Drawn That Way

by Bronwyn Green

  “I’m afraid to ask what that might be.”

  He shrugged. “It’s just professional curiosity.”

  “Right.” She didn’t look convinced. “Out with it.”

  “When you said you’d learned to fence at Saint Agnes’ School for Girls, I started wondering…”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you wear the traditional schoolgirl uniform?”

  She stared at him a moment and blinked slowly. “You mean the short plaid skirt? The white blouse with a peter pan collar and a cardigan sweater? That traditional schoolgirl uniform?”

  “I have no idea what a peter pan collar is, but the rest of it sounds about right.”

  She shook her head, her lips twitching. “Just when I thought you weren’t a typical man.”

  “What? So, you don’t have any fantasies that are a little mainstream? A little embarrassing?”

  She looked away. “Of course not.”

  “Something you haven’t shared on your Tumblr, perhaps?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re a terrible liar.” He smiled at the consternation in her expression. “Come on, out with it,” he said, mimicking her earlier words. “I shared mine…”

  “Fine.” She took a breath and muttered. “A professor fantasy.”

  “What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.”

  She sighed and leaned forward slightly. “I said, I might have a bit of a professor fantasy.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know…student with bad grades gets called into her professor’s office…” Her voice drifted off as her gaze locked with his.

  “And gets punished for her bad grades?”

  She nodded, and his cock jumped.

  He sat back in the booth. “And maybe gets a chance to earn some extra credit?”

  She nodded again, and he discreetly adjusted himself beneath the table. This woman was going to kill him. But he wasn’t sure he’d complain.

  “Have you ever role-played before?”

  She shook her head and murmured. “My sex life—prior to last week—was pretty dull.”

  “So…you still have that uniform?”

  She snorted. “I’m sure it’s probably in a box at my parents’ house.”

  He picked up a piece of baklava and held it out to her, watching as she sank her teeth into it. “Pity.”

  She shifted in her seat, and he’d bet that she was as wet and wanting as he was hard and aching right about now.

  His phone vibrated the tabletop, breaking the spell that held them both motionless. Reading the text, he sighed, responded, and signaled for the bill.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Clover’s having trouble getting her code to run on the server, and it looks like it’s a hardware issue rather than a problem with the program.”

  Tristan began searching through her purse as the waiter handed him the bill. “I’m sorry, but would you please split that?”

  Rory shook his head. “I asked you out. My treat.”

  She frowned, and he worried that maybe this felt too much like a date to her. And he tried to smother his disappointment over the fact that it wasn’t an actual date. It was just two co-workers discussing sexual fantasies over Mediterranean food.

  “You can get the next meal,” he offered, not sure if he was making things better or worse with that suggestion. But she seemed to relax a bit.

  The server turned his head back at forth, watching the careful negotiations.

  “Okay,” she finally agreed.

  Rory handed his card to the guy who quickly brought back the slip for him to sign and a box for the leftover dessert. After they packed up, Rory settled his hand at the small of Tristan’s back and walked her to her car. He set the takeout container in her backseat and kissed her like he’d kissed her in her office—as though they’d never been interrupted. He tasted the honey and wine on her tongue, and his cock surged between them as he imagined going down on her again. He couldn’t get enough of her. He pushed aside the intrusive thought, and, instead, focused on the sensation of her body melting against his.

  Breathless, he finally broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She nodded, and he straightened. It was almost impossible to walk away from her when her lips were damp and parted and her eyes were so lust-blown only the thinnest ring of green remained around the pupils.

  He took a step toward his car then turned back. “Tristan?”

  She looked up. “Yeah?”

  “Wear a skirt.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tris’ mouth fell open, and she tried not to gasp. But it was nearly impossible. He didn’t mean what she thought he meant. On rubbery legs, she got into her car just as her phone buzzed. Four simple words from Rory that almost made her climax untouched.

  The shorter, the better.

  Checking the time, she decided on a quick trip to the mall. She hated shopping, and didn’t really have the extra money to spend on something as frivolous as clothing. But, if she could find what she wanted, it would be worth the splurge and dealing with mall traffic.

  * * * * *

  “Okay, that outfit? Ridiculously adorable,” Annie gushed as she poured herself some coffee in the break room.

  Tris looked down at her short, Black Watch plaid skirt, red Converse high-tops, Doctor Who t-shirt and navy cardigan sweater. It wasn’t classic schoolgirl, but there was no way she was wearing an actual uniform. It would feel too obvious, and besides, she liked this look. “Thanks,” she said, smiling.

  “Whoa, Tris…I’m gonna be thinking about you in that skirt all day long. And wishing I had an office with a door.”

  She stiffened, feeling suddenly exposed.

  “Seriously, Brandon? Don’t be such an asshole.” Annie snapped as Tris turned around to stare at the programmer.

  “You can also think about being written up for sexual harassment all day long, too,” Rory bit out from behind the other man.

  Brandon’s jaw tightened. As much as she wanted to look at Rory, she kept her eyes on the jerk.

