Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  He circles behind the front counter and settles on a tall stool. Unhurried, he examines my expensive watch, fit physique, wide-stance, and raised chin. I know what he sees. A wealthy, cocksure man in his sexual prime standing in a run-down neighborhood for one reason.

  He’d be right.

  Finally, he stoops forward and rests weathered forearms on the counter. “That girl has had a rough go of it, and you’re the kind of man that’ll make it worse.”

  There’s a treasure-trove of answers beneath his words, and I need to discover every one of them. “Explain.”

  “You’re the kind of man that sets his sights on something and doesn’t let go till he possesses it.”

  He’s far too shrewd for pretense, so I don’t bother playing dumb. “Doesn’t matter what I’ve set my sights on. I’m her teacher.”

  “Yes.” Judgment creases his eyes. “You are.”

  I measure my breaths, expressionless. “She talks to you. About me.”

  “She’s said nothing incriminating, but she doesn’t have to. She’s mentioned you more in the past week than all her other teachers combined in three years.” He drums gnarled knuckles on the glass counter. “Whatever you’re doing with her, she wants to trust you.” His hand quiets, eyes unblinking. “The kind of trust she gives no one. But once you have what you want and discard her like your kind do, her distrust in men will be irreparable.”

  An ice-cold wave of dizziness overtakes me as my mind jumps to sickening images of older men, brutal men, raping her.

  I place my palms calmly on the counter and lean in. “Tell me what happened to her.”

  He looks away, his attention on the back room. “She doesn’t talk about the bad things. I’m not sure she even distinguishes between the bad and the not-so bad. What happens to her is life. It’s all she knows.” His overcast eyes return to mine. “She’s not just financially poor. She’s short of love, affection, and protection. She needs a good example in her life, someone with a selfless interest in her.”

  “You’re not that example?”

  “I’m just a broke old man with one foot in the grave. I can’t buy her textbooks and fancy gadgets. I don’t hold her dream of attending a music college in my hands. And I don’t have the power to steal her heart.”

  An overwhelming swell of respect rises in my chest. I can’t begrudge this man for caring about her enough to say that shit to my face. I can’t even argue with him, because in some ways, he’s right. I have nothing to offer her except heartache and disappointment.

  “But you give her a place to practice.” Glancing behind me, I spot the only piano in the store and thrust my chin toward the old Steinway. “Is it for sale?”

  The strained look in his eyes says no, but the splintered floorboards, rickety display racks, and overall dilapidated appearance of the shop tells me he needs the revenue. Desperately.

  “She doesn’t know I get offers for it.” His hands clench on the counter. “I won’t sell her piano.”

  But someday, maybe soon, he’ll be forced to accept one of those offers because it’s the most valuable merchandise in his inventory.

  I pull the wallet from my back pocket and place my credit card on the counter. “Charge it to my card, as well as the cost to have it delivered to her house.”

  He glares at the black American Express then lifts his glassy eyes to me. “She doesn’t want a piano at her house. She’s here because she doesn’t want to be there.”

  My stomach sinks with dread. “Fine. Keep it here. Put the receipt in her name, and don’t tell her she owns it or who bought it unless she asks.” I slide the card toward his trembling hands and wait for him to look at me. “What is she avoiding at her house? You know her well enough to have a damn good guess.”

  He picks up the card and swivels to the cash register. “What do you get out of this?” He nods at the piano.

  “Peace of mind. Answer my question.”

  He rings up the purchase, lips pinched between his gums, refusing to talk.

  Ivory emerges from the back room with a tray of food and sets a disposable dish of noodles and some kind of bastardized pastry on the counter.

  “I…um…” She stares at the charred edges of crust. “Burnt it? Or maybe…” She pokes a finger in the doughy center, and the whole thing caves in. Her cheeks flush. “I should stick with what I’m good at.”

  Like receiving spankings and playing piano? Or even better, playing piano while I spank her.

  She looks at Stogie, the card in his hand, and meets my gaze. “What did you buy?”

