One Hot Fall Term (Yardley College Chronicles Book1)

by Sharon Page

  This startles me. I’d never thought of it that way before. I had thought people did bad things to you when you lived in the house because they were making use of you. If they had to support you, why shouldn’t they get to use you to work out their anger or sexual frustration? It was supposed to be your price for the roof over your head, the clothes on your back, the food you ate.

  I remember Jonathon’s lost, agonized look. Had he wanted me to come up to talk to me about Lara? Did he want to apologize, tell me that her refusal had made him see the light, and that for a good, beautiful woman like Lara he was willing to change?

  Maybe I should go up there and find out.

  ***

  It takes me a while to figure out how to locate the room with the terrace. Seriously, since I plan to design buildings, I know I should have a better sense of direction and layout. I have to stop at the stairs, armed with directions I gathered from party goers, and really think out where the terrace must be in relation to where I’m standing.

  Finally I reach the double doors I am certain must be Jonathon’s room, and knock.

  He opens one, lets me come in and closes it behind me. I turn around and open it again, and at his raised brow, I point out, “I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea as to why I am here.”

  “Why do you think you are here, Mia?”

  “To discover why you were insane enough to scare Lara away. I assume you wanted me to come up to talk about her. I assume you want me to help patch things up.”

  There’s a pause and he sips his drink—a rich bronze colored liquid in the bottom of a balloon-shaped glass. “Come here.” Then he turns his back and walks across the room to another door, which he nudges open.

  I follow, assuming I’m about to get the tour of Castle Kink.

  “There is nothing to discuss,” he says as he goes inside. “Lara made her position clear. Mine is also clear. This is what I require in a relationship. I don’t force or coerce women to do this. I put the proposal to a woman. If she’s not interested, I move on.”

  “Just like that, without even an ounce of heartbreak?” It is official: I don’t like him. He may be gorgeous, but he appears cool, completely unconcerned about the pain he’s just caused Lara.

  He makes me miss Ryan. Why am I here, in his bedroom, having this discussion, which is pointless since he is obviously heartless? I wish I were in a bedroom with Ryan, laughing, making love to him, licking and sucking and pleasuring him all over.

  Jonathon flicks a light switch in his mystery BDSM room and I walk inside.

  It’s far bigger than my dorm room. The walls are deep purple, with recesses built into each one to house displays of whips and floggers. Soft lighting is sprinkled here and there to give an aura of depth, mystery, and elegance. The furniture is black leather—I got that partly right. A thick oriental carpet in black, purple and silver covers the floor. Ornate mirrors stand around the room—eight in all. I notice silver spot lights on the ceiling—none are turned on, but they point at a leather chaise, a couple of benches, and a recess in the wall that contains silver rings fastened at various heights.

  Jonathon sits on the edge of one of his black leather benches, pushing the silver buckle of a strap out of his way. Even in this muted light, I can see how green his eyes are. His lashes are thick and black; his brows are dark slashes, his lower lip full and pouty. He has the bad boy look down to a fine art. Even though I suspect manipulation—but what does he want?—I feel a tug inside.

  Jonathon Powell is simply gorgeous.

  “So if you didn’t want to ask me to talk to Lara for you, why did you invite me up here?”

  “I find you intriguing,” he says, watching me.

  Oh. No, wait. What? “You wanted to show me this to—to see if I’m interested?” How can he do this, only minutes after he’s broken Lara’s heart? I assume because he has money and this fabulous house, he believes he can do whatever he wants.

  “I’m going,” I say.

  He moves forward and touches my hand. “No, wait, please, Mia. I’ve gone about this wrong. Will you sit and let me talk to you?”

  I hesitate, and it’s a mistake, because his green gaze holds mine and he says softly, “Thank you for giving me a chance.” His fingers lightly stroke my palm. “Do you want a drink?”

  In truth I do, but now is not the time to get drunk, even slightly.

