Dropping down on top of me, my arms collapse under his weight. The only sound in the room for several minutes after that is our sawing breaths and the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears as I struggle for adequate oxygen.
Finally, the pressure leaves me as my mystery man rolls away. From out of nowhere, I hear the loud crack and my ass cheek burns accordingly. “Mother fuck!” I screech, no longer in my sex-hazed delirium. There is no buffer to ease the sting this time. Shooting off the bed, I grab my cheek and send him a death glare.
His smirk is both an act of defiance, and a challenge. “Remember that next time you decide to fake it.”
My mouth gapes open as he walks toward the bathroom. My indignation over being hit out of context and the shock of getting caught, burns away like fog on a sunny morning when I realize where he is going. Heat takes its place. “Need someone to wash your back?” Usually, he’s good for at least two rounds—sometimes more. But he always takes time for a little aftercare. Those times are my favorite because it is the only time he’s sweet. His behavior could almost fool me if I wasn’t so accustomed to his ways.
“If you’re offering. There are a few other places that could use some special attention, too.”
A smile blossoms on my face as I push open the door and step inside. The water is already running in the shower, and the view of his naked ass, round and solid with muscle that rolls up to a smooth, toned back with broad shoulders, nearly sends me into a tizzy. A lesser woman would drop dead from the sight, it is so damn perfect. Me? Screw the washcloth. I plan to lick every inch of that skin.
He takes me twice more that night—once in the shower, filling my mouth with his cum, and the last in what is apparently his new favorite spot—in front of the window. Yes, my mystery man is a dirty boy, and I love it.
When the alarm on his phone goes off at five in the morning, just a few short hours after we fell asleep in each other’s arms, I’m not ready to get up.
“Get up,” he says, the words clipped. “I’m checking out in twenty.”
Rubbing my eyes, I roll out of bed feeling as if I have one foot in reality and the other still in dreamland. “Why are you leaving so early? You usually get up at seven.”
“I have to be somewhere.”
“This early?” I’m immediately aware of my tone. He doesn’t like complaining. A fact I’m reminded of as he glances over his shoulder—those harsh, onyx eyes threatening to level me if I don’t shut my mouth fast.
Holding up my hands in surrender, I search for my clothes and begin dressing. “Forget I mentioned it. You want me out, I’m out.”
I refuse to let his kicking me out hurt my feelings. Still, there’s no denying the rejection stings a little.
Meeting me at the end of the bed, he places his hands on my shoulders, and I pause as I look up into his eyes. Is that regret I see?
“Don’t let anyone see you when you go.”
Nope. My mistake. A dick. That’s what he is. And yet I keep coming back because I’m a stupid shit. “Of course. Same time next week?” I ask hopefully, hating myself for sounding so eager. If I had any self-respect, I’d tell him to fuck off.
“Unless something else comes up.” That is always his answer. I don’t know why I keep asking, because it never changes. He lowers his mouth to mine, and for a brief, fantastic moment, I am sucked back into the blissful state that he provides as our mouths fuse together.
I am breathless by the time he pulls away, and my head feels light as I slip from the room the same way I came in—silent and unnoticed.
THREE
“Joe, wait up!”
I turn at the sound of my name and see Annie rushing toward me, her blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. As usual, she’s running late. Or, at least, she thinks she is. Annie is the type of person who thinks the clock is working against her the minute she walks out the door. In reality, she’s always on time, if not early, for everything.
Stepping back so I’m not blocking the sidewalk, I wait for her, amused. A yard separates us, and I can tell from here by the pink in her cheeks and the intense look in her bold green eyes, that she’s experiencing a freak-out moment. Beside me, Annie is petite, bordering on munchkin size and a perfect mixture of cute and drop-dead gorgeous. A bolt of shame strikes me briefly, because Annie would never be caught dead doing what I do for a living. She’s too sweet, too pure. Combined with my late-night rendezvous, I feel soiled and used up standing beside her.