  I harden my eyes in a silent None of your business. “Have you eaten lunch?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Gather your things and join me.”

  “Oh, I…” At my impatient expression, she rubs the back of her neck. “Okay.”

  As soon as she walks out of earshot, I turn back to Stogie. “How do her living expenses get paid?”

  “I believe she covers the bulk of it.” He watches me warily. “I employ her in the summer to help with some of that.”

  “And when she’s in school?”

  He sets the receipt and a pen on the counter and scratches his whiskered cheek. “I don’t know.”

  The conflict in his dark eyes affirms she doesn’t share these details, but… “She may not tell you, but you know.”

  He offers my card back. I grip it, but he doesn’t release it, his focus on the square plastic connecting our hands. Then he lets go and looks up. “You know, too.”

  Admirers. Stalkers. Creepers. Men with money and needs and the immorality to trap a beautiful young girl?

  I feel the muscles pulling and tightening in my neck as anger burns in my throat. “I didn’t buy that piano to—”

  “I know. Which is why I sold it to you, and why I will never tell her you bought it, even if she asks.” He bends closer, hands braced on the counter. “She owes you nothing.”

  “Whether or not you trust me, I am concerned about her well-being, specifically pertaining to her home life.” I sign the receipt and scribble my phone number at the top. “Call me if anything suspicious, anything at all, arises with her.”

  Ivory returns to the front with an overstuffed satchel bundled in her arms. I move to take the heavy weight from her, but she shakes her head.

  “I’ll be back tonight.” She stores it behind the front counter and says her goodbyes to Stogie.

  Holding the door for her, I glance at the old man. “Nice to meet you.”

  He nods, his mouth pulling down at the corners.

  Yeah, he has every right to not trust me. I don’t trust me, either.

  Ivory

  “Is the deli next door any good?” Mr. Marceaux holds the door as I follow him out of Stogie’s shop.

  “Only the best sandwiches in New Orleans.” My stomach flutters with butterflies. Because I’m hungry. For food. Not because I’ll be eating food with Mr. Marceaux.

  Instead of turning toward the deli, he steps to the curb and unlocks the passenger door of a shiny black muscle car. “Stay here while I grab lunch.”

  I take in the GTO badge on the door panel, the 70’s-style woodgrain dash, and the black vinyl interior, wondering why he drives such an old ride. “We’re not eating there?”

  He removes the aviators from the neck of his t-shirt and slides them on. “No.”

  Everything inside me melts. From the heat of the blinding sun? Definitely the sun.

  I lower into the bucket seat and give him my order while he starts the engine and turns on the A/C.

  As he walks with long fluid strides toward the deli, I can’t not stare at him, because sweet Jesus, I never imagined him in anything except a tie, waistcoat, and buttoned shirt with rolled-up sleeves. But he wears blue jeans like a second skin. The denim was made for his body, cupping his ass and stretching across his thighs as he lengthens his gait. The thin gray t-shirt clings to ridges of muscle in his back and shoulders, the sleeves straining around the bulges of his b
iceps, just like those models in fitness magazines.

  I like the fancy clothes better. They’re safer, like a professional barrier to remind me he’s my teacher.

  When he disappears inside the deli, I shift my attention to his car. The loud rumble of the engine and burnt-oil fume of the exhaust. The scent of warm cinnamon wafting from the pack of gum that bakes in the sun on the dash. The stiff seat beneath me, vibrating with the strength of the motor. The silver knobs of the old radio and Axl Rose crooning through the speakers. It’s all so distinctive and different, fascinating and masculine. Like him.

  It feels surreal, sitting here. In his personal space. Willingly.

  It’s just lunch.

  With my teacher. On a Saturday.

  I wipe clammy palms on my thighs, wishing I wore something nicer. And less revealing.

  Why is he here? In my neighborhood? No one from Le Moyne ventures into my world, as if the poverty might stain their expensive shoes or something. Yet here he is. What does he want?