  “For what? Giving her a compliment?”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Rory open his mouth, so she quickly said, “That’s not a compliment. The only appropriate response is: I’m sorry.”

  Brandon glared around the break room, and, realizing he wasn’t going to get any support, muttered, “Sorry,” as he stalked to the refrigerator and grabbed a can of Red Bull then left.

  Annie leaned against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest. “Tell me he’s getting written up.”

  Rory rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “That’s between me, Brandon and Tristan.”

  Annie scowled and grabbed her coffee from the counter. “Fine. But just know, I’m choosing to believe that you’re going to do the right thing.”

  After she left the room, Rory moved to stand near Tris. “You okay?”

  She stirred creamer into her coffee. “I’m fine.”

  “He’s getting written up.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him not to, that it was fine, but she stopped herself. It wasn’t fine. And Brandon needed to learn not to treat other people like that. “Okay,” she finally said.

  Frowning, he asked again, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  She met his gaze. “I’m fine. Really.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? Was it your day to control the resident wanker?”

  He frowned, and his gaze dropped to her skirt.

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone. “You don’t like it?”

  “Oh, believe me. I like it. I like it a lot,” he murmured. “But I feel bad that he said that to you because of something I asked you to wear.”

  “Brandon’s responsible for his own actions. And I’m responsible for mine. I chose to wear this. Also? The problem isn’t the skirt—it’s his attitude of entitlement.
”

  Rory rubbed the back of his neck again and looked away. “I also don’t like feeling like I’m in the same category as ‘the resident wanker’.”

  “Unless you’re suddenly imagining that you’re entitled to my body, you’re not even close.”

  He still didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked just as conflicted as ever.

  She popped the lid on her cup and smiled at him. Turning away, she purposely dropped her napkin. “Oops.”

  Feeling his eyes on her, she bent to pick it up, letting her skirt ride up in the back to expose the bottom edge of her white cotton underwear. When she heard his barely stifled groan, she straightened and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

  It wasn’t the most professional thing she’d ever done, but hell, neither was having an affair with her boss. Besides, if it distracted Rory from thinking he was somehow responsible for arseholes like Brandon, so much the better.

  Keeping her mind off Rory was almost impossible. The hours dragged endlessly, and all she could think about was the end of the workday. She sincerely hoped no one on this end of the building was staying late tonight. Checking the clock for what had to be the zillionth time that afternoon, she leaned back in her chair and stretched. A smile curved her lips, as she glanced down and noticed how high her skirt had ridden on her thighs. She grabbed her phone from her desk and snapped a picture of where the hem of her skirt rested against her skin and texted it to Rory. Too late she realized he might not be alone when he saw it.

  Wondering about his reaction wasn’t going to get her work done. She forced herself to focus and opened the promotional budget proposal the advertising department had sent over then cringed. She realized that the promo for the revamped characters plus the existing cost of advertising the expansion would be pricey, but she hadn’t anticipated that it would be quite so high. She was going to have to sit down with Rory and the advertising team and discuss this.

  They’d talked about sinking more money into the new ad campaign, but she wasn’t sure if he’d expected the difference to be this significant. She supposed the company could afford it, but she was, by nature, a cautious person. Except, apparently, when it came to having an affair with her boss. Where Rory was concerned, she was more than willing to engage in the emotional equivalent of playing in traffic. During rush hour. On a Friday evening.

  Sighing, she told herself to quit being daft. She was not falling for Rory Brecken because that would be stupid. And she was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Desperately aroused? Yes. In need of a spanking and a shag? Absolutely. Was she skating too close to the edge where Rory was concerned? Probably. But she wasn’t stupid, and she refused to fall for him. Not completely, anyway.

  She opened another financial report, and her text tone chimed. Her breath caught as she read the message on the screen, and she squeezed her thighs together.

  Ms. Weaver, Meet me in my office in ten minutes to discuss your abysmal grades. Professor Brecken

  Her stomach fluttered nervously, and her chest felt a little tight. She glanced at the clock. It was already ten to six. She was tempted to walk to the front of the building to see how many cars were still here, but as sweaty as her palms suddenly were and as hard as her heart was pounding, she was afraid her nervous excitement would be painfully obvious.

  She paced to the window and stared out at the roiling waves. They seemed almost as agitated as she was. This was stupid. Despite the skirt, she wasn’t really a schoolgirl, and he wasn’t really a professor, but several minutes later, as she stood outside his closed office door and knocked, she felt as if she were standing outside the headmistress’ office at Saint Agnes’.

  “Enter,” he snapped from inside his office.

  She turned the doorknob with her clammy palm and slowly pushed open his door. He sat at his desk and barely glanced up at her before returning his attention to whatever he was writing on a piece of paper.

  Her gaze danced over him. His hair was tousled as if he’d been dragging his hands through it. And god help her, he was wearing some kind of brown tweed jacket over a white, oxford shirt. She wasn’t the type of woman who went for a man in a suit, but bloody hell, there was something about a tweed jacket that made her think classrooms and rulers. If she hadn’t been wet the moment she’d read the text, she was now. Her pussy felt slick and needy, and her clit ached whenever she shifted.