I shake the soul-damaging thought away as Annie reaches me and fall into step with her as she continues on. “You’re really cutting it close,” I tease her. “There’s only twenty minutes left until class starts. We’ll be lucky to get a front-row seat.” Today I start my first art class, and I get the added bonus of sharing the experience with my best friend.
Annie shoots me a mock glower but increases her pace a fraction. “Not funny, Joe. I don’t want to be late for this class. Everyone says the same thing: Professor Scott is a total ball-buster.”
“Well, good thing we don’t have any of those.” I nudge her playfully, but I can see that Annie is in The Zone. Her playful side won’t be free for at least another hour. “I’m surprised you haven’t given yourself an ulcer already. Relax, would you? It’s Art Comp. How hard could it be?”
As it turns out, those words would come back to haunt me.
We are the first students through the door. The room is set up amphitheater-style, with stadium- seating overlooking a half-circle floor where a small, functional desk and podium are set up. The florescent overhead lighting strains my eyes as I follow Annie across the floor to the first row, taking the seats positioned front and center, just the way she likes them. I prefer the back, as far away as one can get. This close, I’ll be able to see the professor’s nose hairs flutter while he talks.
As the class steadily files in, I lean into Annie and speak low enough that my voice won’t carry. “So, how did it go with Jason last night? Did you get everything straightened out?”
Lately, she and her boyfriend have been having problems. She’s been tight-lipped about it, but from what she’s shared with me, they’ve been dating since the start of their freshman year at university and hit it off so well, they made plans to get married once they graduated. We are two weeks into the start of our first semester of senior year and it looks as though Jason is reconsidering his life plans. Distant, moody, and all-around jackass, I have a hard time understanding what she sees in the guy. He only comes around to get free ass, and then he’s gone again, and I’m getting tired of seeing my friend mope around in his wake. The only reason I haven’t said anything is because I know Annie is the type of person who needs to handle it in her own time and in her own way. This is precisely the reason I haven’t settled down with anyone. If this is what I have to look forward to, I’ll gladly stay single forever.
Even as the thought crosses my mind, a set of dark, penetrating eyes surface in my memory.
Rolling her eyes, Annie inhales deeply. “It didn’t. As soon as we got to his dorm, his friends burst in and next thing I know, I’m sitting on a crowded couch on Frat Row watching him play beer pong and get wasted. I can’t talk to him when he’s like that.” She looks at me, one eyebrow lifted. “And he’s always like that these days.”
The sadness radiating off her strikes me right in the chest. Annie is too good a person to be treated with such blatant disrespect. He’s not the person she thinks he is. Jason doesn’t deserve to have someone so loyal and loving. I am about to tell her this when the door bangs shut, resonating throughout the room.
“Roll call!” the heavy voice booms, reverberating off the walls.
My gaze lifts, and I experience an acute case of tunnel vision as I sit up straight. It takes my brain a few moments to catch up to what it is seeing, and when it does, I nearly hyperventilate.
Holy shit! Dear Lord in Heaven, this can’t be happening. But it is. Professor Scott is my mystery man? And then, like a bolt of lightning, th
e heaviness of that realization strikes me and I realize, Holy shit. Professor Scott is my mystery man.
My gaze eats him up as it slowly slides down his trim body, starting from the top of his head and gliding appreciatively all the way down to his toes. He is scorching hot, so different from seeing him in the darkness of the club, or in the throes of passion. It’s difficult for me to comprehend what is standing in front of me. His stark black hair, long enough to touch his shirt collar and curl up at the ends, is combed back off a broad forehead—it’s the same—thick black brows, piercing charcoal eyes, slim nose, full lips, wide, unshaven jaw. Even the way his thick neck disappears beneath a powder blue button-down that tucks into a pair of crisp black slacks rings a bell. And I know from experience that the size of his polished black leather loafers is a precise indication of what’s happening on the business end of things.
