‘You know—’ Connor’s voice is soft and even though other students are still milling around I know he’s addressing me ‘—it’s not a great idea to be chatting on your phone during class.’
My ears are hot.
‘I wasn’t on the phone during class,’ I point out, changing trajectory and moving towards the desk.
‘I beg to differ.’
‘With respect, sir, it was before class.’
His eyes narrow, and seem to change colour. ‘I was here, wasn’t I? Thus the class had begun.’
I’m tempted to argue with him—I want to argue with him. But Connor Hughes is obviously used to people doing exactly what he wants, when he wants. Plus, he’s my lecturer and I know I can’t say what I’m thinking. Because I’m a good girl.
I press my fingertips into the edge of his desk. Breath is burning through me and my chest heaves with the effort. We stare at each other for a long time. Or maybe it’s just seconds. I don’t know. Time seems to stand still. It’s heavy around me, like wading through just-poured concrete.
‘Shut the door, Miss Amorelli.’
Oh, God. Here we are again. The tension stretches between us, pulling so hard, so tight, that I think it might actually snap me in half.
But a thrill of adrenalin is surging in my veins simultaneously. I want this. I need it. To be alone with him, even for a few stolen minutes, even knowing nothing can happen. I storm towards the door as though I’m pissed off and not excited. I push it shut and whip around to face him.
He’s sitting at the desk, a bemused expression on his handsome-as-sin face.
‘Yes?’ I press back against the door, all but willing him to come and hold his body to mine.
He stands slowly, unfurling his frame and prowling across the room. He comes close, but not close enough.
His smile is sardonic and utterly sexy. ‘I meant with you on the other side of it.’
I ignore the flash of embarrassment, pushing it deep down inside myself. ‘Am I supposed to be a mind-reader?’
‘I don’t know what you’re supposed to be.’ There is resignation in that sentence.
His eyes drop to my breasts, heating me up, making me tingle all over. My nipples thrust forward of their own volition and his lips twist in a smile that is both mocking and approving, all at once.
This is so wrong.
And still I don’t move. Suddenly, I’m desperate for him to touch me, or for me to touch him. Everything seems to come screeching to a halt—I am angry with my parents for their machinations, for the way they want to control my personal life. I’m angry at Pietro for being a pawn in their games. And, most of all, I’m angry at Connor Hughes for being sexy AF even when I hate the work he does—defending criminals who should be locked up with the keys thrown away.
‘You should go, Olivia.’ He steps back as though he can put an end to this. As though he can walk away from this insane gravitational pull.
But I’m sick of being told what to do. I’m sick of being a good girl. Just once, I want to do something for myself, something completely wrong.
‘And what if I don’t go?’
There’s a look of desperation in his expression, as though we’re sinking in quicksand, and his voice is gravel when he speaks. ‘You should.’
It’s four o’clock. Thoughts of the birthday lunch fragment my mood, but it annoys me. I’m impatient at the expectation that I’ll simply do what my mother asks.
I take a step forward and he squares his shoulders but doesn’t retreat.
‘I had a dream about you last night,’ I murmur, the words slipping from between my lips, unbidden.
His eyes blink closed for a moment and he draws in a breath. ‘Did you?’
‘Uh huh.’ I step close enough that my breasts are pressing against his chest.
‘Careful.’ His words whisper against my hair and a frisson of awareness dances all the way down my back.
I lift my face, angling my eyes to meet his. ‘Of what?’
‘Of playing with fire.’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’
His Adam’s apple jerks as he swallows. ‘Yes.’
I am; he’s right. And it feels so good. I am not a good girl—at least, not just a good girl.
‘Don’t you want to know what my dream was about?’
His eyes are lightly mocking. ‘I think I can guess.’
My lips twist into a small smile. ‘I dreamed,’ I say huskily, ‘that you touched me here.’ I lift a hand to my breast, running my fingertips over nipples that are taut. He makes a groaning noise but keeps watching, his eyes glued to the progress of my fingertips.
‘And here.’ I run my fingers higher, to the pulse point at the base of my throat. ‘And here.’ I touch my lips.
‘Anywhere else?’ The words are gruff, strained.
I nod, slowly.
‘Here.’ I run my fingertip down my body, pressing against the zip of my jeans. We’re so close that I can’t do so without brushing against his cock—it’s rock-hard. Power rocks me to my core.
‘And you don’t think it’s inappropriate to dream of your teacher?’
Adrenalin heats my blood and flavours my mouth. ‘Sure it is.’ I bite down on my lower lip. ‘I’m not sure I care, though.’
His groan is so soft that I only hear it because I’m standing right here, pressed against him.
‘Show me.’
I blink.
‘Show me what you dreamed I did to you.’
I nod, slowly, and drop my hand back to my jeans, this time undoing the button and lowering the zip.
And, as I touch myself, his cock is right there, too. My fingers push against my wet, hot clit and he stays close, so that every movement also rubs his dick.
