher. “The gum.”
She covers her mouth and whispers behind her fingers, “I just swallowed it.”
Next time I’ll remind her to keep it so she can pass it back to me while my tongue is between her lips.
I scoop her up, hooking arms behind her knees and back. She appears so sturdy and solid with her height, curves, and full tits, but with her cradled against my chest, she’s feather-light, barely a buck ten.
Sitting on the piano bench, I hold her sideways on my thighs and drag a finger down her arm.
She shivers and squirms in my lap, wreaking havoc on my throbbing erection. But she doesn’t scoot away from it and instead shifts to face me.
“That thing you just did with your finger?” With one arm trapped between us, she glances at the other, where it bends in her lap. “Will you do that again?”
A touch? That’s what she wants?
She wants affection.
I move my mouth an inch away from hers and steel my gaze. “Beg.”
Her chin drops, jaw clenching, but she doesn’t look away. After a heartbeat, two, three, her face relaxes, and her lips part. “Please.”
A wave of warmth circulates through me. I’m a slave to that word on her breath.
Touching my fingers to her shoulder, I trail them over her short-sleeves, down the satiny skin of her slender arm, and linger on the knuckles of her hand. When she stretches her fingers, I trace the length of them, marveling at how such fragile bones can move so ferociously over piano keys.
Her lashes flutter down, and her nostrils flare with long, deep inhales. She loves this, my hand on hers, giving her pleasure.
When her eyes open, enlarged pupils saturate the brown hues. “What else do you do?”
Christ, this girl is killing me. Her innocence, curiosity, precious submission, it’s all putty, begging to be shaped. But it’s not just that. Her authenticity and lack of privilege pinches something inside me. It makes me feel protective. Possessive. Maybe even…wishful?
“I can do many things, Ivory.” I touch the side of her face and push my hand through her thick hair, dragging fingers over her ear and cupping the back of her head. “But this situation…it’s delicate.” Sinful. Hazardous. Criminal.
I want to show you anyway.
I lean closer, so close our breaths meld.
I’ll show you while I’m buried deep in your throat.
So close our lips brush together, separate, and hover in anticipation to touch again.
I’ll show you while I’m coming against the walls of your cunt.
Her thighs clench against mine, and my heart races.
I’ll show you while I’m marking you. Owning you. Cherishing you.
I want to kiss her. I have to. Just a taste.
Tightening my hand within the tangle of her hair, I draw her to my mouth—
And stop.
Did something stir around the corner? I jerk forward and register the creaking hinges a few seconds too slow.
The petite blonde teacher from the strings department emerges around the corner just as I drop Ivory onto the bench beside me. A bitter tang floods my mouth. Did Ms. Augustin see her in my lap? She definitely saw us pulling apart.
Her beady eyes narrow, ticking back and forth between me and the student I just erotically spanked. I hold my breath.
Here’s the thing about erections. They don’t deflate just because the rest of the body is freaking the fuck out. The school could be on fire, and the damn thing will stand tall and proud like a flagpole, drawing attention at the worst possible moment.
Thankfully, the piano sits between my flag-waving boner and Ms. Augustin.
“Am I interrupting something?” Suspicion clips her tone. “It’s after seven, and I thought…”
She thought she could follow up on all those heated looks she’s been giving me in the hall, teacher’s lounge, and staff meetings all week. She thought she could swing by on a Friday night and talk her way into my bed.
“No problem,” I say casually. Andrea Augustin is a problem, one I’m prepared to resolve. “Miss Westbrook was just leaving.”
Ivory slips off the bench and walks away without looking at me. No, her attention centers on the other teacher. I can’t see her face, but she gives Ms. Augustin a wide berth, her strides stiffening as she vanishes around the corner.
“Have a good weekend, Ivory,” Andrea calls after her.
The door to the hall closes with a despondent click.
Every muscle in my body tenses to run after her, but I have to deal with this problem first.
Andrea turns back to me, hands on her hips, her tone shifting from pleasant to snarly. “What were you doing with her?”
In the faculty hierarchy, she’s technically beneath me. I’m the Director of Keyboard Studies, and she’s just a teacher. I want to use that to my advantage, but she saw what she saw. Enough to report my behavior. Enough to get me fired. Or arrested.
With Ivory, I want nothing between us but the naked truth. But Andrea? All I’ll give her is the best-dressed lie. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Her arms lower to her sides, and she blinks. “You were?” Her eyes return to slits. “Why was Ivory Westbrook on your lap?”
I sigh for effect, and now that my cock has finally calmed down, I stand. “I need to gather my things. Follow me, and I’ll explain.”
As we walk to the front of the classroom, I shift close to her, closer than socially acceptable, with my arm brushing hers and my neck craned to give her the full impact of my gaze. “You know her father died? He was killed a few years back?”