  “No,” I say. I wave my hand at his room, at the neatly organized whips and floggers, the huge oval mirrors, the ropes and chains. “Is this really more important than Lara? Are your kinky fantasies worth losing her over?”

  Should I stay? I want to speak my piece about his idiocy. And Lara cared about him. I’m going to give one last try to get through to him.

  Jonathon sits on the leather bench, his hands hanging between his knees. “It’s not just about my fantasies. It’s about my partner’s fantasies too.”

  “As long as your partner’s fantasies are in line with yours, i.e. she’s willing to let you spank her butt raw, everything is perfect.”

  He looks down at his hands, his brow troubled. “This isn’t about spanking anyone raw. In my experience, the most important basis for a relationship is having your sex fantasies line up.”

  “Really.” Crap, I would never reveal my sexual fantasies to anyone. Not my real ones. I’d give fake ones, the ones a guy would expect to hear, edited to ensure there is nothing within them that could cause conflict, apprehension, or doubts.

  I shake my head. “That’s crazy. Isn’t being in love more important?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “This is insane. This is just kinky sex, which is never as good as sex with someone you love.”

  He jerks up his head at that. “Interesting,” he says. “You’ve had kinky sex?”

  I’ve gone running right into the minefield, now I have to pick my way out. “Sex without connection is physical activity with a lot of sticky and sore.” Hmm, the champagne from earlier has done something to both my brain and tongue. I’m saying things I shouldn’t.

  Jonathon gets up, and opens a small fridge built into a black wood cabinet. He takes out a bottle of white wine, pulls the cork, pours two glasses. He hands one to me.

  I shouldn’t, but it’s a beautiful white-gold color. I take a small sip. This wine is amazing—it’s like perfection in a glass.

  He’s drinking his wine, watching me in a way that makes me uneasy. It’s not a lustful way. It’s a way I’ve never been looked at before and cannot adequately describe. I walk around the room aimlessly, sipping, not wanting to sit on a bench. I suppose I should leave. I don’t know why I don’t. In my heart, I’m hopeful I can talk some kind of sense into him. This really cannot be more important than caring about someone.

  “So where do you buy this stuff?” I ask nonchalantly.

  “At sex shops. Off the internet.”

  “Who cleans this room?” It is completely spic and span.

  “One of the maids.”

  I sputter on a sip of wine. “What does she think about this?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t interest me. She’s well paid and she signed a confidentiality contract—a non-disclosure. Phones are not allowed in here, so no one takes pictures.”

  “Oh, one of those contracts.” I go to the wall of whips and flails and pluck off one with a black rubber handle and strips of black leather. “Looks a little like a cheerleader’s pom pom.”

  He laughs. He leans back, drinking, watching me. I have to admit—the intense way he watches me and being the center of his attention does give me a thrill. It makes me feel naughty. It feeds a weakness in me—a weakness it took me a long time to understand.

  I have Ryan now, so this is a game I am not going to play. Returning the handle to the hook, I put the sex-torture device back.

  “It’s not about kink,” he says softly. “It is about the needs and desires of two people. It’s about control and power exchange.”

  “I’ve never seen a lot of exc
hange when it comes to power,” I mutter. Really, the only good relationship I’ve had is with Ryan, and that has nothing to do with power. We’re equals and we care about each other. “Negotiating power every step of the way? It’s wrong. A relationship should be about a hell of lot more than that.”

  “It is, always, for me.”

  “I doubt it,” I shoot back. “Or you would be downstairs, pawing through your crowd, trying to find Lara.”

  “I’m enjoying our conversation too much.”

  “So your bastardly behavior is my fault?” I’m breathing hard, filling my chest so quickly with air that I feel pain from the boning in my dress. I have to calm down. I can just walk out.

  “The playroom doesn’t scare you,” he says. My words have made no impact on him. “You don’t see me as a monster over this.”

  “Uh, no. I have other reasons. Like breaking a friend’s heart.”