I’m so close. I’ve been dreaming about him for a month, wanting him, needing this, so that now I’m there I have no ability to hold on and stretch this out. I come hard, against my fingers, but when I would cry out with pleasure he lifts a hand to my mouth, pressing his palm against my lips to silence me. I bite down on his flesh—gently.
He laughs, and pushes his dick further forward, so that if it weren’t for the barrier of his clothes he’d be touching me. My body pulses.
Sagging, spent, I withdraw my hand, and he catches me around the wrist.
‘Now let me show you what I’ve been dreaming of doing.’
I hold my breath but, instead of lifting me over his shoulder and taking me somewhere more private, he simply lifts my fingers to his lips. He takes them deep inside his mouth and my knees buckle under the overwhelming sensual awareness. He wraps an arm around my waist, vice-like, and continues to suck my fingers until I’m whimpering.
Then, slowly, he pulls my wrist, removing my finger from his mouth, and he unclamps my waist. He steps back, watching me with glittering eyes. ‘Careful, Miss Amorelli. If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.’
* * *
I had two lectures to get through after Olivia.
Two lectures that I somehow managed to bullshit my way through—I couldn’t tell you, for a million pounds, what the fuck I talked about. I guess I more or less stuck to the course notes, but holy shit.
I see only her face before me.
Her face, scrunched with pleasure, feel her nipples hard against my chest.
I hear only her rushed breathing, her low moans. I hear the exhalation of breath as she tipped over the edge, sucking her lower lip between her teeth and squeezing her eyes closed.
I smell only her.
I taste only her.
Hell, I taste her and it is like taking an addict to a crack den. She tasted so good; how am I meant to leave it at that? How am I meant to stand in front of her without a tent in my pants?
One taste of Olivia is never going to be enough.
I watch the last student file out of my class and then load up the LLS lecturer app on my iPad. I’m only here for the term—and just because I was feeling almost suffocated by my need to get away from Dublin and my firm. I didn’t want all the gadgets that came with this temporary lecturing gig.
I was happy to stand up in front of the class and spitball about law and trial experience, interviewing clients, prepping witnesses, you know, the real stuff these students will need to know to be effective in the real world.
But the university has weird rules about this stuff. All the teaching staff need to have the same equipment—it comes as standard. Something about what the students deserve.
So I have the app and for the first time since taking up this honorary lectureship I open it and flick into my student files.
They’re in alphabetical order by surname, so she’s right near the top. I send a guilty look towards the door—then feel like an A-grade idiot.
I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just checking a student’s schedule.
She’s finished for the day—no hope of seeing her again now. I resist the impulse to scribble down her phone number and address. I’ve already crossed so many lines I’m like a freaking acrobat. I don’t think I need to add another transgression to my list.
She’s got a tutorial tomorrow at ten.
I can wait until then.
Just.
* * *
Olivia doesn’t show.
I wait outside the classroom feeling like a stalker, pretending I’m busy checking something on my phone when every twenty seconds my eyes are obsessively scanning the corridor for the sight of long blonde hair and enormous blue eyes.
Ten minutes after the hour, I accept the fact she isn’t coming.
It’s probably a good thing. I don’t know what the hell I want to say to her, anyway... Hey. I really liked watching you touch yourself. Round two later today?
I wince.
I can’t let it happen again.
I don’t think I can stop it from happening again.
There’s an inevitability that is pulling me to her. And I think I know why.
It’s the Donovan case. I wasn’t expected to win; the press coverage was immense. I’m not comfortable with plaudits in the media. I do what I do not to defend criminals but to defend the law. I have the utmost respect for the law and I do what many won’t.
But I’m tired of it. Dirtied by it. And I need a break. Just a small break, to remember what I love about the simple application of the law. That’s why I’m here. Teaching, talking about the principles of our legal system, about what makes it robust. The passion and energy—the pursuit of importance and goodness—that drew me to this job in the first place.
I could hardly breathe in Dublin. I couldn’t handle the new business the win had attracted. Every crim who has money wants me to defend them—like I’m some kind of magic genie who can wave a wand and keep them out of jail.
I needed a break after Donovan. I needed to unwind. I’ll be better able to practise after I’ve taken some time off.
But, instead of relaxing me, I’m suddenly wound tighter than a spring. Did I actually watch Olivia Amorelli get herself off in the middle of a recently vacated classroom?
What if someone had come in and seen us?
I have to tell her in no uncertain terms that we can’t let that happen again.
We’re both adults. We know what’s at stake. We should be able to negotiate a ceasefire in the war of desire, right?
CHAPTER THREE
I FEEL AMAZING in my dress. The Astra Vivien creation is something out of a fantasy, all pale beige silk, beaded heavily on the skirt so that it shimmers in the light. The sleeves fall in bells to below my wrists but at the back it dips low, down my spine, showing off a tan that is always golden but that darkens to mahogany over these glorious summer months.
The dress is classy and discreet and, oh, so beautiful—and all the more so because I found it in a charity shop down Kensington High Street. It was just sitting in the window, glittering and soft, begging me to buy it. So I did, and I feel like I can do anything and, vitally, face anyone with Astra on my side.
