Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  I don’t have a plan, only that Ivory can’t know I’m here. I should’ve reported her swollen lip. I damn sure shouldn’t have searched her body for bruises. But this? Showing up at her house? Definitely crossing into what-the-fuck-am-I-doing territory.

  Dusk grays out the horizon, and there aren’t any street lamps. Maybe I can coax her brother outside without her seeing me and punch his lights out before he has a chance to memorize my face. Of course, if she glimpses my car, she’ll know. The 1970 Pontiac GTO is too recognizable. If she didn’t see it in the school parking lot tonight, she will before the year’s over.

  I should’ve taken a cab, but I wasn’t exactly thinking when I left the classroom and drove straight here.

  Following the GPS, I sneak along a row of sagging houses. No, not sneaking. The American muscle under the hood is a 455 V8, and its thundering dirty rumble has residents leaning forward on their porches. Pedestrians stop walking and gawk. It occurs to me that I won’t be able to leave the car on her street. It would be jacked within minutes.

  Just a couple blocks north of the French Quarter, Treme is the place tourists are warned not to go, not in daylight and definitely not at night. I haven’t visited this area since I was a rebellious teen. I forgot about all the graffiti, boarded-up windows, and huddles of men on the street corners looking around like they’re hiding something. How does she live here and not get mugged every day?

  She has nothing of value to steal.

  Except her innocence. Though I’m certain that was stolen long ago. The niggling question is, how much damage was done? I understand her reactions to me, the looks of both fear and desire to please. They’re her natural reflexes to a dominant man. But layers of obscurity lie beneath her expressions, experiences that strengthened her and tolls that warped her. Not just an abusive brother or a dead father, but something else. Something traumatically sexual.

  Anger plunges through my veins, spurring me toward her house and the unknowns that wait there.

  I spot her street number on the weathered siding of a narrow shotgun building. The peeling white paint gives way to rotten wood, and the drooping roof over the porch doesn’t look safe enough to stand beneath. The houses are too crammed together to accommodate driveways, and there are no cars parked out front. No lights on inside. No movement in the windows. Unless she’s sitting in the dark, she’s not home.

  On my way here, I envisioned the worst. But one could argue the house next to hers is much worse, the exterior veneered in scraps of plywood and the entire structure slanting on its foundation. Someone even spray-painted on the neighbor’s door: Home is a fleeting feeling I’m trying to fix.

  As I idle in front of her house, imagining the dilapidated conditions within, a knot of unease forms in my gut. Maybe she doesn’t have electricity? If her mother’s unemployed, who pays the bills? Her brother?

  I don’t linger, afraid Ivory will come home and notice my car. A few blocks away, I pull into a crowded parking lot, operating on a hunch and a perverse sense of curiosity.

  The bluesy notes of a solo trumpeter vibrate through me as I amble into Willy’s Piano Bar. I’ve never been here, but it’s not unlike the other seedy New Orleans bars I’ve frequented over the years. Grungy and cave-like, the scarce lighting and exposed brick walls give it a basement tavern feel. The kind of tavern men get shot in.

  Where did her father die? Near the piano? Or over by high-top tables? Or right here, where I hover between the door and the bar?

  This place sees its share of nosy tourists, so I’m not surprised no one spares me a glance. I scan the low-key crowd and zero in on the only other white guy. It’s too dark to make out details, but he appears to be close to my age with blond hair and a pale complexion. Matches the Google image I found of a young Willy Westbrook on my way to Ivory’s house. Can I be this lucky?

  Adjusting the curled brim of my favorite fedora lower on my head, I stroll toward the bar and wave down the bartender. “Is that Willy’s son?”

  She lifts her eyes to follow the direction of my nod, her white hair forming an ethereal glow around her dark complexion.

  “Mm hmm.” She returns her attention to the drink she’s preparing. “That’s him, sugar.”

  “Thanks.” Hooking my thumbs in my front pockets, I wander over to the half-circle booth and tower over his table.

