Taunt Me (Rough Love Book 2)

by Annabel Joseph

  Holy fuck. What the fuck?

  I stopped on the photo, enlarged it so I could see the man sitting beside her on Valiant’s balcony. I clicked back to the email, scanned to the bottom. Conversation with male, middle age, not identified. Subject went home alone.

  Fucking Jesus in hell, she better have gone home alone. As for the male, middle age, I didn’t need any identification. I knew Martin Cantor, not just because he was one of Chere’s professors, but because I’d attended Norton with him back in the day. I’d seen him at fetish clubs around the city, drawing in women with his sage, caring-Dom thing. I’d never liked him. He was a smarmy jackass with more ambition than talent, and the last thing in hell he needed to be doing was hitting on Chere in a club.

  I clicked through the photos, seriously disturbed. She was his student. How dare he look at her that way? She didn’t want his attention, that was clear from her hunched posture and the way she faced away from him. And Cantor, with his smiles and expressions. Smarmy fucking pervert.

  She went home alone, I repeated to calm myself. She went home alone. In all this time, she hadn’t hooked up with anyone, any other man, even casually in the BDSM clubs. She’d focused on school—and occasionally me—like a very good girl. Fucking Cantor. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was her teacher. Not only that, he was married with two kids.

  I stood and started to pace. This wasn’t her doing. It wasn’t her fault. He’d gone up to the balcony and drawn her into conversation. The photos told the story...they just didn’t reveal what words they’d exchanged. I wanted to trust that Chere wouldn’t fall for his bullshit, but she’d fallen for bullshit before, like when that asshole picked her up after the Gansevoort debacle.

  That man really hurt her. That’s why I was so leery of leaving her without protection now. She was so easily hurt and so easily taken advantage of. She was honest with that jerk from the Gansevoort, and what did he do? Left her sitting at a table, alone, shunned, ashamed. When I heard that part of the story and saw the bitter look on her face, I wanted to put my fist through a wall. I mean, what the fuck?

  Cantor wasn’t going to get a shot at hurting Chere. If he was the reason she was looking for closure, then she wasn’t fucking getting closure. I called downstairs for a limo to the airport, and started packing my shit. I was supposed to leave the day after tomorrow so I could spend a little more time in the city, but those plans were changing. Martin Cantor? Fuck no. I was leaving for New York tonight.

  *** *** ***

  I figured I had two choices in this situation: confront Cantor, or confront Chere. The latter wasn’t happening. I didn’t trust myself to have anything to do with her, especially now that she was so close to graduating and moving on with her life.

  So I looked up Cantor’s office hours and paid him a visit. It felt strange to be back at Norton, in the administrative area where I’d come to arrange Chere’s scholarship. When I knocked on Cantor’s half-open door to get his attention, I realized there was a student in there. I saw long legs, delicate hands, the tight jeans co-eds wore. My heart turned over for one stricken, oh-shit moment, but it wasn’t Chere. The universe wouldn’t be so capricious, after all the effort and care I’d taken to avoid her the last two and a half years.

  Cantor and the blonde co-ed turned to look at me. He regarded me with confusion, then recognition and surprise.

  “Price? Price Eriksen?” He stood and came to the door. “It’s good to see you. What brings you to Norton?”

  “A private matter,” I said, looking at the girl.

  He turned back to her. She was already shouldering her backpack. “We were just finishing up. Academic counseling.”

  Academic counseling, my ass, I thought, as she moved past me with a blushing smile. Cantor took her arm as he said goodbye.

  “Keep at the renderings, Simone. I’ll see you next week.” He turned his attention to me and shook my hand. “Come in. This is a surprise.”

  “How are you, Martin?” I couldn’t quite keep the fuck-you from my voice. We’d never been friends. In fact, we’d been bitter rivals during our student days.

  “I’m just...wow. Surprised.” He spread his arms and shut his laptop. “Blast from the past.”

