Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  His plunging pace jumps and jerks, falling into an abrupt staccato. He tears his mouth away, his hand dropping to the mattress to support the bow of his back as he roars through his orgasm. His eyes stay with me through every gasping shout, telling me I’m the reason for his pleasure, the heart of it.

  Lowering his head to my shoulder, he seems to be winding down, trying to steady his heaving breaths. But the press of his teeth against my skin holds me on a heightened edge of arousal.

  A moment later, he pins my arms above my head, hips rocking, cock throbbing inside me. “Remember your word.”

  My eyes widen. “We’re not done?”

  He makes a tsking sound, closes a strong hand around my breast, and bites my nipple.

  Then he fucks me.

  For hours.

  His rhythms span between gentle and wild, his tempo quickly changing with countless alternating positions. He arranges me on hands and knees and smacks my ass while he thrusts from behind. He tosses me on my back, collars my throat with his fingers, and fucks me with my thighs pinched together between his. The choreography gets a little foggy after that as my body surrenders to the floaty, perverted world of Emeric Marceaux.

  Much of the evening slides past my heavy-lidded eyes in a blanket of sweat-slick skin, tender caresses, and passionate kisses. But as this is Emeric, and his way is infused with domination, it requires an emotional and mental subtlety that goes far beyond the technical act of sex. He tells me when, where, and how hard, and I roll with it, yearn for it, my need to satisfy him outweighing all else.

  In turn, he pleasures me. Right into a coma.

  “Ivory?” He bites my thigh.

  I can’t even move. Why do I need to? He’ll just move me himself.

  Having just come from the shower, where he banged me against the tiled wall, I lie face down on the bed. Naked, flushed, sated, I try to talk myself into lifting my hand to remove the dripping hair from my face. I’ll do it in a minute.

  He moves up my limp body and brushes the wet strands behind my ear. “You’re ten years younger than me. Don’t tell me an old man wore you out.”

  I snort—the extent of the energy I can muster. But in my defense, he works out two hours every day.

  The mattress bounces as he shifts around me, kissing every inch of my body from my head to my toes. Doesn’t take long before I fall blissfully asleep beneath the affection.

  When I wake, he’s stretched out beside me with a towel wrapped around his waist, trailing a finger along my spine.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  I fold my arms beneath my cheek and meet his hooded eyes. “I’ve never done this.”

  He reaches behind him, grabs a glass of water from the nightstand, and holds it out to me. “What?”

  After a long refreshing drink, I hand it back and change the subject. “You didn’t eat dinner.”

  He returns the glass then lies on his side, resting his head on the bend of his arm. “Neither of us ate. Finish what you were going to say.”

  I reach out and trace the curve of his upper lip. “The after stuff. This. It’s always been sex and run, usually followed by crying and hiding.” I give him a soft smile. “I like this. A lot.”

  He pulls me against his chest and kisses my temple. The hush of our breaths envelopes us, and he hugs me like that for so long I wonder if he fell asleep.

  Eventually, his whisper breaks the silence. “I like it, too, Ivory. So much so I’m terrified it’ll be taken from us.”

  I wrap an arm around his wide back. “We’ll be careful.”

  “We need to tone it down at school.”

  I scratch my fingernail across his nipple. “You need to stop giving me those eyes.”

  “What eyes?” A smile teases his lips.

  “The ones that say…” I deepen my voice. “Come here, Miss Westbrook. Look at me, Miss Westbrook. On your knees—”

  He surges up with a roguish grin on his face.

  I roll out of reach, my mocking tone tumbling into laughter. “Suck my cock, Miss Westbrook.”

  He flashes his teeth and crawls after me, losing his towel in the process.

  My gaze dips down his chest and lands on his dick. It’s…soft? Holy shit, it looks weird. I tilt my head, trying to get a better view.

  He sits back on his ankles and narrows his eyes. “You’re going to give me a complex.”

  “I haven’t ever…” I lean over his lap and wrap my hand around it. It’s still heavy, just… “So soft.”