  By the time he returns, my nerves are twisted to nauseous levels.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Down the street.” He grips the steering wheel with a strong hand and merges into traffic, slowly, confidently, like this is his road and he has all the time in the world.

  A minute later, he pulls into Louis Armstrong Park and sets his sunglasses in the cup holder. A short walk takes us to a shaded park bench, where we sit side-by-side and dig into our Hook ‘Em Up sandwiches. The thick bread is piled high with meats and cheeses, requiring two hands to hold it.

  Halfway through the sandwich, my stomach aches. I wrap up the leftovers, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and stare out over the green-tinged duck pond. “What did you and Stogie talk about?”

  “You.”

  Maybe I should be surprised by his honesty, but I’m not. He’s always been direct with me, a trait I’ve come to depend on. If only I could do the same. I want to tell him everything. But he would report me. How could he not?

  He takes another bite, and I covertly study his jaw flexing and throat moving as he chews. It’s strange watching a man eat. I’ve never done that. Not consciously. I feel like I’m invading his privacy.

  When he goes for another bite, I realize he’s not going to elaborate.

  “What about me?”

  He swallows, grins. “This is really good.” Another bite. Then another.

  Two young black men walk along the opposite side of the pond, but the park is otherwise empty, the sun too high and hot for a lazy stroll.

  “Mr. Marceaux…”

  He continues to ignore me as he finishes his lunch between long draws on his bottled water. Then he sets my uneaten portion aside, throws the trash away, and lounges against the back of the bench beside me, hands relaxed on his thighs. “I asked him how your living expenses get paid.”

  Jesus, he’s like a dog with a bone. I twist and untwist the lid on my water. What would Stogie think of me if he knew what I’m doing? And Mr. Marceaux? He’d probably spank me then expel me. My heart gives a heavy thump.

  “What else did you talk about?”

  He turns to face me. “Tell me why I’m here.”

  To finish that almost-kiss? Do I want that? My hands shake. “I don’t know.”

  “You do know, and I want to hear you say it.”

  I look away, eyes on the pond, but every inch of my body focuses on him. On the shift in his breathing, the tick of his watch, the lift of his arm as he touches my chin and forces my head to turn back.

  His eyes reflect all the luminous shades of the sky, but they’re colder, so terrifying this close up. I refocus on something safer, the ducks on the pond. But his gaze fills my view, his face staying with me, his whole body moving, anticipating my moves. He won’t let me escape him. I want to run.

  And I want him to catch me.

  The fight in my muscles evaporates as he pulls me into his lap. My pulse kicks up when he arranges my legs to straddle him. His thighs are columns of stone beneath me, powerful and supportive.

  Sitting on him, against him, isn’t a bad feeling. It’s much safer than being beneath him, which has been my only experience with other men. But I don’t know where to put my hands. After an awkward moment, I let my fingers gravitate to his t-shirt.

  His chest twitches against my palms, the ridges and indentations of muscle like bricks in my hands, so unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

  I muster the courage to look up, absorbing the dark shadow on his jawline and the defined curves of his cheekbones. The blue hues in his meteoric eyes fire a voltage of warmth way down deep, below my waist, between my legs. The sensation makes me want to reach up and trace the shape of his lips. But I’m too nervous, too unsure.

  It feels like there are invisible strands between us and they’re winding tighter, pulling, shrinking, and strumming with tension.

  I sway closer. “Is this why you’re here?”

  He meets me halfway, dipping his head, and his mouth drags a sigh across my neck.

  I shiver and heat up. My fingers tighten on his shirt, my hips relax in his lap, and a strife of emotions frantically flap in my brain. The position puts my pussy right up against him, flush with the long rigid evidence of his hunger. It should be enough to make me recoil, to pull away, but I can’t. I don’t want to.

  “Ivory,” he breathes along my jaw. His hands clench against my back, pulling my chest to his as he nibbles a trail of pleasure to the corner of my lips. “Yes.”

  His mouth slides over mine, lips brushing, warm and soft and nice. Strong hands move up my neck, cup my jaw, and angle my head. He presses his lips harder, parting them, opening mine, and the first touch of his tongue shoots a thrill of electricity down my back.

