The spotlight shifted off me, and for a second, I was relieved. Grateful. The vibrations died, lessened for a moment, then of course, just as I began to hope he didn’t want me to orgasm in front of the entire class, the vibe turned onto the highest setting.
My shoulders dropped, my chin lifted, and I knew my eyes sparkled as I stared at him.
Right at him.
Our gazes clashed, held, and my jaw firmed as I tried not to moan, tried not to shudder with the power of the sensations coursing through me.
Only staring at him, letting him hold me, visually, throughout that got me through, and yeah, I knew that was messed up considering he was the one tormenting me.
My body began to tremble, shaking from the inside out as the pleasure he’d forced on me made itself known.
“Ms. Whitehouse? Is everything okay?” he asked, frowning at me, back in the role of professor and not my tormentor.
My throat was tight as I whispered, “Stage fright.”
He hummed. “Just a few more lines to go.”
I read my part, quickly scanned what I missed because he was bastard enough to ask us about the text, especially when I missed it thanks to him, and I realized he’d planned for me to come when there was a chunk of the dialogue where I wasn’t required to speak.
Ugh.
Why did he do that?
Just when I could call him a bastard, he did something kind of nice.
Although, was that really nice? Wouldn’t it have been nicer if he didn’t text me before class and ask me to insert a fucking vibrator so he could torment me with it, while I was in a lesson where he was supposed to teach me something for the crazy fees I paid to study at this Ivy League joint?
He was blurring the lines again.
Confusing me.
Making me want something I shouldn’t want.
During the mornings when I saw him in the coffee shop, he’d tip his chin at me when the place was quiet, and I’d come over with a cafe latte for him and a cappuccino for me.
I’d sit there, awkward at first, while he worked.
We didn’t talk.
It wasn’t something we did.
But I knew why he did it.
He didn’t want to talk to me. He wanted me to take a rest. A quick one. And the tip he handed me after when he paid for our coffees? I’d bought Scottie a teddy bear with it, and had paid for groceries all last week thanks to that money.
Sure, it smacked of charity, but equally, it didn’t.
I kind of deserved it for the crap he was pulling with my body. Making it work against me.
Damn him.
When the segment was over, I knew I was hobbling slightly as I headed back up the stairs to where I was seated. It hurt to walk up there, and I regretted sitting right at the top because, oh boy, I was sensitive.
I wanted nothing more than to take out the damn thing just in case he pulled another stunt on me, but mostly, I was just feeling hollow.
That was my biggest issue at the moment. Not the bills that were piling up, or the fact that I was going to have to hand over a couple of hundred bucks to Cheryl tomorrow. It was the fact that I was empty inside when I came, and I was tired of it. So tired of it.
What he was doing was wrong. He was blackmailing me, but what was weirder was that I wanted him to take it up a notch. This was turning consensual and that was terrifying. But what scared the hell out of me was how I was tired of him using my body as a marionette doll. I was tired of him being the puppet master. I needed more, and whether he was going to give that to me was another matter entirely.
It was so strange, I knew that, but I wanted him inside me. Pumping away over me while his body was a heavy weight over mine.
Just thinking about it had the power to make me shudder as I slumped in my seat.
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take any of this, and not for the reasons that most women would think…
Not one part of me wanted this to be over. I just wanted more of what he wasn’t offering, and if that didn’t make me as much of a screw up as him, then I wasn’t sure what would.
❖
As I stared at the job offer from the professor’s friend, I had to wonder if it was too good to be true. I had no idea if the rate was above average or not, just knew that it was more than I could make at the cafe in an hour.
The only trouble was I’d never transcribed notes before.
Not that I was going to tell the professor or his friend. Especially not with that kind of money on the table.
My jaw worked as I hovered over the reply. It all seemed straight forward. Payment through PayPal, Elizabeth would provide me with a link to a cloud where I could access the documents and upload completed transcriptions. Payment would be made when ten new documents were uploaded and the accuracy checked.
I could work from home.
Stay with Scottie.
The two hundred I had to hand over to Cheryl in the next ten minutes burned in my pocket.
I couldn’t afford to hand that over to her, but I had no choice. She was really good about me bringing him down so early for the start of my shift at the coffee shop, and she never complained if I was late back from school. But the money was just more than I could afford.
The Mrs. Linden-sized hole in my life was felt more than ever. Not just through the money I was hemorrhaging, even with the little fund she’d gifted me, but in every aspect of my life.
I was depressed, overworked, tired, and it was getting weird with the professor.
Not on his part—well, no weirder than usual.
But with me.
I wanted him.
Was starting to crave him because he was the only aspect of my life that wasn’t predictable. That the threat of money and my debts didn’t loom over.
How crazy was that?
Could someone have Stockholm Syndrome without having been kidnapped?
That was how I felt anyway. Like he’d taken hostage of my body, had kidnapped it and made it his in a way that I couldn’t even begin to describe.
Just thinking of him made me hot and bothered, and what was irritating me the most was how he still hadn’t touched me.
God, that was driving me insane.