  He stares at me curiously. “Keep touching it, and it won’t be.”

  Sure enough, within seconds, it begins to stiffen. I’m familiar with this part, and he’s the biggest and baddest of them all. Ironically, he’s also the safest.

  He swings his arm around and slaps my ass. “I’m not finished with you, but we need to eat.”

  We make it through half a gourmet pepperoni pizza before he bends me over the kitchen island and proves exactly how he’s not finished with me.

  I hope he never is.

  Emeric

  The following evening, I stretch behind the piano during the intermission of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony and tug at the strangling bow tie. The tux is one of many from my private collection, tailored and designed with quality workmanship. Doesn’t matter how fucking expensive it is. The restricting fabrics make me itchy and overheated. The whole pretentious look just doesn’t suit me.

  Neither does the music.

  Joanne never attended my performances, claiming boredom in hearing the same masterpieces on concert programs year in and year out. Can I blame her?

  While I appreciate the classics, I doubt Gustav Mahler intended for his symphonies to become commercialized affairs of mindless repetition. In his fifty-one years, he only conducted his second symphony ten times.

  I scan the Beaux-Arts style of the philharmonic theater, surrounded by an orchestra of pompous old farts and full-time musicians, most of which have their own resident halls. Rather than composing passionate modern music, they seem to be content wasting their extraordinary talents on routine recycling of classical repertoire.

  But I am not content. Not even a little.

  So why am I here, wallowing in this jeremiad?

  Securing a seat in the symphony was a natural progression in my musical career, a highly notable one. It was a means of self-justification, a validation of all my hard work and talent. It wasn’t until the goal was achieved that I realized it was the wrong aspiration for me.

  I want to create my own music, tap into my imagination, and transform classical piano into something fresh and wild. And I want to share that passion, teach it, and open eager minds to new ideas.

  Sitting behind the strings section, I take in the shadowed silhouettes of concert-goers in the balcony seats. A grin twitches my lips as Ivory’s question teases my mind.

  Do you eye fuck women in the audience?

  There were several months after Joanne when the highlight of my concerts was finding my next fuck. Now?

  My gaze connects with the most attractive feature in the theater, the only reason I’m smiling tonight.

  She sits in the front row, glowing like a bright aria surrounded by dark instrumentals. Her red Versace dress follows the sinuous lines of her body from tits to toes, the thigh-high slit bordered with Swarovski rhinestones.

  I know every detail because I handpicked it myself—just like I did all her clothes. But I chose this particular dress for a night just like this one, imagining her wearing it while watching me perform.

  Despite my misgivings about her attending the concert, seeing her in that evening gown almost makes the risk worth it. Almost.

  The parents of Le Moyne Academy students frequent these venues, and though Ivory drove separately with Stogie in tow, I worry about the wrong people making the right connections about our relationship. But she begged to be here, seducing me with Please on her lips. So I secured two front row seats and lined up h
er date.

  Seated beside her, Stogie reluctantly wears the tux I bought for him, his big hand repeatedly rubbing his bald head, as if lamenting the absence of his beloved baseball cap. What a pair they make. Two musicians passionate about classical interpretation, and this is their first philharmonic performance?

  I wonder if it meets their expectations. I’ll pay close attention to Ivory’s reaction after the show, as well as her responses to the other things I have planned for her in the coming months. She claims she wants to attend Leopold, that her ultimate dream is to sit where I’m sitting now, in a sold-out venue, shivering under the stage lights.

  But what does she really know about the music world and the opportunities available to her? I intend to enlighten her. Then, if she still wants to go to Leopold, I have a plan to make that happen.

  Two sections away, my parents occupy their season-ticket seats, heads bowed together in conversation. I asked them not to approach Ivory tonight, in order to maintain her disassociation from me outside of school.