He is the total package, and for some reason, seeing him in this environment, I feel more connected to him than ever. We share a secret bond, one that I know I won’t be able to ignore because as Professor Scott comes to stand in front of me, all I can think about now is how it feels to be impaled on his cock.
A low gurgle of laughter claims my attention before I get too far along with my fantasy, and I realize with sudden clarity that I am macking on my professor—my lover—who is standing only a foot away, those piercing black eyes fixated on me expectantly.
He smirks and my heart thuds against my ribcage. “Glad to see you’ve returned to us, Miss…?”
My face is burning, as surely as if someone is holding an open flame up to it, and I clear my throat. “Josephine Hart.”
“Miss Hart,” he purrs, and my insides twist at the sound of my name on his lips. “I’m assuming you weren’t listening just now. We’re doing roll call, and I have asked each member of the class to stand up and introduce themselves.” His dark eyes hold mine, and despite his smile, I feel like a fly under a microscope. Even outside the bedroom, he’s the same dominating man, always in control of the situation.
Professor Scott crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head, and I realize he’s having fun with this. “Guess who’s next, Miss Hart.”
My insides flip and flop. Public speaking is not my forte. It’s my worst nightmare, actually. He’d know this if he ever bothered to get to know me.
“Me?” I squeak out, and with his silent nod, I rise on shaky legs. I hate him for forcing me to do this. How can I, someone who dances every night for a roomful of horny men, get a case of the shakes from merely talking in front of people? I don’t understand it, but then again, not everything in life makes sense.
Focusing, I place all of my attention on him, drawing the strength I need from looking into those eyes that have held me steady for months. I’ve met his challenges before, and I’m determined to meet them again.
When I open my mouth to speak, I am surprised to hear my voice come out loud, clear, and steady. “My name is Josephine, but everyone calls me Joe. I grew up in Michigan, but moved here for school almost four years ago.” With a large inhale, I begin to sit, but Professor Scott’s voice stops me.
“And what degree are you pursuing?”
“Uh…” I stand back up, looking him in the eye. I can almost swear I saw a glint of something there as if he were getting some sort of satisfaction from my discomfort. Knowing him, he probably is. Folding my hands in front of me, I tell him, “Art. Art is my major.”
“Are you looking to teach, or perform?”
“Perform?”
“Paint, draw, sculpt,” he clarifies, and yeah, that subtle curve of his lips tells me he’s enjoying this. Immediately, I take a mild dislike to this side of him, the one that has invaded my academic life, but at the same time my insides flutter. I shouldn’t be getting turned on by this, and yet, I am.
“Painting and drawing,” I answer firmly, and I know by the slight narrowing of his eyes that he approves of my answer. I shouldn’t be happy about that.
He averts his gaze, freeing me from its mesmerizing effect, and I drop back into my chair. My heart continues to beat a mile a minute the rest of the hour. When our time is up, I stuff the handouts in my bag and grab Annie’s wrist, hurrying her out of there as if my ass has caught fire. I don’t slow down until we break out onto the campus and the warm morning sunlight hits my face.
“Who’s the one running now?” Annie laughs as she releases herself from my grip and straightens the backpack hanging off her shoulder. She rotates it and grimaces. “Damn, I think you pulled my arm out of the socket. What was that back there? It was like he was focused on you. Have you had him before?”
Oh, I’ve had him all right. He’s screwed me every way from Sunday. God, what a mess. Shaking my head, I rub my fingers over the ache blooming between my eyes. “No, this is my first class with him,” I lie, “but what a jerk.”
“Maybe he was teaching you a lesson for not paying attention,” she says with a soft chuckle. “Whatever his problem is, I think you’re in trouble. Either he’s pegged you as trouble and is going to make your life hell or you’re about to become teacher’s pet.”
My lip curls in distaste. “This is why I like to sit in the back.” Maybe back there, I could have slipped under his radar the whole semester. Now, any hope of that is gone.
“Too late for that.” With a quick hug, Annie waves as she breaks away in the direction of the science building. “Catch you later!”