“Yes. Everyone knows that.”
“Well, I didn’t.” At my desk, I pretend to shut down my laptop, and instead pull up a program and angle the back cover toward her. “She just told me about it, got a little weepy, and I comforted her.”
“In your lap?” She crosses her arms.
It’s an absurd lie, even on the fly. I’ll have to fix this the hard way.
I stalk around the desk, hands behind my bac
k, and let my gaze roam over her body. “I know what you want, Andrea.”
She steps back, bumping into the student desk behind her, and her fingers reach up to toy with her earring. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t be coy. I’ve seen you watching me, your flirty smiles, the way you play with your hair and jewelry when I’m watching you.”
Her hand drops, and she breathes, “Emeric…”
In three strides, I close the distance, crowding her against the desk without touching her. I loosen my tie the rest of the way and slide it from my neck. If Ivory’s heard the Shreveport details, it’s likely Andrea heard as well and is thinking of it now. I wager those rumors are the reason she’s here, face blushing and hooded eyes tracking the trail of silk as I wrap it around my hand.
I put my mouth next to her ear. “You want me to tie you up.”
She sits back, her ass perching on the desk behind her. Her knees part then spread some more, welcoming the nudge of my hips.
“You want me to feed you my cock.” I roughen my voice and quicken my breaths, insinuating I want that, too.
Unfortunately, my unresponsive dick refuses to participate in the ploy, so I maintain a sliver of space between me and the apex of her thighs, where she’s covered by the loose material of her skirt.
She grips my biceps and pushes out her tiny tits, but her attention shifts toward the closed door.
I hover my mouth over her neck, exhaling a steam of feigned desire. “Everyone’s gone home for the weekend, right?”
“Yes.”
“Besides, no one can see us from the window.” I recline back. “I’ll give you one chance, Andrea. Tell me exactly what you want.”
Her gaze lowers to the tie around my hand, and her fingers follow, tracing the silk in my grip. “I—I…want what you said. But we can’t. Not here.”
She looks back at the door, licking her lips.
“No, not here.” I move away and return to the desk, leaning on the edge beside the laptop. “Before I decide to take you home, you have to show me how badly you want me.”
Excitement brightens her face. Then her eyebrows dig in. “H—how?
“Show me how wet you are. Go ahead. No one will see.”
Her expression contorts as uncertainty battles desire. I know which will win, but she drags out the silence, working herself into a heaving, flushed jumble of anxiety.
Finally, her breathing quiets, and her hands fumble with the folds of her skirt.
“Spread your legs, Andrea.”
She does, eyes on the door as she feels around the satin crotch. “How do I—”
“Under the panties. There you go.”
She tosses her head and makes some noise.
I’m not really paying attention, but I let her rub around in there for a while. “Now hold up your hand.”
She lifts her arm and smiles at her fingers. I don’t give a shit if they’re wet or not. I have what I need.
I hit a key on the laptop and question the wisdom in telling her what I did.
It’s better to be proactive than reactive.
Gripping the screen, I flip the laptop toward her and back up the silent video to the juicy part.
Shock comes first, paling her complexion and paralyzing her body. Then outrage.
“Wha—” She shoves her skirt into place, fists her hands at her sides, and rushes toward me. “What are you—? Oh my God, you recorded that!”
With the camera on the back of the laptop, I caught it all while remaining out of the frame during the incriminating segment.
I snap the lid shut. “Don’t fuck with me, Ms. Augustin.”
She jerks back, arms wrapping around her mid-section, and stares at me in horror. “Why would you—?” Deep red inflames her cheeks. “Oh God, what are you going to do with it? Is this about Ivory?” She covers her face with her hands, and a sob garbles her words. “I need…job. I can’t lose…you can’t do this.”
“I’ve done nothing with Ivory. But you just masturbated in my classroom.” I store the laptop and tie in my bag then turn toward her, wearing an expression that matches my most intimidating tone. “Stay out of my classroom, out of my business, and no one will see this video.”
She stares back at me, defeated. Betrayed. Yeah, I know the feeling too well. Only I’m not trying to steal Andrea’s job. I simply want to keep the one I have.
Hatred soaks her eyes. “What they say about you is true then.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” I shoulder the bag, flash her a charming smile, and stride into the hall. “Good night, Ms. Augustin.”
Ivory
Prescott tangles his hand in my hair, holding my face against his lap.
His penis stabs the back of my throat, and I gag.
Yellow-flowered tie. Cinnamon gum.
The buckle of his belt clanks with his thrusts. The console between the front seats digs into my chest.
Chilling blue eyes. The heat of his palm on my backside.