  Ivory and I willingly accept the risks of our entanglement. But it also puts my parents’ livelihoods in jeopardy. If I’m caught with her, no one would go to a doctor whose son is a convicted sex offender. And my mom? Leopold would burn her at the stake. So I’ve been holding Mom off from introductions.

  The concert ends, and the next three weeks float by in a blissful fog of Ivory.

  When Thanksgiving arrives, I finally give in to Mom’s demands to meet her.

  As I drive my seventeen-year-old student to my parents’ house for turkey dinner, I’m on tenterhooks, not feeling any easier about the secrecy of our relationship.

  The moment my mom opens the door and stares at my hand where it grips tightly to Ivory’s, my hackles go up.

  Yes, I’m her teacher. Yes, I shove my cock in her, rigorously and with unadulterated depravity, morning and night. But the depth of my feelings for her goes so far beyond bullshit laws I really don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.

  But my parents worry. They’re also overly supportive and devoted to my happiness. That’s why I brought her here. She had a parent like mine once.

  I want her to experience that kind of love again.

  Ivory

  After dinner, I lean back in the couch, shifting the waistband of my skirt to ease my aching belly. I don’t know if it’s from my overindulgence of turkey, mashed potatoes, and buttery bread, or if I’m riddled with plain old nerves about being alone with Laura Marceaux.

  “I see why he’s so taken with you.” She smiles at me warmly and reclines in the chair beside the couch.

  My gaze wanders through the doorway of the kitchen and lands on the white t-shirt stretching across Emeric’s back. Sitting at the table with his dad, he straddles the back of a chair, deep in conversation. I can’t see his face or hear his words, but the deep notes in his voice vibrate through me, soothing me like a sensual lullaby.

  He doesn’t wear briefs beneath his jeans, and right now, the denim hangs dangerously low on his hips, barely covering the hard muscles of his ass. If he leans over just a little more, my view will become a whole lot more distracting.

  I clear my throat. “I’m taken with him, too.”

  She swirls the red wine in her glass, studying me intently. It’s so strange to see Emeric’s blue eyes set in such a soft expression. She’s intimidatingly beautiful. Not a wisp of gray in her shoulder-length black hair. But there’s decades of wisdom in the way she looks at me, like she can read my thoughts and make sense of them.

  She sips her wine. “You both seem happy. Maybe a little on edge, understandably, but happy. You’ve only been living together for…a month?”

  “Five weeks.”

  Does she think that’s insufficient? That five weeks isn’t long enough to measure the seriousness of a relationship?

  I want to point out that we’ve been emotionally wrapped up in each for three months and the actual sex part didn’t happen until three weeks ago, but that’s TMI. Besides, on the way here, Emeric forbade me to act weird about us. No shame. Be yourself. They won’t judge us.

  As it turns out, he was right. Laura carries on like the most important thing on her mind is her stories about Emeric’s ornery childhood. Her kindness eventually opens me up enough to share memories of my dad. We steer clear of discussions about Leopold, the conflict of interest too sensitive. But it doesn’t hinder us from settling into a comfortable exchange, as if I’m just a normal girlfriend, getting to know the family.

  An hour later, I’m completely enraptured with her. Her disposition is so weightless and refreshing. Her gentle eyes and sincere smile radiates the kind of serenity that only comes from deep-seated happiness.

  She’s the embodiment of maternal warmth and affection. Such a devastating contrast to my own mother. She makes me feel accepted and nurtured and…young, but only in the best way.

  In the kitchen, Dr. Marceaux stands from the table, squeezes Emeric’s shoulder, and disappears down the hall that leads deeper into the estate.

  “If you don’t mind…” Laura rises from the chair. “I’m going to go see where Frank went off to.” As she passes the couch, she reaches down and grips my hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you, Ivory.”

  I let the tenderness of her words sink in. “You, too.”

  Emeric hasn’t moved from his seat in the kitchen, his forearms folded on the back of the chair.

  Standing, I brush down the flirty mid-thigh skirt. I feel pretty, but not flashy, my sleeveless green blouse a fitted button-up over a thin camisole. If I did my own shopping, the outfit is something I would’ve chosen.