  “I didn’t mean to break her heart. Don’t you think it would have been worse for me to have waited months, a year, before drawing my line in the sand? She’s angry, understandably. But I do not doubt Lara will have a new boyfriend in days.” He strokes his jaw. “I saw the way you looked around when you first came in. You’d like to try it.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something snotty, like, “Been there, done that, already bored.” But that would say too much, and I’ve learned to keep my past locked away tight inside me. I refuse to let any more hints of it slip out.

  Not even to score a point on Jonathon.

  “You are so wrong,” is all I say. Now it’s time to leave. “And Lara is better off without you.”

  Chapter Five

  In the morning, I discover someone has emailed me a picture—someone with a name I don’t recognize. It’s a generic email addy too. YCStudent1002. I’m about to delete it, when my brain clicks that the subject line is: Photo, Lara and You, Last Night. Is it from Jonathon? I open it.

  A grainy picture shows Lara and I in rapt discussion near the bar at Jonathon’s party, Lara with her glass in one hand, looking angry, while I gaze at her with a face filled with worry. It’s a strange picture to take, to send. It’s not one of us looking happy and smiling.

  Someone could have been taking photos and distributing them to partygoers, even if they weren’t great shots. But who is this? There’s no message, no actual name. Just the picture.

  When Lara gets up, holding her head, I give her a glass of water. She pushes it away on her bedside table. “I think that would make me throw up.”

  “You have to rehydrate.” Lara doesn’t drink that much or she would know—which means Jonathon upset her a lot. I’ve learned this stuff from watching Ryan deal with his father.

  While she sips, I set my laptop on her lap to show her the picture.

  She groans and tries to focus on it, rubbing her temple. “I am never doing this again,” she mutters. She squints at the screen. “Who sent this? It’s a crappy picture.”

  “I know. I wondered if it was Jonathon’s email addy?” I can’t believe he uses a generic name like that. And he was in his room, I think, when I was talking to Lara at the bar.

  So I already expect her answer when she says, “No, it’s not.”

  I delete the picture, oddly freaked out. The photo was taken when we at the party. Even though it’s Jonathon’s house, it was very much a public place last night.

  But who took the effort to get my email address and how did the person do it?

  My phone vibrates with an incoming text. I expect it is Ryan and my heart both lifts and lurches, and I feel both excitement and yearning so deep it almost makes me stagger.

  I’ve been at Yardley for three day. Less than ninety to go until Thanksgiving, when I plan to see mom and Ryan. But the message isn’t from Ryan. It’s from Jonathon.

  Can I talk to you?He writes. Would you meet me for coffee at 10:30 Monday? Coffee bar in the bottom of the University Center.

  He must want to discuss Lara again, though I think we’ve reached a stalemate. In this, she is right and he is wrong. She is standing by principles honed by a hell of a lot of pain. He just wants kinky sex.

  On Monday, my first class begins at nine-thirty, and the School of Architecture building is close to the University center. My thumbs hover for a few minutes, then I send him a text that reads:

  Will be there tomorrow. Maybe 5 min late. Class ends 10:30.

  ***

  I’m supposed to focus on nothing but school, but as I hurry toward my first class, my thoughts are on Jonathon. What does he want? I check my phone for my room number, then stumble around the building trying to find rooms. Amazing artwork covers the bare concrete walls, and models of buildings stand everywhere. Some models are intricate creations of wood that make me awed. Will I really be able to do work of that good?

  I find the room and join the other people filing inside. The room is like a small movie theatre. I push down one of the seats and slip in. Other people are lifting small tables that swing up from the side. I pull it up, snap it into place, set my notebook on top of it.

  A man strides in and he’s pushing back shoulder-length, sun-streaked blond hair. He wears grey t-shirt and khaki shorts. He has bare feet and sandals and he strides to the front of the class. He writes his name on the chalkboard, blinks at the white board beside him—a board intended to be used with a computer. “Huh,” he says. “Not today.”