A bass-heavy song thumps from the car radio, and I can’t find my safe place. I’m not numb enough, not far enough away. I’m trying, trying… I can’t gather the notes for Scriabin’s Sonata No.9.
The tick of a mechanical watch. The gentle stroke of his breaths.
Tears well in my eyes and cling to my lashes. I can’t focus. Can’t escape.
All I can think about is the spanking and how I wouldn’t mind another if it ends with an almost-kiss from Mr. Marceaux.
Emeric
Wedged between Hook ‘Em Up deli and a vintage jewelry shop called Pawn of the Dead resides the only music store in Treme. At least, I think this is a music store. Standing on the broken sidewalk, I hang my sunglasses on the collar of my t-shirt and squint against the glare of the sun.
Security bars crisscross the glass front. There’s no open sign or any kind of advertisement, and the grime on the windows obscures my view of the dark interior. Since it’s Saturday, the store might not be open. Finding Ivory inside is even less likely.
But I’m not here for her. I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about where she gets her money and who put those unsettling shadows in her eyes. This Stogie guy might be an avenue to answers, and hopefully, this visit will soothe my nagging need to meet the man she spends her time with.
I check my phone, confirm the address, and try the door.
The jingling bell overhead announces me as I step into a cluttered room of instruments. Voices whisper from the back, guiding my feet through the maze of shelves, drum sets, and miscellaneous junk.
“You need to eat more.”
I can’t see her around the rows of display racks, but her sexy lilt speeds my strides and buzzes my body with excitement.
Coming here to meet a man named after a cigar, I expected to walk into a stale cloud of leather and smoke, but instead, the air is remarkably fresh, especially for such an old building.
“Stop nagging,” a deep voice says, “and let an old man nap.”
“But you have a customer.” Her sigh drifts from behind a tall shelf filled with books.
I step into view and find her sitting on the floor, back to the wall, and bare legs stretched out before her. My hands flex as I silently thank the fashion Gods for short-shorts. She’s a half-naked fantasy of bronzed skin and devious curves. An illegal fantasy.
Lids lifting, her eyes collide with mine and widen. The textbook in her hands tumbles to the floor to join the dozen others surrounding her. “Mr. Marceaux?”
“Miss Westbrook.” I’m struck with the wild urge to grin like a jackass, but I manage to maintain a stoic mask.
Her gaze sweeps from my disheveled hair and t-shirt to my dark jeans and Doc Martens. I wish I could read her thoughts as she takes me in for the first time without the pageantry of waistcoats and ties. She makes another head-to-toe pass, nibbling her lip and stirring a torrent of sensations inside me.
The old man beside her sits taller on the metal chair. A frayed baseball cap perches high on his
bald head, and horizontal wrinkles crease the broad bridge of his nose, deepening into more lines on his dark-skinned brow. His closed-mouth smile is the kind men wear when they’re toothless and…eighty? Ninety? I don’t know, but this guy is ancient.
His arm trembles as he reaches for the wall in an attempt to stand.
“Don’t get up.” I step toward him, offering my hand to shake his. “I’m Emeric. You must be—”
“Stogie.” He clasps my hand with a surprisingly strong grip and sits back.
Ivory bends to stand, and her tiny tank top flashes me a sinful view of her full tits. Jesus, fuck, if she doesn’t adjust that shirt, I’ll be swinging from six to midnight with no way to hide it.
Clutching the low neckline in a subtle tug, she studies me with a bewildered expression. “What are you doing here?”
I meet Stogie’s watchful gaze and let him see the questions in mine. Do you know who I am? How well do you know Ivory?
He hooks his thumbs under the elastic of his red suspenders and blatantly stares me up and down. His smile fades, and his skeletal frame locks up. Apparently, his cloudy eyes see a lot more than they let on. “Ivory, why don’t you go on in the back and warm up one of them frozen meals?”
She crosses her arms, eyes narrowed. “Oh, now you want to eat?”
“I’d love a fresh pot of coffee and some of that cobbler you made, too.” He grips the seat of the chair and scoots forward. “Don’t keep an old man waiting.”
She huffs and steps out of the pile of books, pointing a finger at him. “Be nice.”
Then she looks at me, her expression vulnerable and hesitant, as if begging me to do the same.
The moment she disappears in the back room, he makes a painfully-slow attempt to climb to his feet while holding my gaze. “I know your kind.”
My hackles go up, but the manners my mother ingrained in me has me reaching out to help him stand.
He glares at my hand, scoffs at it, and rises on wobbly legs.
I swallow down my irritation. “Enlighten me on my kind.”
His hunched frame shuffles past me and toward the front of the store. I follow, glad to be moving out of Ivory’s range of hearing.
Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels Page 12