  I approach his back and zoom in on the peek of skin above his low-hanging jeans. No ass crack. He’s too cool for that. But a shadow teases the valley between his brawny cheeks. It’s too inviting to ignore.

  I dip a finger beneath the denim and trace that sexy cleft.

  He draws in a long, deep breath, his voice husky. “Ivory.”

  Stroking the top of his crack, I put my mouth next to his ear and whisper, “I love your ass.”

  His hips rock, and his forehead lowers to his bent arms. “My ass loves you.”

  My breath falters. His ass loves me or he loves me? I want him to mean both.

  I place my palms over the lean muscles along his spine and caress in slow circles. I still find it startling that I’m able to touch him like this. To just walk up to him when we’re alone and show him affection. How crazy is it that I actually want to put my hands on him?

  The last five weeks have drastically changed my perceptions about myself and my ability to do normal things with a man.

  Leaning in, I loop my arms around his shoulders and press my upper body against his.

  With his head tipped down, he wraps a large hand around both of my wrists, shackling them against his chest. “One of the most erotic things a woman can do is brush her tits against a man’s back, and Ivory, your tits are sinful.”

  Jesus, his parents could hear. I try to lift my chest away, but he holds me still with his grip on my arms. My attention flicks toward the empty hallway.

  “Even sexier, you’re not even trying to turn me on.” He shifts his head and bites my bicep.

  My mouth parts on a soundless gasp, my breath held in anticipation. What am I going to do with this naughty man? If he touches me in a more provocative manner, I won’t care where we are or who’s watching.

  He slides his lips up my arm, and I melt against his back.

  His free hand drifts behind me, latching onto the bare skin of my thigh beneath the skirt. “Did my mom give you the third degree?”

  I kiss his neck, savoring his warm smell. “I’ve become impervious to the methods of Marceaux interrogation.”

  “Is that right?”

  The tightening pressure of his fingers around my hands kicks up my pulse. His thumb strokes the underside of my wrist, and I know he can feel the thudding palpation of my heartbeat there.

  I bury my nose in the s
oft hair behind his ear, inhaling the scent of wood from his shampoo. “What did you talk about with your dad?”

  “You. Us.”

  With the manacle of his hand around my wrist, he hauls me to his side. Then he rises from the chair, snags his gray fedora from the table, and sets it on his head with a tilt so subtle it could be accidental.

  I’m not fooled. Everything he does is insidiously calculated. Like pairing his jeans and white t-shirt with a fedora? Seemingly harmless, as if he just threw something on. But dammit, he knew that sexy look would work me into a lusty froth.

  It’s his steady stare, though, the deep oceans of his eyes beneath the brim of the hat, that makes me never want to look away.

  The room dims around us until I’m only aware of him and the pulsing beats between us. I sink into the luring waves of desire, into that deliciously dark abyss that craves his punishing grip, growly voice, and vicious thrusts.

  Not here.

  With great effort, I pull myself back to the surface and take a deep breath. “You talked to your dad about us? What did he say?”

  Does his dad condemn our relationship? Is Emeric having second thoughts?

  The fingers around my wrist tighten, and he wrenches my arm behind my back. The movement shoves me right up against his swelling erection.

  His eyes ensnare mine. “He wanted to make sure I have all my bases covered, that I’ve thought through everything.” With my arm pinned behind my back, he cradles my face with his free hand. “I’m working through a few cautionary measures to keep us safe until you graduate.”

  “Like what?” I hate this constant looming threat of someone hurting us.

  He brushes his mouth against mine. “Trust me?”

  “Deeply.”

  His teeth catch my bottom lip. “Let’s go home and take care of your pussy.”

  I grin into the kiss. “Schubert?”

  “Him, too.”

  We say our goodbyes to his parents, climb into the car, and drive to his house without attacking one another. But the second the garage door closes behind the GTO, he gives me a look that liquefies every bone in my body.