  A girl on each arm, he drags his gaze up my relaxed posture and locks on my face. “Do I know you?”

  The shadowed corner of the booth obscures his expression, but his delayed movements and slurred speech are hard to miss. High or drunk, he’s probably too blitzed to remember me tomorrow.

  “Are you Willy’s kid?”

  “Yyyyup.” He reaches for his beer, sloshing it on the table. “What of it?”

  I want to tell him the reason I’m here, that I am what happens when he hurts his sister. But if I mention Ivory, he might retaliate against her.

  Keeping my face angled away from the dim light, I bend over the table and slam my fist into his nose.

  The girls fly apart and shoot out of the booth as his head falls back and lolls on his shoulders. The whites of his eyes roll and disappear behind his lids as his body slides down in the seat.

  The blood from his nostrils forms twin rivers over his lip and splatters on his shirt. His intoxication probably has more to do with the knock-out than my nonexistent boxing skills. I hoped to see him writhe in agony but take pleasure in knowing he’ll wake to the throbbing pain of a broken nose.

  The crowd doesn’t seem to have any allegiance to Willy’s son, because no one makes a move to defend him as I stride toward the door. I know this is a rough neighborhood, but damn, they don’t even look my way when I slip out as inconspicuously as I entered.

  A couple of minutes later, I find myself parked down the street from Ivory’s house with the engine off and my attention glued to her front door. She should’ve come home by now, but all is dark beyond the front and side windows. Where the fuck is she?

  I consider leaving when an orange sportbike pulls up to her curb. The rider removes the helmet, revealing black hair and a dark complexion. Black or Latino? He’s too young to be dating Lisa Westbrook. He fucking better not be Ivory’s boyfriend.

  I pitch forward against the steering wheel, craning my neck as he strolls to the porch and peers in the window. He doesn’t knock on the door and instead meanders into the narrow alley between the houses and disappears around back.

  My nerves tighten. Is he a family friend? A cousin? A fucking burglar? I type the bike’s license plate number in my phone, and a moment later, he emerges from the alley, puffing on a cigarette. A leg goes over the bike, helmet on, engine roars, and he’s gone without a glance in my direction.

  That was weird.

  I should go. I have no business here.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m still telling myself that.

  With each hoodlum that walks by, with every car that cruises down the street, my impatience multiplies, twisting through me with spastic fits and starts. Eleven o’clock on a school night, and she’s out there somewhere doing God knows what. I want to tie her to her bed and belt her for being so reckless. Where the hell is her mother?

  This isn’t my problem. I reach for the ignition just as my phone beeps with a text message.

  Deb: We still on for tonight?

  When I messaged her between meetings while staring at Ivory’s tight body, I was raring to go. But now?

  Me: Another time

  Deb: I’ve been such a bad girl today. Spank me!

  My cock doesn’t even twitch.

  Deb: I can pretend to be her again.

  By her, she means Joanne. Only Joanne isn’t the her that’s fucking with my head.

  Me: You sound needy. The opposite of sexy.

  Deb: *pouts*

  Me: Also not sexy

  Deb: I’m sorry, sir.

  Me: You can make it up to me by moving forward on that favor I requested.

  Deb: The GM guy
?

  Beverly Rivard’s husband, Howard, owns a chain of GM dealerships. I hear his business practices are as sleazy as his wife’s, but I’ve yet to confirm if he cheats on her. If anyone can seduce him, Deb can.

  Me: Yes. Use discretion and pay attention to lighting. His face needs to be clear on the video.

  Deb: Yes, sir.

  Deb: I can’t change your mind about tonight?

  Me: Good night, Deb.

  What am I doing? Why am I here? To make sure she arrives home safely?

  Fuck me, I just want to see her again. Just a glimpse before I face the emptiness of my house.

  Ten minutes later, my wish materializes on the sidewalk up ahead. Even in the faint moonlight, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, and the flare of her hips are distinguishable. Erotic. So goddamn captivating.

  With my car tucked behind a truck, my whole body cants against the door panel to keep her within my sight.