I am armed and ready to see Connor again. And, if I’m honest, that’s what I’m most nervous about tonight. Not the dozens of industry heavyweights who’ve come to the law school’s annual summer ball, looking to hand-pick their interns for next year. Sure—that’s thrilling, but it isn’t why I’m studying law.
The Crown Prosecution Service haven’t sent anyone that I know of, and that’s where I want to end up. Opposite men like Connor, all smooth-talking and aiding and abetting criminals. I want to stare them down and ensure real justice is served.
I straighten my spine as the doors of the lift ping open and step out into the swirl of dresses and suits. Piano music reaches my ears from far away, mixing with the din of conversation and the clinking sound of glasses. The Level 10 viewing terrace at Tate Modern is a blank canvas kind of space. Architecturally interesting walls that lean inwards yet don’t impede the sense of light and space, and the view is, as you would expect, sensational.
The room is alive with my colleagues and friends.
I step into the party, feeling great about the night ahead.
Feeling great in general.
Until I see him—and I see him instantly, despite the fact he’s in the middle of the press of guests. My blood hitches up a gear, rushing through me, loud and impatient, fast and desperate. He’s talking to Dean Walters and, heaven help me, he looks so good. Not Dean Walters.
Connor Hughes.
He’s wearing a tuxedo, of course, like every other man here. Except not like every other man here because he looks, on the one hand, as though the suit was bespoke, stitched to his body, and on the other as though he could burst out of it at any moment. There is a latent savagery to him that emanates in waves. It fascinates me.
I want him to savage me.
The thought comes out of nowhere and a little tremble of warning runs down my spine. The last time I had thoughts like that I acted on them. And I wouldn’t have stopped, if he hadn’t regained his sanity.
If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.
His hair is close-cropped, almost shaved, and it’s a dark brown. I imagine what it would feel like to run my hands through it and my fingers itch by my sides.
A waiter passes with a tray of drinks and I swipe a flute of champagne with a tight smile, turning my attention away from Connor for only a moment. It’s a prop. I don’t drink at university functions. It’s a personal policy developed after seeing a few too many of my colleagues get wasted and make tits of themselves in front of the faculty. I don’t want to mix business—or study—with pleasure.
‘Well, this isn’t fair.’ Louise Patel smiles as she approaches, wearing a black cocktail dress that falls to her knees. She’s got a blinging necklace on—though I’d say the ‘diamonds’ are more high street than high cost—and her shining black hair has been braided around her head like a crown.
She chinks her champagne flute to mine once she’s close enough.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s not enough to wipe the floor with us academically—now you’ve got to steal the show with that bloody dress as well?’
I grin. ‘It’s actually from a charity shop.’
She nods. ‘Obviously. Student budget, right?’
I nod. Between rent, utilities and groceries, money’s always tight. I’m just lucky my mum and dad are so supportive—even though it’s a stretch for them, they’ve always prioritised our education and I love them dearly for that. I intend to more than pay them back, one day.
‘Everyone here is going to want to talk to you, you know.’
We scan the room together, surveying the hundred-strong crowd. The pianist changes songs, moving to another jazz numb
er, and it’s at that moment Connor looks up, his eyes—so like the ocean, so like the sun—piercing me with an ease that makes me wonder if he knew exactly where I was standing. Or does he have the same skill I possess, of being able to locate him with radar-like precision?
‘I’m not interested in mingling, really,’ I say with a shrug.
Louise shoots me a look of frustration. ‘Working for the CPS is all very noble but these guests are serious big-hitters. Why not at least talk to them? Earn yourself a tidy fortune and then go save the world?’
I smile across at her. ‘Because it would kill my soul, and you know it.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘I think the money Bernstein Brown pays would revive it.’
‘Not for years, though.’
‘No one pays anyone anything for years, really.’
‘It’s not about the money.’ I sip my champagne, my eyes flicking to Connor once more.
He’s staring at me.
As if no one else is here.
As if Dean Walters isn’t talking to him.
He’s staring at me and then, when I return his look, his eyes drop purposefully lower, just for a moment, but it’s all it takes. My body catches fire. I am spontaneously combusting, burning from the soles of my feet to the ends of my hair. I’m back in the lecture room, body pressed to his, touching myself, brushing my fingers against his arousal.
God.
He swivels his head so that I have a moment to admire his autocratic profile before he smiles, a proper smile that shows his even white teeth. Curious, I chase the direction of his reaction and my gut throbs when I see a woman cutting through the room.
I felt so good in my Astra dress. Until I saw her.
She is...stunning.
In bright red silk that is more negligee than gown, she is sex on a stick and somehow incredibly elegant at the same time. Her chestnut-brown hair is pulled into a messy chignon and her make-up is flawless—particularly her lips, which match the dress to a T.
He kisses her on the cheek but keeps a hand around her waist as he introduces her to Dean Walters.
Her Guilty Secret Page 3