  I took the seat he offered and looked around. “Are you expecting anyone else? Any more appointments?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Most of my students are finishing end-of-semester projects. It’s a little late now for them to be seeking my advice.”

  I looked around his neat, organized work space. He had a decent office for a has-been hack. Cantor studied me expectantly, leaning back in his chair.

  “So, what brings you back to your old alma mater? What can I help you with? Are you here about internships?”

  “What?”

  “Internships. Want an intern?”

  I shook my head. Norton begged me annually to take an intern, and I always said no. “I’m here for another reason,” I said, allowing displeasure to creep into my voice. “I’ve come to discuss one of your students.”

  “I’m not allowed to discuss students. It’s a matter of privacy, educational statutes, all of that.”

  “Her name is Chere Rouzier.”

  His lips tightened. “Oh. Yes. She’s a third year design student, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that.”

  “Can’t you? Are you big on following the rules?”

  He was starting to get the idea that this wasn’t a friendly visit. He stood to shut the door, then sat at his desk and returned my hard gaze.

  “How do you know Chere?” he asked.

  “I know her…tangentially. I have an interest in her well-being.”

  Cantor shrugged, determined to play things off. “As far as I know, she’s doing well. I’ve had no complaints.”

  “You’re her teacher.”

  “Yes, I’ve worked with her in several classes, but I can’t tell you anything more. Really, Price, I can’t. It’s against university policy.”

  “You know what else is against university policy?” I said with a scowl. “Hitting on students in lifestyle clubs.”

  He didn’t ruffle easily. He never had. “Are you talking about last Saturday? We ran into each other at a club and said hello. That’s the extent of it.”

  I couldn’t call him a liar without admitting my investigator had timed a fifteen-minute conversation.

  “What’s your interest in Chere?” he asked, studying me. “What is your ‘tangential’ connection?”

  “Friend of the family,” I said. “We go way back. I look out for her.”

  “Is that so? Well, she’s an admirable woman. A diligent designer, and enjoyable to teach.” He lifted a finger on top of his laptop, wiggled it twice, and set it down again. Yeah, he found her enjoyable, all right.

  “I won’t tell anyone you’re perving your students,” I said, staring at that finger, “or that she’s not the only one. But in return, you’re going to do something for me. You’re going to leave her the fuck alone.”

  He gave up any pretense of professional collegiality and smirked at me. “You’re no friend of the family. Who is Chere to you? What’s the story, Price?”

  “The story is a married Norton professor hitting on a student at a BDSM club.” I leaned closer to him. “I have proof it happened. Pictures. I’m sure the administration would love to look at them. Leave her alone.”

  “In a few days, she won’t be my student anymore. How do you know she won’t come after me? Chere seems very lonely.” He paused, raised one black, arched brow. “Does she know you take pictures of her at clubs?”

  “I didn’t take them. A friend showed them to me.” I stood and adjusted my tie, and walked to the door. “Leave her alone, Martin. You’ll be sorry if you don’t. Your wife puts up with a lot, but she might not put up with as much when you can’t get a job.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Universities don’t hire professors who prey on students. That was a really pre
tty girl in your office just now. Meet with her every week?”

  “She’s one of my students,” he snapped.

  “So is Chere.”

  I grabbed the door and wrenched it open. Fuckhead. I didn’t know if my threats were getting through to him. I didn’t know how much trouble I could make without Chere becoming involved.

  “I’m glad you stopped by,” he called after me as I left. “Glad we had this talk.”

  I didn’t yell “Fuck you” back at him the way I wanted to. I was trying to keep it classy, which was more than I could say for him.

  Chere

  Andrew came running up to me in Norton’s cafeteria the last morning of fall semester, with fluttering hands and a magnificent smile. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my Gaaawd! Chere! Guess what?”

  “You finished that painting about the happy banana?” I murmured, shoveling sugar into my coffee.

  “Better.”

  “What could possibly be better?”

  His smile wilted a little. “Well, it’s about...you know...the E thing.”

