Chapter Nine

Anya Sanchez

The weekend was hell. The anticipation of Monday's lecture and, finally, the private meeting with Mr. Miller nearly killed me. I hated being this anxious. There was a time when I only felt this way. My father was free in the world then, and I never knew who would be killed next.

The despair I was good at tamping down was front and center going into the lecture and throughout the lively conversation, of which I took no part. I kept my eyes down, and all the while, I imagined Mr. Miller's hand in my panties, finishing what he started at the club.

I had to be insane. Only a crazy person would ruminate on this madness between us. This dysfunction.

But I needed him. For my future.

So, when the lecture was over, I packed my backpack, and without a word or a look at anyone, I made my way out of the auditorium and toward the Criminal Justices faculty offices on the third floor of the building. My awareness was only on myself, my heart beating a million miles a minute. My breathing halting and bellowing, never taking in the air my lungs craved. And my mind. For Pete's sake, my mind was a roller coaster, ripping along curved rails, circling around at hyper speed. And I obsessed with one question: What did I want?

I didn't know. Could I dare to want it all? The grade and the fantasy? I had no idea what that meant, and there was the crux of my anxiety. I just didn't know, and it scared the crap out of me.

I stood in the elevator, only knowing others were there by the heat of bodies close together in the small space. But all were silent, respectful. I closed my eyes. The elevator stopped on the second floor, the doors opening in a whoosh. The elevator shifted as people exited, and then the doors closed again, the mechanism of the elevator cranking and revving for another stop.

But it didn't resume flight. A bell sounded, and I looked up. To him. To Mr. Miller.

In a moment, he was in my personal space, caging me in against the chrome walls. My heart lunged in my throat, and my whole body rippled. Oh, God. Was this really happening? I wanted it to be true.

"I've thought of you every day since we met," he growled the admission against my neck, the hot heat of his breath setting me on fire.

I whimpered. But I couldn't say a word. A coherent sentence eluded me. I only knew what I felt. And it was desire. It was desperation. It was agony. It was dejection because he would drop me right when I was certain he wanted me as much as I wanted him. I waited for it.

Our eyes met, and there was a wanting so terrifying a tear fell down my cheek. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop myself, and I couldn't stop him. This force between us defied what was natural and safe. Nothing was benign between us. It was danger and chaos.

But then he did the last thing I expected. He lifted the hem of my maxi-dress and kept lifting it, his gaze on me, waiting for a response. A no, perhaps. But he wouldn't get a no from me. I wanted this. He had all my yeses.

I didn't move a muscle. I didn't hike up my leg, and I didn't give him any resistance. He moved his large palm up my thigh and slid over the top of my panties. I sighed, waiting for him to cross the boundary I didn't think he would. He himself said he'd never do it. But there we were, giving into the unstoppable attraction between us.

His eyes remained on me, glowing and bright neon green. I bit my lip, and he drew in a breath. His hand didn't stop the ascent to the elastic band of my panties. The heat grew steadily, and the walls caved in—the focus was just him and me, and his hand slipping inside my panties to the delicate flesh underneath. I was so turned on I wanted to explode. I wanted to cry out in pleasure and urge him on. But he wanted to be in control of me, and I would allow it.

Mr. Miller dropped his forehead against mine, the ache of his skull crashing against my brow bone shot through me, straight to my bare toes. He groaned, and then his whole large hand cupped me, softly rubbing against me at first. But he knew I was swollen and begging for him by the sharp hiss on his lips.

Before I could take in a steadying breath to brace myself for what was to come, he burrowed his finger inside me, curses on his lips. I was too stunned to respond. I'd done this before. I'd let one boyfriend get this far with me. But this wasn't what I expected. The motion of his finger, the shape of it, the masculine weight of it, was like fucking. At least I thought it might feel like that. A fullness settled in below, deep inside, and I wanted to buck my hips. I wanted to swivel and writhe against his hand.

"Is it what you thought it would feel like?" His question penetrated the thick, pulsing tension straight to my ear.

I sighed, my head lolling. I felt so many things. "Better."

He groaned and took the pace to another level. Before I could catch up with him, feeling the sensations to the fullest, he slid in another finger, and I was done. A heaviness and a bursting sensation concentrated in my core, and I whimpered, halting my breath at the release—the free-falling liberation—that came after I orgasmed.

I opened my eyes, meeting his, dark and storming. He was tortured. I've always known it. And I knew why.

He stepped back, and I adjusted my garments. The elevator alarm blared now. My gaze shifted to the alarm button and then back to him.

"We need to talk. And not about class." I don't know how he heard me over the sound.

He moved toward the elevator button panel and depressed the red button he'd pushed what seemed like ages ago but was only minutes.

"I know."