I lift my hand in a limp wave and watch her go. Teacher’s pet? A part of me is adverse to the idea, while another part of me is thinking of all the benefits that could come from it. We’ve never had sex bent over a desk before.
I’m getting ahead of myself. Nothing good can come of this, I tell myself. This man could fail me if I piss him off. My future is literally in his hands. Annie’s right, though. It’s too late to change anything now. The damage is done, and I need this class to graduate.
The thought is depressing, because I know he has me over the barrel, whether he realizes it or not. But I don’t have time right now to stand around pondering my fate. I have four more hours to get through before I need to get ready for my shift at the club—Mirage. Putting the last hour behind me, I beat feet toward the English Department.
FOUR
The second my last class lets out I’m running for my car. Although the sun is still high and it’s barely dinnertime, business at Mirage will be going strong as ever. There’s always a steady flow of patrons when booze and naked bodies are on the menu.
Opening the trunk of my sun-bleached Toyota Camry, I toss the tote full of books and tonight’s homework inside and exchange it for the black mesh bag that holds tonight’s costume. A secret smile tugs at my lips as I picture it. For a brief moment, I allow myself to wonder if my mystery man—erm, Professor Scott—will show. If he does, I wonder what he’ll think of the black, men’s dress shirt and emerald green tie and thong I’ll be sporting. I wonder if he’ll know that I’m wearing it for him.
As I maneuver through the parking lot, I catch sight of a familiar figure. He’s standing in front of his own car, a shiny silver BMW, staring into the open hood with a look of consternation. He’s stressed—I can see it in the firm set of his shoulders, and when he ruffles his dark hair and the frown grows deeper, I decide to pull over.
“Do you need some help?” I ask.
Professor Scott turns the full weight of those onyx eyes on me, and I shiver at the same time I flinch. He’s not just stressed, he’s pissed. In his hand, he grips his cell phone, and he lifts it, using it to point at the car. “The piece of shit won’t start. It just keeps clicking,” he growls.
When he recognizes me, his eyes narrow, and I hope it’s just the glare of the sun that incites that reaction. Although, I know better.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of anyone refer to a BMW as a piece of shit,” I quip, choosing to ignore his attitude. “Have you called anyone to come out and take a look at it?” The question is rhetorical. Obviou
sly, if he’s holding a phone, he would have already called someone.
“Of course,” he snaps, giving me a look that says just how dumb he thinks the question is. “I pay almost two hundred a year and they tell me I have to wait an hour and forty-five minutes for the truck to arrive.” He curses and the colorful language makes him somehow less a professor and more a person. More the man I am accustomed to.
This aggressive side reminds me of our last night together. Of the hard door abrading my back and the bruises he left behind on my thighs from where his fingers dug into my flesh—I feel a needy ache blooming between my thighs at the memory.
Staring at the open hood for a minute, I weigh all the options. If I stick around, I’ll be late for work. If I go, I’m pretty sure that makes me a dick. Even though he ticked me off earlier when he kicked me out of his room and attempted to humiliate me in front of the entire class, I don’t really get the impression he intends to be such a jackass. In fact, I think intense is just part of who he is. But he seems really freaking vulnerable right now. Maybe if I pull the Good Samaritan card, he’ll let me lay low for the rest of the year.
With that little spark of hope simmering inside my head, I put the car in park and open the door. Professor Scott eyes me as I step out of the car as if it’s the first time he’s ever looked at me. That’s absurd, since he’s been watching me strip bare on a stage for months, and stripping me bare in private for nearly as long.
His is a slow perusal that starts at my face and works its way down to my feet and back up again. When he lingers on my chest longer than necessary, I glimpse that telltale spark that lets me know he likes what he sees.
I can’t really fault him for it. I witness that same look in the men at the club every day. It’s classic visceral attraction. The man likes what he sees, but he doesn’t really know me, so that’s where it ends.
Dance for Me Page 2
