Wicked Games: A Forbidden Romance

by T. K. Leigh

  When the door opens, he peers at me with a furrowed brow. He parts his lips, presumably to ask me what I’m doing here, but I place a finger over them, silencing him.

  Without saying a word, I loosen the belt on my coat and slowly unfasten each of the buttons, allowing my jacket to fall open, exposing my body clad in the negligee he’d sent me earlier.

  “Fuck,” he hisses, his jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, a bull in heat. His gaze rakes over me, calculating, agonizing, as if imprinting every inch of me to memory.

  Approaching him, I stand on my toes, my lips ghosting against his. “That’s the plan, Mr. Moore.”

  A growl rips from his throat as he tugs my body hard against his, his mouth covering mine, devouring, possessing, consuming. I curve into him, signaling with my acquiescence to his touch that I’m his for the night.

  Maybe longer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My heels skid on the tile in the lobby of the journalism building on campus as I rush to the elevator, checking my watch. Ten minutes past three on Thursday afternoon. Meaning I’m ten minutes late for my first day of class. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m notorious for being late, especially when sexting with Lincoln Moore.

  Lincoln. Just Lincoln.

  Ever since I appeared at his door last Friday, scantily clad, we’ve seen each other every day. And every day, I grow more and more addicted to his touch, his essence, his everything.

  Once the elevator doors close, I pull out my phone and read through our most recent exchange, unable to stop the smile from tugging on my lips.

  Lincoln: Have I mentioned today how much I love your legs?

  Me: My memory’s not what it used to be. I am closing in on thirty. Why don’t you refresh my memory?

  Lincoln: You’re still a baby. And I love your legs. Actually, I’m not so sure love is the correct word. I think about them nearly every waking moment.

  Me: Nearly?

  Lincoln: Yes. Nearly. Except when I’m buried deep inside you. Then I can only think about how amazing your pussy feels when it clenches around me.

  Desire, thick and intense, coils in my core as I attempt to come up with a response, having left him hanging once I realized I was running late. The elevator doors open and I scurry down the hallway toward my classroom, typing out a quick reply.

  Sorry to leave you with your dick in your hands. Lost track of time. Have class. Maybe I can come over after and you can feel my pussy clench around you. You know, so you can take a break from thinking of my legs.

  Once I hit send, I shove my phone into my bag, slowing when I reach the classroom. Fixing my frantic expression, I open the door and do my best to slip in unnoticed without interrupting class, smiling at a few familiar faces who don’t seem surprised to see I’m late on the first day.

  I make my way toward one of the vacant seats in the middle of the room, trying to be as quiet as possible. It’s obvious by the stiff posture and annoyed breathing of the professor he’s not exactly pleased with my disruption.

  When I’m about to slide into my chair, he finally turns around from where he’s written out the text of the First Amendment, and our eyes meet.

  Ever have one of those dreams where everything seems perfect? Maybe your boss called you into his or her office and gave you that promotion you’ve been hoping for. Maybe Publishers Clearing House, if that’s even still a thing, showed up at your door with one of those oversized checks. Or maybe you ran into one of the hottest guys you’ve ever seen while grabbing your morning coffee. All great things, right?

  Until you look down and realize you’re naked.

  That’s what this moment feels like.

  Correction.

  This is worse.

  Because this isn’t some dream.

  This is real.

  Lincoln Moore is my college professor.

  I’ve been sleeping with my college professor.

  Without knowing it.

  Fuck…

  A throat clearing cuts through the heavy silence. Unsure what else to do, I slink into my chair, doing my best to hide behind the girl sitting in front of me. Even so, the slight tremble in Lincoln’s hand as he writes on the board doesn’t escape my attention, evidence he’s as surprised about this turn of events as me.

  Had I walked into this room and one of the other men I’d slept with had been lecturing the class, I wouldn’t have been so dumbfounded. But this is different.

  Lincoln is different.

  I try to convince myself this is for the best, that this never would have worked out. Listening to his lecture solidifies this assessment. He needs someone who can be his intellectual equal. Someone he can debate about what should be classified as obscene and not deserving of First Amendment protections. I’d barely be able to get out a few words without stumbling over them.

  Conversation breaks out in the room and I glance up from the blank page of my notebook to see the other students packing up their things. When I glance at my watch, I’m surprised to see it’s fifteen minutes to six. I’d just sat through almost an entire three-hour class without hearing a word, too consumed with this strange, new reality.

  Snapping out of my daze, I scramble to shove my belongings into my bag and leave without having to confront Lincoln and endure an awkward conversation where we pretend we don’t know each other. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, but I’ll figure something out. Try to drop the class. Do an independent study. Something…anything so I don’t have to come back to this classroom.

  My eyes averted, I attempt to escape unnoticed when a familiar deep voice foils my plan.

  “Miss Davenport.”