  Not E as in ecstasy. Andrew didn’t use drugs. The E thing was escorting, and it was a lingering source of tension between us.

  “Even if it’s about the E thing,” I said, “I guess you better tell me, or else you got me all worked up for nothing.”

  “Mr. Recaro is taking me to Vail!” The words burst out in jubilation. “Two whole weeks over the holiday break.”

  “And Mr. Recaro is...?”

  “The gentleman I saw last week. The opera singer with all the muscles and hair.”

  “Hair?”

  “I’ve never seen such a hairy taint, babes, I’m telling you.”

  “So, skiing in Vail for two weeks?” I asked, to get him off the taint talk. “Mr. Recaro must really like you.”

  His eyes lit up even brighter. “Do you think so?”

  I put down my coffee and grabbed his face in a punishing grip. “No, I don’t think so. That was a test and you failed it. You’re not supposed to develop feelings for clients. It’s the fastest way to go nuts in the escort biz.”

  “You developed feelings for one of your clients,” he lisped through his crunched cheeks. “And you know he felt something for you.”

  “And where are we now?” I asked, releasing him. “I’m a lonely, neurotic mess of a woman, and he fucked off to God knows where.”

  “You’re not a lonely, neurotic mess.” He rubbed his skin where I’d gripped it. “Sort of cranky sometimes, when you haven’t had enough coffee. You need to get laid.”

  I turned away from him, not willing to discuss that topic. The close encounter with Cantor was still on my mind. I’m experienced and safe, he’d said. And he was obviously willing to fuck me. I was one hundred percent sure of that, based on the way he’d looked at me in class ever since. Hot glances, small, speculative smiles, and far too many trips past my workstation for no reason. It amazed me that no one noticed.

  “I don’t need to get laid,” I said, turning back to him. “And you don’t need to be falling in love with your clients. It’s wonderful that he’s taking you to Vail. You’ll get to ski and make bank, as long as you keep Hairy Taint happy. But it’s work, not romance. Don’t forget that, or you’ll be heading into your last semester with a broken heart.”

  He promised me soberly that he would not fall in love with Mr. Recaro the opera singer, and I gave him one last menacing look. I hoped it was warning enough. I never, ever wanted Andrew to suffer the heartbreak I had.

  I drifted through my last classes feeling morose. I wasn’t exactly jealous of Andrew heading off on vacation for the holidays. Well, yes, maybe I was jealous. Andrew’s family lived all the way over on the West Coast, and I didn’t have any family, so I figured we’d hang out together, at least on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Instead, I’d be hanging out in my apartment alone, watching James Bond movies and eating takeout from the cheap Indian place on the corner.

  No one else seemed very chipper today either. These were our last real classes at Norton, aside from senior seminar, which was basically just a time to get together and assure our teachers that our internships were going well. I wouldn’t see a lot of these kids again, wouldn’t sit in a classroom and talk about theory and marketing and technical design stuff. I wouldn’t see Cantor every day anymore, wouldn’t get to experience his predatory hovering and extra attention.

  Maybe that’s why I was so slow packing up my work space after he delivered our final critiques. Just about everyone was gone by the time I headed down the center aisle.

  “Chere,” he said as I passed his desk.

  I turned to look at him. He gazed at me with that slow smile, the one halfway between seduction and mockery. “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”

  His smile reminded me too much of Studio Valiant, and the way he’d spanked his sub’s pussy. No, don’t think about that now.

  “Goodbye,” I said. “Thanks for everything. Although I’m pretty sure I’ll see you again.”

  I meant I’d see him here, at Norton, but I blushed, wondering if he’d misunderstood my meaning.

  “That is... I still have one more semester to go,” I clarified.

  He nodded, and now I knew he was thinking about Studio Valiant, even if he hadn’t been before.

  “Do you have any plans for the break?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “No family in the city?”

  “No family anywhere,” I said with a shrug.

  “A holiday with friends, then?”