  My whole body should be shrinking, cringing with disgust, yet the rub of his tongue, the flavor of his mouth, and the pressure of his fingers against my head liquefies my insides into a needy simmer. Instead of jerking away from the strokes of his tongue, I lean in, stretching my mouth and deepening the connection.

  A groan vibrates in his chest, and my own moan claws out as his lips move deliciously, firmly, against mine, touching me in a way I’ve never wanted or enjoyed. Over the past four years, I’ve been fed pools of drool and gagged by countless probing tongues. But I’ve never been kissed. Not like this. And I’ve never kissed back. Never experienced this kind of intimacy with a man while thinking, Don’t stop.

  The hands on my head guide me closer, demanding I stay with him. How crazy is it that I don’t want to be anywhere else? I can’t even close my eyes for fear he’ll disappear.

  Thickets of black lashes splay over his cheekbones. The muscles in his face contract with the urgency of his swirling tongue.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers against my lips then attacks my mouth with renewed hunger.

  His chest and hips rock against mine. My inhales sharpen, and his exhales pull grunts of satisfaction from his throat.

  “I can’t stay away.” Another drugging kiss. “I want you.” He nibbles my lower lip, licks just inside the seam, then rests his forehead against mine. “You make me want things I can’t have.”

  I angle forward to refasten our mouths, but his grip on my jaw holds me still.

  “We have to stop.” His fingers curl in my hair as his face draws away, leaving a tingling chill on my cheeks.

  I flatten my palms on his sweat-damp chest. “I didn’t kiss you to help my chances for Leopold.”

  “Oh, Ivory.” His hands tremble as they glide around my neck, over my shoulders, and down my arms. “So young and straightforward.” He grips my thighs, just below the hem of the shorts, and rolls his hips beneath my ass. “So perfect.”

  The hard length of him pulses against the crotch of my shorts. Why isn’t that triggering my gag reflex? Why aren’t I curling up and reaching for the safe place in my head?

  Why do I want to unzip his jeans and gaze upon that mysterious part of him? Why do I want to h
old it in my hands and make his body flex in pleasure?

  “This ends now.” He clutches my waist and sets me on the bench beside him.

  My chest tightens, rejecting those words. No more touches? No more kisses? “What? Why?”

  “It’s reckless. Dangerous.” He bows forward and braces elbows on his spread knees, staring out across the park.

  “Because of Ms. Augustin?”

  “She’s not a concern, but there’ll be others.” His eyes cut to mine, flinty and unmoving. “There’s always someone watching, waiting to ruin the prosperity of a life they don’t have.”

  No one wants my life, and people don’t concern themselves with what happens in Treme. “You can come here and kiss me whenever—”

  “I’m not a school boy, Ivory. This isn’t an innocent make-out session behind the bleachers.” In a blur of movement, he’s on me, chest against mine and strong fingers wrapped around my neck. “The things I want to do to you would give you nightmares.”

  He’s trying to scare me, but he’s not cutting my air. He administers his own punishments, but the sickness inside me craves more of his spankings. He doesn’t give me nightmares. He makes me float through the air in a dream.

  He releases my neck and perches on the edge of the bench, putting two feet of turmoil between us. My hands shake to reach for him, my entire body aching to climb back in his lap and return to the safety of his arms. For the first time in my life, I want a man to touch me, and he’s…casting me away?

  “I don’t want this to end,” I whisper, the backs of my eyes burning.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  His rejection lands in my stomach like a hot coal, stealing my breath and filling my tear ducts with moisture.

  “Shit.” He glares at my wet eyes, his expression paling beneath a sheen of sweat. “You cannot fall in love with me.”

  “Cannot…what?” I jerk back, inhaling sharply and swiping at a runaway tear. “Oh my God, of all the cocky, arrogant things to say! I would never.”

  “I’m offended.” He laughs, but it’s strained. “High school girls have a way of falling fast and ignorantly in love.”