  Her long legs carry her toward her house, slowly, leisurely, her chin held high and shoulders relaxed. She’s not afraid here, not like she is in my classroom. How ironic given the dangerous neighborhood.

  In the depraved innards of my soul, I thrill at being the thing she fears. I want to claim her apprehension, dread, and uncertainty. I want to take ownership of all of her emotions and be the sole reason she trembles and cries.

  In that moment, I pretend I’m not her teacher. With my hand curled around the steering wheel and my shoulder pressed against the door, I watch a beautiful woman walk toward me. She’s strikingly exotic with her enormous eyes and long dark hair, so impossibly stunning I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from approaching her. I would pause a few feet away, hold her gaze, and let the malleable silence enfold us in an intimate cocoon. I wouldn’t need words, just her awareness of my body, my intent, and my confidence to give her what she craves.

  She may not know it but she needs clearly-defined boundaries, discipline, and a man she can trust to push her beyond her comfort zone. She may not yet recognize me as that man, but she will. Then what?

  Parked five houses away, I can’t focus on anything but her. What happens tomorrow when I sit beside her on the piano bench, breathing in the scent of her skin? How the fuck will I focus then?

  With the engine off, the lack of air is stifling. My shirt is soaked through with sweat, the tie long-ago discarded. I’m burning up, antsy, aching for her. Horny as fuck.

  She stops at the front door and unlocks it with a key from her satchel. Reaching in to flick on the interior lights, she doesn’t make it over the threshold before an orange cat races out. As it prances around her feet, throwing its body against her ankles, her words come back to me.

  I can’t afford running shoes or food for my cat.

  A heavy pressure sinks into my muscles, urging me to storm into her life and fix her problems. I have the money, determination, and desire to improve her situation. As her teacher, she’s my responsibility. To nurture. To protect.

  All of which is appropriate as long as I don’t imagine the grip of her cunt around my cock.

  She scoops up the cat and nuzzles it against her neck as she carries it inside. The door closes, and the curtains fall across the window, shutting me out. Time to go.

  On the drive back to the Garden District, I resolve to maintain professionalism around Miss Westbrook. If I manage to finish the year without burying myself between her legs, I might find a rather satisfying future at Le Moyne. Of course, keeping my hands off her also means my future won’t include a jail cell.

  As I walk into my house, I’m greeted with stacks of packed boxes, bare walls, and a total lack of warmth despite the humidity. I moved in three months ago, but haven’t really moved in. Unpacking feels a lot like acceptance.

  Acceptance of a life without Joanne.

  I drift through the spacious living room, hearth room, and kitchen, every corner and archway adorned with custom moldings and deep earthy tones. Maybe tomorrow I’ll begin filling the rooms with furniture and personal belongings. But tonight, all I need is the brilliant piece of craftsmanship that sits down the hall.

  I make my way there, veering into my favorite room, the reason I bought this overpriced estate. The pristine hardwoods shine beneath the chandelier, and the Gothic arched fireplace at the far end conjures images of distant lands and mystical cultures. But the room’s centerpiece demands my full attention.

  Approaching my grandfather’s Fazioli concert grand piano, I run a finger along the curved body. Rare and extremely valuable, it took three years to make, crafted with superb materials, down to the gold-plated hinges and screws. The heart of the piano is carved from the same red spruce trees Stradivari used for his famous violins. But that’s not why I cherish this sexy beast.

  I take my position behind the keys and let my mood decide the melody. Inhaling deeply, I finger through the slow-building intro of “Toxicity” by System Of A Down. As the metal song changes tempo, growing heavier, more aggressive, every muscle in my body engages. My fingers grab at the notes, my torso sways, and my head rocks in time with the staccato beats, my entire being captured and controlled by the acoustics.

  The majestic projection propels me to the top note as I bang my hands along the keys, wrestling every molecule of power the piano offers. The crystalline clarity enchants me, consumes me, and I fall in love with this instrument all over again. I depend on this experience. I’ve dedicated my entire life to mastering it, and I need it now to carry me through the days and months without Joanne.