  I was so, so tired of being dissected by him, scrutinized, questioned, stared at. I glared down at the floor and refused to answer.

  “Well,” he said, “we’re officially not professor and student anymore. I’ve got your final grade here.” He tapped the stack of printouts. “I’m sure you’re aware you have an A. Well, an A minus. I docked you for all the dirty looks.”

  I gave him another dirty look. “Are you hitting on me?”

  Everyone else had gone. There was only him and me, and his desk between us. He came from behind it and leaned against the edge.

  “I’m not hitting on you,” he said. “I’m stating a fact. I’m not your teacher anymore.”

  He was hitting on me. His eyes pinned me, dark and intense. The silence went from uncomfortable to stifling.

  “Is there someone else?” he asked quietly. “If there is, he doesn’t make you very happy.”

  “There’s no one else. It’s just…” I rubbed my forehead. “Why do you have this interest in me?”

  “Because you’re interesting.”

  “Why?”

  He stood up. I took a step back, even though he hadn’t moved toward me.

  “Why me?” I asked again. “I don’t understand.”

  He put his hands on his hips, then back at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them. “You’re unusual, Chere. I initially noticed you because you were older than the other students. There was more to see in your eyes. From the beginning, you’ve had this drive, this burning ambition. That hasn’t changed, even though you’ve changed.”

  “Changed how?”

  “You’ve become calmer, more dignified. In the beginning you were so anxious, not that I understood why. But you’ve subsumed all that, little by little. You’ve disciplined it down to the small, manageable things you make.”

  I let my bag slide off my shoulder. “You’ve thought a lot about this.”

  “Sometimes we get students who make us think, students who fascinate us in some way. Not very often, but we get them. You fascinate me, Chere. It’s your detachment. Your control.”

  “My control?” I laughed bitterly. I had very bad control, otherwise I wouldn’t still be standing here talking to him.

  “When I hit on you at the club...” He grimaced. “When I invited you to scene with me, it was because you always seem so rigidly controlled. I want—” He paused and looked up to meet my gaze. “I wanted to see if I could
break past that control to whatever’s bubbling underneath. I wanted to get at all that pent-up emotion inside you.”

  “I don’t want that,” I said, horrified. “That’s the last thing I want.”

  “It might be good for you.”

  “No.”

  He spread his arms. “Then I suppose you’ll continue to be an enigma to me. Maybe it’s for the best.”

  “I think it would be for the best, Professor Cantor,” I said, to remind him that he was still a teacher in my eyes. We’d barely been out of class for half an hour. I picked up my bag. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you around.”

  “I hope so. Have a good break. Oh, and Chere,” he said when I was almost to the door.

  I turned back with a sense of dread, or maybe sadness. “What?”

  “You’re a great designer. A great artist. Forget everything else I said, because it doesn’t matter. You do amazing work.”

  *** *** ***

  I tried to forget everything Cantor said, but it was difficult.

  W was out of my life, gone, disappeared. He wasn’t coming back, and I was lonely. The winter break stretched out before me, three weeks of drifting angst and inactivity. By the end of the second week, I was losing my mind.

  I had to go to a club. I had to be around people. So what if it was the dead time just after New Years? Someone would be out and about. I thought about making the trek uptown to Evolution City, to the big, loud, busy place, but I ended up at Studio Valiant instead. For the balconies, I told myself. Because I liked the balconies.

  Cantor wasn’t there the first night I went, or the second night, but the third time I showed up, he was the first person I saw on the dungeon floor. He wore light colored jeans this time, jeans that revealed an alluring play of muscles. He oozed confidence as he flogged and teased another pretty blonde.

  Him and his blondes. He would have loved me back in my Miss Kitty days. I didn’t go up to the balcony right away, but stayed on the dungeon floor, twenty feet or so from where he was playing. Near the end of the scene, he turned to look around the room and caught me staring at him. I didn’t try to duck and hide. I let him notice me, and that was when I realized I was ready to let myself be with him.