  The name he’s written is “Ron Sharkey.” Then he turns and says, “Everyone calls me ‘The Shark’. Welcome to History of Western Architecture, Session 1.” Ron Sharkey quickly runs down the subjects we will cover, too fast for me to write them down. “Your first term project is due in October. That’s when you’ll learn how I got my nickname. Now, we’re going to begin with the first development of architecture by primitive humankind. Anyone can tell me what it was?”

  There’s quiet, then a voice suggests, “The Romans.”

  This gets a nervous laugh. The Shark shakes his head. Beside me, a girl is staring at him and she gives a breathy sigh as his straight hair swings around his shoulders. Despite the hippie vibe, or maybe because of it, he is good-looking. “Burial mounds. Barrows.” His voice is deep, magnetic. “The first expression of architecture by prehistoric man.” He pauses. “Don’t expect me to be politically correct. Are there any problems with that?” He asks the question with a big, dazzling smile. There’s not a peep from a female in the room.

  A male raises his hand. “What about the architecture of other cultures? Asia, for example.”

  In answer, the Shark walks back to the board and with his finger, heavily underlines the word ‘Western’.

  He holds up a black, hard-cover book. “You will all need one of these. I don’t want to see lined three-hole paper in here. I want you to draw.” He opens it, walks around the classroom so we can see the beautiful, hand printing on the pages, along with gorgeous drawings. He tosses it to the lecturn. Picks up a piece of chalk and creates a drawing on the board in seconds. It’s a rendered mound of soil and grass in the middle of the field. “The typical burial barrow.”

  I’m so blown away by the speed of his sketching that I can barely take in what he’s saying. He prints on the board at the speed of light. I thought I had some ability to draw. I am completely intimidated. Then I scramble to take notes on my dreaded three-hole paper, on which I’ve already neatly handwritten the course title. It looks amateurish. High school. And I’m barely a dozen words into my notes.

  Then I start to really listen, drinking in everything Prof. Sharkey says about primitive burial rituals, what they meant to human beings. He’s excited about his subject and his enthusiasm is addictive. I can picture a society of prehistoric people, and what death must have meant to them when life was short and brutal. I can see the small campfire around which they would gather.

  Some must have searched for meaning beyond a short, tough existence. Others must have lived for the moment. Sex would have been one of the few pleasures. How strange and
mind-blowing sex must have been when it was the only time you put aside survival and just lived to feel good.

  Mmm, Ryan.

  Now I’m thinking of living in a Bronze Age village with Ryan, pulling off my furs in a tiny stone hut—a circle of granite blocks with a thatch roof, knowing I’m going to make love to him. Wanting to get pregnant by him and bear his child. Having him want sex badly because he almost died while hunting today, and his hormones are surging like crazy. I can imagine him fucking me like wild because he’s so fired up—

  Books are snapping closed around me, chairs start to scrap the tile floor. The class is over, and I was so lost in fantasy I missed the last third of it. Who knew primitive man could provide sexual fantasy fodder?

  Or maybe it’s just that I’m so crazy about Ryan.

  ***

  When we’re filing out of the class I get a better look at my fellow students. Some of the females went up to Prof. Sharkey after class to ask burning questions about burial mounds.

  There are two groups of students. Several are like me and wear jeans, t-shirts, shorts, hoodies. High school clothes. Others have distinct style. Some of the guys are perfectly coiffed, and wear bright-coloured, heavy-framed glasses, dress pants, sweaters. One wears a tight-fitting black leather jacket and pants, and his hair is dyed pure white, giving him an Andy Warhol look. Several of the students look older than me, in their late twenties.

  We seem like an odd assortment. I came here expecting to learn about style. Now I wonder if I’ve been naïve. Maybe I needed to arrive with my own strong look, with a strong sense of fashion and style already developed. I feel young and unsophisticated among the brilliantly dressed crowd. They would look at home in Manhattan or London or Paris. I would look like a broke tourist.

  For my first day of school, since it’s warm, I’m wearing slim-fitting tan capris and a scoop-necked t-shirt. It’s a flattering look that I like, but now I think it screams of where I bought it—the Milltown thrift shop.