  She quietly closed the door behind her and locked it before stepping toward his desk. Her stomach flip-flopped as he picked up his glasses from where he’d set them and put them on, studying her.

  She smiled nervously.

  “Is there something funny, Ms. Weaver?” he asked sharply. “Something you find amusing about being called to my office?”

  She shook her head rapidly, her stomach rolling with uneasy anticipation.

  “Use your words, Ms. Weaver. I can’t hear you shaking your head.”

  She swallowed hard, amazed at how perfectly he’d immersed himself in the role and how strongly it affected her. “N-no, sir,” she finally stammered as she stood in front of his desk.

  He stared at her impassively for a moment more and began sorting through the papers. Keeping her gaze on his long, gorgeous hands, she started to lower herself into the chair behind her.

  “I don’t recall inviting you to sit,” he bit out, never looking up.

  She briefly froze then straightened, standing with her hands clasped behind her back.

  She had no idea how long she stood there waiting, but by the time he finally finished making notes or whatever he was doing, she was a screaming mess of jangling nerves and pulsing arousal.

  He laid down his pen and lifted his head, pinning her with that brilliant blue gaze that suddenly seemed void of his usual warmth. A chill skated over her, and she couldn’t hide the shiver that streaked along her limbs. His eyes raked her body, and just for a moment, she saw a hint of the heat and need she was used to seeing there, but he hid it again before his attention climbed back to her face.

  “Explain yourself.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  He tapped the pile of papers in front of him. “You’re failing my class. These papers might as well have been written by a middle-schooler, and we both know you’re capable of far more than that.”

  He grabbed a wooden ruler from the jar of pens and pencils on his desk, pushed away from it and stood. Her stomach clenched, and so did her empty cunt.

  Walking around the corner of his desk, he circled to stand behind her. Far closer than any professor should. His warmth bled into her skin even through their clothes.

  “You’ve also violated nearly every uniform rule this school has. Flaunting your thighs,” he yanked on the hem, “and practically your ass in this too-short skirt.”

  She turned to look at him. “No. It’s the right length. I’m sure of it.”

  He glanced down at the floor. “Show me.”

  On trembling legs, she lowered herself to her knees, knowing full well there was no way the hem of her skirt would actually touch the floor.

  He made a tight circle around her, holding the ruler out and letting it catch in the pleats, dragging the fabric against her thighs, and finally coming to a stop in front of her. It was almost impossible to tear her gaze from the huge, hard-looking bulge pressing against his fly.

  “That skirt isn’t even close to the right length.” Bending slightly, he measured the distance between the floor and her hem. “Three and three-quarters inches too short.”

  Stepping back, he gripped her chin and tilted her head upward to meet his gaze. “What are we going to do about that, Ms. Weaver?”

  When she didn’t answer right away, he rubbed his thumb across the seam of her lips, pushing until she opened and drew the digit inside, sucking on it.

  “You do have the best ideas,” he murmured. “Hands behind your back.”

  She did as he’d directed, clasping her right wrist with her left hand, and waited. She didn’t have
to wait long.

  Removing his thumb, he unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, withdrawing his thick, hard shaft, and immediately her mouth began to water. She watched, mesmerized as he gripped his cock and stroked upward. Pre-come seeped from the slit, and she couldn’t help but lick her lips at the sight of it.

  “Is this what you want?”

  She nodded.

  “You think I’ll forgive this infraction if you let me fuck your pretty mouth?”

  “Yes, sir,” she breathed.

  “Open.” His voice was hard, but his eyes, oh, his eyes were hot and sharp with desire. He needed this just as badly as she did.

  She parted her lips, and he shoved inside, sliding across her tongue until he hit the back of her throat. Her eyes watered as she gagged, but she forced herself to stay calm and breathe through her nose. Drawing back, she dragged her tongue along his shaft, teasing and stroking as she surged forward and took him deep again.

  For a while, he was content to let her work his length in and out of her mouth, but his patience seemed to slip, and he tossed the ruler on his desk then drove both hands into her hair. He fisted the strands as he held her steady and fucked her mouth, shoving hard enough to gag her with every stroke until she relaxed and was able to take him all the way down.

  “Your mouth feels so fucking good,” he muttered. Another trail of pre-come leaked across her tongue, and she swallowed it greedily, sucking harder, willing him to come.

  Her pussy clenched emptily, and she squeezed her thighs together, desperate for a little more stimulation. He nudged his foot between her knees and knocked her legs apart. Fuck her, she loved it. He was going to end up with wet spots on his carpet because her arousal was going to start sliding down her thighs any minute now.

  “None of that,” he scolded. “Relief is for good girls, Ms. Weaver. And you are most certainly not a good girl.”

  She whimpered around his shaft.

  “Even now, with my dick in your mouth, you’re being bad, aren’t you? Instead of paying your penance, you’re trying to find a way to get off.”

  She shook her head as best she could with his hands tangled in her hair and her mouth stuffed full of cock.