  Maybe I’ve reached the pinnacle of my success in the music world. Maybe I’m destined to be a lonely, bitter old man.

  Or maybe I haven’t found my place yet, my part in it all, and maybe—as Ivory so passionately put it—I’ll be there when the music begins.

  Emeric

  It’s universally known that the more forbidden something is, the more desirable it becomes. I feel this truth like a fist around my balls as I enter my classroom after lunch and find the forbidden object of my desire waiting for me.

  Ivory stands beside my desk, alone and watching me with huge dark eyes. With her arms crossed beneath her breasts and her raised chin radiating attitude, she has no idea how badly I want to restrain her, whip her, and fuck her.

  Her black dress hangs like a tarp on her small frame, which only glorifies my memory of her bare body, giving power to the secret we share. Is she thinking about yesterday, when I memorized all the skin she’s hiding? The mole on the rib just under her right breast, the delicate patch of freckles on her toned thigh, the decorative ink scrolling across her back—all of it belongs to me now. I crave another peek, more skin, more Ivory.

  She straightens her spine, inadvertently pushing out her ample chest, and glares at me as if she’s reading my mind and deems it appalling.

  I could no more stop my heart from being ripped from my chest—thank you for that, Joanne—than I can control the primal way my body reacts to Ivory Westbrook.

  Heat floods my muscles as I erase the space between us. My mouth dries as her eyes track my movements around the desk. Gnawing pressure builds behind my abs as I take in the sensual shape of her lips, the vein bulging in her throat, and the wariness in her gaze.

  I clasp my hands behind my back, stifling the urge to yank at the strangling tie around my neck.

  “Miss Westbrook.” I force my attention above her mouth. “You’re here early.”

  She stabs a finger at textbooks stacked on the desk between us. “I found these in my locker.”

  I glance at the supplies I purchased from the school bookstore this morning. “You’re welcome.”

  “So it was you.” She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and her glare returns. “I won’t take—”

  “You will.”

  “This?” She snatches the unopened tablet from the stack of books and holds it out to me. “I can’t accept this.”

  “You can.” I turn away and begin writing next period’s discussion topics on the whiteboard.r />
  Her footsteps approach, pausing beside me. I don’t look at her, but I feel her proximity like an electric hum. A cacophony of emotions pulse from her quickening breaths and grinding teeth. She may as well just tell me she’s an anxious mess.

  Instead, she says, “I don’t take handouts, Mr. Marceaux.”

  Damn her pride. I prefer to not belabor this simple thing, but nothing is easy when it comes to this girl.

  I move the marker over the board, the felt tip squeaking through the silence. “You presume too much, Miss Westbrook. You will pay me back.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  She mumbles it so quietly I’m not sure I hear her correctly.

  I cap the marker and glower down at her. “Repeat that.”

  “I’m…” She holds her arms at her sides, as if forcing herself not to fidget. “What kind of payment?”

  My pulse takes off as alarms blare in my head. She has a wealth of assets most warm-blooded men would value more than money. Whether or not she’s aware of her seductive beauty, her question isn’t birthed from naivety. Experience has shown her what men want from her, and the thought boils my blood.

  “Cash. Personal check.” My voice whips through the room, brash and angry. “Something along those lines.” I soften my tone. “What kind of payment were you expecting I’d want?”

  “Oh, I…” She swallows and stares toward the doorway. “I don’t know.”

  The distant din of voices trickle in from the hall, a reminder class will resume in a few minutes.

  “The truth, Miss Westbrook.”

  Her eyes dip to my groin and dart away.

  Fuck. I won’t make her say it out loud. At this point, I can’t bear to hear it.

  She’s aware of my inappropriate interest in her, and now she knows I know she’s aware. But she’s misjudged the way I operate. I would never coerce a woman into sex, let alone a student. While that infuriates me to a level that has my hands shaking, the ease at which she jumped to sex as a method of payment makes me want to kill someone.