It was like I had fire ants strolling down my damn nerve endings because he avoided touching me so much that I was even more sensitive than usual.
I blew out a breath and hit ‘send’ on the acceptance email of the job offer. Maclean had saved my ass, and I was sure he knew it, but it surprised me that he didn’t lord it over me.
He was like that, after all. Quite capable of using my actions against me, but he hadn’t mentioned it since the day of Mrs. Linden’s funeral a few weeks back. And it wasn’t like he’d forgotten.
At the coffee shop last week, he’d asked me if I needed a lift to the funeral home to collect her ashes, and me, being the sucker I was, said yes in the hopes that he’d touch me. Maybe hold my hand.
Christ, you knew you were desperate when that simple touch was a craving. But the only person to hug me was Scottie, and the only person to care for me was, bizarrely enough, the professor.
And he did.
He bought me coffee, left me tips for food. He’d share his breakfast muffin with me on a morning, and had made that offer of a ride to the funeral home… No, he wasn’t Mr. Darcy in the making, but hell, Lizzie Bennet had hated Mr. Darcy at first.
Before she married him.
Not that that was on the cards for the Professor and me, but still. I understood her about-face, even if I’d always thought her a pansy-ass for it before now.
Walk a day in my shoes…
I hauled Scottie off the floor where he’d been crawling after I vacuumed it earlier and, tucking him onto my hip, headed into the kitchen. I bypassed my drunk as fuck mother and grabbed the gear my boy would need for the day.
Cheryl blinked blearily at me as she took Scottie from me. He settled on her hip with a pout that, I knew if I didn’t leave soon, would morp
h into a tantrum. And that was the last thing any of us needed at this time in the morning.
Because of that, I shoved the money at her, and felt guilty at the relief in her eyes—she needed the money just as badly as I did, and yet I was about to take it from her now that I had this new job.
Her ratty robe was threadbare as Scottie plucked at it with displeasure.
“Thanks, Cheryl,” I said, aware that guilt made my tone husky. “I might be late this afternoon. I have an appointment.”
I didn’t say why, but my post-class meetings with the professor were starting to take up more time, and I wasn’t about to complain.
“No worries. He’ll be here right as rain, won’t you, bud?” she teased, and grinned at me when Scottie huffed like he wasn’t her bud, and like he disagreed about the ‘right as rain’ part.
Her tired eyes held a lightness that was in direct correlation to my stress—she felt better for the money in her hand, while I felt all the worse for it.
I waved bye at them both and quickly got out of there. Knowing the professor would be there added a buoyancy to my step, one that made the walk to the cafe go quicker.
When I made it inside, I scanned the coffee shop and was astonished to see he wasn’t in his regular spot.
My heart sank, but Jose was coming around the counter the second I was inside.
“Thank God,” he grunted. “I have to go. If I don’t get to bed, I’m going to die.”
I snorted at his melodramatics. “See you tomorrow.”
He yawned and scurried out, leaving me in an empty cafe.
Well, there were about five patrons, but it was empty of the one man who counted.
Worry for him hit me, and I knew that was stupid, but I couldn’t stop it. He was here every day. It had been unwanted at first, but now? He made me feel safe.
I blew out a breath, aware once again how weird this was getting, but what concerned me the most was that I didn’t want it to stop.
The second I was behind the counter, I texted him.
Me: Are you okay?
No instant reply.
He was always on his phone. I’d noticed that. After his trip to Crow, I’d often seen him up on that mezzanine, in the same spot. Now that I knew where he was, I knew he had a bird’s eye view of the club’s layout—including me.
He was watching me.
Another shaky breath escaped me as I accepted the truth.
He was stalking me.
But I didn’t feel endangered.
Didn’t feel like I was unsafe. If anything, I felt safer. With his eyes on me, I felt untouchable. And yet, he wasn’t here.
Why wasn’t he here?
The panic inside me was like a bubble that was on the brink of bursting. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I tried to call, but he didn’t answer, and as my shift dragged out, I knew I’d never been happier that I had a class with him today.
Even if he still tormented me within the hallowed walls of the lecture hall.
However, when I made it to school, there was a note on the door.
Class canceled.
My eyes widened and I rested my hand on the note.
Did that mean he was sick?
It would explain why he hadn’t been at the cafe, and it would also explain why he hadn’t answered his phone.
That he was sick, somewhere in the city, and I didn’t know where he was or if he was okay, had pain spearing through my belly.
Legitimate pain.
Did he need me?
Christ, did he need anyone?
My jaw worked as I stared at the note. I was angry with him, I realized. Angry and stressed out because he hadn’t contacted me.
I grabbed my cell and dialed his number again.
No answer.
My heart sank. I needed to hear his voice, and if I sounded needy, then fuck, it was how he’d made me.
I did need him.
And yeah, it was nuts, but maybe I was nuts.
Maybe that was just me and how I was, especially around him.
Throat tight, I bit my lip as I left the building and headed outside. I only had the one class today, and though the sun was shining and everything was bright and warm, with every other student scurrying around on their own schedule, it bypassed me.