  I stop in my tracks, my shoulders tensing as I exhale a frustrated breath. I hate that he used such a formal tone. It’s one he’s used with me in the bedroom, but it was part of our game. This isn’t a game.

  In an effort to appear unaffected by this turn of events, I fix my expression and slowly face him, staring into green eyes that mere hours ago looked upon my naked body with an unmatched hunger. “Yes, Professor Moore?”

  When I address him this way, he flinches. “I’d like a word.”

  “I have somewhere I need to be.”

  “I insist.” He widens his stance, his gaze darkening. It’s not quite a glare, but it’s not a compassionate look, either. It’s a new expression, one that tells me not to test him, that this isn’t something we can avoid discussing. “Just a few moments of your time, then you can go on with your life.”

  His statement hits me hard. By the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in a thick swallow, I get the feeling it was just as difficult for him to say as it was for me to hear.

  On a deep inhale, I nod, trailing a few steps behind him as he leads me toward the faculty corridor. This entire scenario makes me feel like an errant teenager who acted out in class and is being handed off to my guidance counselor, who will press me to talk about my parents’ divorce and how I’m “coping”.

  Except I’m an adult.

  Who just found out she’s been screwing the professor of the one class she needs to finally graduate this spring.

  So much for proving to my father I’m not a complete fuck-up.

  Once the door to the office closes behind us, allowing us to talk in private, he heads to the window, peering at the city surrounding us. I simply stare at him, unsure what to say. Then he glances over his shoulder.

  “Did you know?” There’s a hint of pain in his tone.

  Aghast ,my eyes widen. “What?”

  “When you saw me in Vegas…” He fully faces me. “Did you know who I was and not say anything in the hopes of getting me in bed?”

  “Of course not! Why would you think that?”

  “How could I not think that, Chloe?” He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at it. “This seems to be too much of a coincidence.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Yeah. Because I’d go through the trouble of starting to fall for a guy, only to have to walk away when I le
arn he’s my goddamn professor!”

  “I don’t know. I—” He stops short, inhaling sharply. “What did you say?”

  “That you’re my professor…,” I answer in a drawn-out voice.

  “No.” He shakes his head, licking his lips. “Before that.” His tone becomes tranquil, expression softening.

  I replay the words and stiffen at the truth that poured so freely from my mouth. His eyes plead with me, and I can’t deny him this.

  “That I wouldn’t fall for a guy if I knew there was zero chance of survival.”

  “You were falling for me?” He steps toward me, his gaze raking over me, as if searching for something. What, I’m not sure.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I tear my eyes from his.

  A part of me wants him to tell me we’ll make it work. That the connection between us is too strong to throw away over something as trivial as this. But he doesn’t, the compassionate Lincoln transforming back to the man he was the past three hours as he lectured the class.

  “You’re right. It doesn’t matter anymore. It can’t matter anymore.”

  He walks to his desk and pulls out a thin book, Policies and Procedures written on the front in bold letters. He flips to the table of contents before turning to the appropriate page, scanning it.

  “Right.” His tone is firm when he looks up. “According to the conduct code, as long as the previous relationship is disclosed, it’s not a big deal.”

  I hug my jacket tighter around my body, my stomach queasy as I listen to Lincoln talk about me as if I’m just a problem in need of fixing, not a person he once cared for.

  “I’ll go to the dean and let him know, assuring him we ceased all contact once we learned the truth. I’ll request a third party grade all your papers and exams, and I’ll forego having class participation be a part of the final grade this semester in order to appear neutral.”

  I nod, still having difficulty coming to terms with this new reality. My eyes scan his desk, everything about it as neat and orderly as I imagined it would be. As I continue looking around, I spy a copy of the syllabus he probably handed out before I’d arrived. I pick it up, my throat tightening even more.

  “And you’re only going to disclose this to the dean, right? No one else?”

  “Of course not,” he insists, then corrects himself. “Well, there are ethical concerns, so to err on the side of caution, I’ll be informing my boss at the newspaper where I work.”

  “You’re an associate attorney at the Times,” I state, reading his credentials listed at the top of the paper.

  “Yes,” he answers, ignoring the forlorn expression on my face. “My boss is friends with the dean and is actually the one who recommended me for the adjunct position here, so…”

  Our eyes lock. “I can’t let you do that. Can’t let you tell either of them.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” he whisper-shouts, placing his hands on the desk and leaning toward me. “This is my career.”

  “That may be true, but your boss at the newspaper? David Jensen?”

  Lincoln’s expression blanches, seeming to sense I’m about to drop yet another bomb on him. Which I am.

  “He’s my father.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The surprise that covered Lincoln’s expression when he turned around and realized I was one of his students is nothing compared to the utter and morose shock now plastered on his face. His jaw drops open, his eyes scanning me, probably for any hint of resemblance to the man who hired him…and could fire him.

  “But your last name is Davenport.” He shakes his head, brow furrowed, as if hoping the fact I don’t share his last name will negate the DNA running through me.