The day was darker because he wasn’t in it, and that was as terrifying as it was true.
Chapter Seven
“Where were you?” I demanded, the second Jose had left the following morning.
His eyes were red-rimmed and his face was drawn. He did look sick, and that he hadn’t contacted me told me just how little I meant to him.
And yet, I had to mean something, didn’t I? Otherwise, why would he be interested in me?
He looked like he was in a mood. His eyes were brooding, and his mouth was drawn tight as he peered over his shoulder at the thankfully empty coffee shop.
“Sit down,” he commanded, and that note in his voice made my blood sing.
Why?
Only God knew.
I released a breath as I sank onto the booth. “Were you sick?” I asked the second I was opposite him.
“Spread your legs,” he demanded as coolly as he was ordering a fucking coffee.
I ground my teeth. “No,” I spat. “I want to know where you were.”
He cocked a brow at me. “It doesn’t work like that. Spread your legs.”
My blood quickened as it usually did, and it pissed me off even more that he was using my body against me.
When I glowered at him, my mutiny written onto every line on my face, he murmured, “My, my, a day’s absence and you forget how it works.”
The purr was back, and fuck if it didn’t instantly get me hot.
My stomach rippled as my hips rocked against the bench seat in response. I truly felt pity for Pavlov’s dogs at that moment. I knew what it was to salivate at will.
Okay, different kind of salivate, but still. Those poor pooches. And God help me, I was just as bad as them.
“Are they spread?” he inquired, stirring his steaming cup of coffee that he’d evidently just ordered.
Except, when I stared into the brew, I realized it wasn’t coffee.
It was yellow.
I frowned at him. “Since when do you drink chamomile?”
“Since I caught a stomach bug at a faculty meeting.” His mouth tensed. “Are they spread?”
Because he’d answered me for once, and because I knew now that he’d been ill and was here, even though he still looked rough as shit, I did as he asked.
When he lifted his cup, he peered over the rim at me. “Are you wet?”
I hated that he knew my body so well.
How did he? How could he?
He’d never touched it. Had never even caressed me, and yet, he knew me better than any of my other sucky boyfriends.
It almost made me mad at him, and then I recognized how stupid that was. But this was a seriously confusing situation, and it had me on edge in ways that a woman in my position couldn’t afford.
Or, at least, a woman who’d been in a position.
I was handing in my notice today when Lorenzo made it into the coffee shop before I left, and even though I was freaking out, I was also psyched. I wouldn’t have to worry about Scottie being with someone he barely tolerated, and I could earn what I needed to get by while staying at home.
I mean, being at home wasn’t as marvelous as it might be for some, but I’d take it if it meant I didn’t have to hand out thirty a day for someone to care for my baby brother.
When he took a sip of tea, his patience irked me to the point that I stared back at him. Stared and stared until I almost drowned in his eyes. Until I almost wanted to.
My heart began to pound in my chest, my blood felt like it was boiling, and everything inside me felt as though it was turbocharged just from that one point of connection.
But it wasn’t enough.
I needed more, but also, I didn’t need this at a
ll.
Closing my eyes, I broke the connection then reached under the table, slipped my hand up my skirt, and touched my panty-less pussy.
I was, as predicted, wet.
Blowing out a hard breath, I opened my eyes again, looked at him and whispered, “How do you do this to me?”
He didn’t smirk at me, didn’t even grin. If anything, his jaw worked and I wondered if this pained him as much as it did me.
What would it take to make him need more from me?
And God help me, why didn’t the thought have me running for the hills?
Even as that crossed my mind, though, I knew it was stupid. Maclean, despite being a bastard and mean with it sometimes, wouldn’t hurt me.
I was safe.
Safe within the monster’s clutch. Bewildering, yet true.
As I played with my pussy, I stared at him as though we were a regular couple having a regular drink together at a regular coffee shop.
But nothing about us was regular.
Nothing.
At all.
My pussy was wet, desperate for his touch, his cock. So eager for it, I—
The thought occurred to me, and I didn’t know why it hadn’t until now.
I could touch him.
He didn’t have to touch me first.
He reared back like he knew what I was about, and I couldn’t stop myself. Connected with him through our gaze, I licked my lips and began to sink under the table.
The second he understood what I was doing, his nostrils flared and he ground out, “Stay where you are, Phoebe.”
I shook my head and disappeared under the tabletop. I felt his tension from afar, felt it and wondered at it.
Didn’t he want this?
Me?
Why wouldn’t he want me to touch him, to give him pleasure? After weeks of watching me satisfy myself, surely he needed more? Craved it as much as I did?
My own mind was working against me. I needed to touch him, needed him to feel as much as he made me feel.
It was a compulsion, a desire so strong that it was more than I’d ever felt with my ex. This was almost as heady as an orgasm, for God’s sake.
My hands rested on his thighs, and I felt the tension within him. What I also recognized, however, was that while he might claim he didn’t want me to do this, he wasn’t moving.
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