  “After he divorced my mother, I took her last name. I didn’t want a reminder of that man attached to me for the rest of my life.”

  He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Chloe, I—”

  I step toward him, folding my fingers together as I beg for him to keep this quiet. “Please, Lincoln. Maybe if it were just the dean, it wouldn’t be so bad. There’d still be a chance he’d mention it to my father, since they’re friends, but this… With my father being your boss? There’s no way the dean won’t tell him. And my father cannot find out.”

  “It’s not up to me! I have to report this. It’s right here in black and white.” He points to the book in front of him. “I’m obligated to report any prior relationship with a student to the dean.”

  “Who will tell my father since you work for him,” I hiss back. “Please. I am begging you.” Tears dot my eyes, my throat closing up.

  “Why don’t you want him to know?”

  I wrap my arms around my stomach, warming myself against a sudden chill enveloping me. Do I feed him some line in the hopes he’ll grant my request? Or do I tell him the truth, revealing another fragmented piece of myself?

  “Help me understand.” His voice softens, reminding me of the way he’d whisper sweet words in my ear as I drifted off to sleep in his arms. I want to curse the world for being so cruel. For giving me a taste of something I never thought possible, never thought I wanted, only to rip it away, dangling it in front of me like a memento of something I can never have again.

  “You never could. You probably had the perfect life. The perfect fucking family who supported you through everything.”

  He parts his lips, but I hold up my hand.

  “Well, I didn’t. As you’ve figured out, my father’s a bit of a hard-ass.”

  He snorts out a laugh, the tension momentarily cracking. “You can say that again.”

  “And he’s always been that way.” I draw in a deep breath, attempting to compose myself, swiping at the few tears that had managed to escape. “All my life, I’ve been nothing but a disappointment to him and his impossibly high standards. I get that all parents want their children to succeed. But nothing I did was ever good enough. Nothing I do is ever good enough.”

  I pull my lips between my teeth. “For once, I’m close to finishing something on my own.” I lower my voice. “I’m close to finally being able to prove to my father I’m not just a massive disappointment.”

  “Chloe, I—”

  “I know it makes no sense,” I interrupt before he can utter a single word of sympathy for my fucked-up childhood and adolescence. “Why should I care what he thinks? I ask myself that same question constantly. A part of me doesn’t care. But as you’ve learned, my father is extremely stubborn. And that stubbornness is genetic. So instead of writing him off like I should have years ago, I keep trying. Just to say I proved him wrong.”

  I meet Lincoln’s eyes that are awash with compassion. Something about the way he gazes upon me makes me think he’s dying to wrap me in his arms and comfort me. But he can’t do that. Never again.

  “If you report this and he learns I had a prior relationship with my professor, with one of his employees, he’ll never let it go. He’ll always think I only passed because I screwed my way to a passing grade. Just like he thinks the only reason I was promoted from receptionist to columnist at the magazine is because I was the only one willing to trade my body for tips on celebrity comings and goings. While there may be some truth to his opinion, it’s not the only thing that’s gotten me to where I am. If he finds out about this…” I shake my head, swallowing. “If you report this, he’ll always see me as the naïve twenty-two-year-old girl who made a terrible decision and got herself in a bad situation just to prove she could do more than answer a phone.”

  He stares at me for what feels like an eternity, dozens of questions on the tip of his tongue after this admission, something I didn’t think I’d ever share with him, or anybody. Finally, he blows out a long breath, his shoulders falling.

  “I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but okay.” He brings his eyes back to mine. “We’ll keep this between us.”

  All the tension rolls off my body, gratitude filling me. “Thank you.”

  His expression hardens, his jaw tighte
ning, nostrils flaring. “But if I hear the faintest hint of whispers about us, it will leave me no choice. So do not speak a word about this to anyone. Do not say anything during class that would lead anyone to believe there has ever been anything between us.”

  The compassionate Lincoln is gone, serious and stern Lincoln taking his place. “For all intents and purposes, the relationship happened before you were my student anyway, and once we were aware of the situation, we ceased all contact. Neither one of us is taking advantage of the other, so if we keep it quiet, no one will ever know about it, considering I have no intention of continuing this relationship.”

  “Such a lawyer,” I comment, his words stinging more than I thought they would. “Trying to get off on a technicality.”

  “Do you see any other option?” He pinches his lips together. “Need I remind you, I’m the one whose ass is on the line here. I’m doing this as a favor to you. I can go down the hall and report this right now. I should go down the hall and report this.”

  “No,” I respond urgently, advancing toward him, desperate. “It’s okay. You’re right.” I swallow hard as I straighten my spine. “There is no other option.”

  We stare at each other in silence for several moments. Then he nods. “So we’re in agreement. We’ll continue on with our lives as if this never happened. We’ll forget about everything.” His tone rises in pitch at the end, his words neither a question nor a statement.

  I bite on my lower lip to prevent Lincoln from seeing how difficult this is.

  “It’s already forgotten.”