29. The Third Date

Monroe

At eight o'clock, Juliet knocks on the door. This date is dinner at the professor's house. She left a while ago, telling me to return to the house at seven-thirty and get ready, and then she'd arrive.

I've got a bottle of her favorite rosé, a takeout dinner from Clementine's, and the professor look. Eleanor's closet came through, and I found a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with no prescriptions for the lenses. I'm wearing a short-sleeved Henley. By now I've learned Juliet is into my ink.

Or the professor has learned it. Whatever. I don't care. She likes my arms, that's all that matters.

With Pearl Jam handling the vocals tonight—90s tunes were on the prof's profile—I head to the door and open it.

She didn't just understand the assignment. She nailed it. No, she elevated it. Juliet's wearing a short plaid skirt and a white button-down shirt, open just enough to tease me. Her chestnut locks are pulled back in a high ponytail. She clutches a notebook that she uses strategically to boost those beautiful breasts.

My gaze roams up and down the bold beauty in front of me, who kicked the role-play sky-high. So far, I've been the one who's been play-acting. Now she is, and I am motherfucking here for it.

"Hello, professor," she says demurely. "I have that paper for you. Can I show it to you tonight?"

I square my shoulders, school my expression, and adopt a stern tone. "Yes, but this is the third time we've worked on it. I expect serious improvement, Miss Dumont."

She bats her lashes. "I've applied myself, professor. Can I show you?"

So innocent. So committed to the role.

"Come in. But don't disappoint me." I shut the door behind her, then watch her walk across the hardwood in that sinfully short schoolgirl outfit that is frying my brain.

She stops at the living room couch, tilting her face up. "Do you have an office or a den we should go to?"

"I do, Miss Dumont. But I fully expect this paper to demonstrate everything you've learned."

She nods sweetly. "It will, sir. It will."

We head to the den, the pictures of old-time Hollywood stars watching over us as I walk behind the desk, taking the chair.

She doesn't sit. She comes right to the edge of the desk, leans over it, and slides the notebook right in front of me, giving me a perfect view of the swell of her tits.

I suppress a groan, but she catches it anyway, giving me a sweet, but seductive, smile. "You can find my very hard work on the first page."

She's flipped the script on me tonight. It's a little unnerving to give up control like this. But it's thrilling too.

I flip open the notebook. Then, the words that come out of my mouth aren't words. They're grunts and growls.

I shake my head, but not in a no.

More of a holy fuck. I swallow, clearing my head as best I can, then read her writing one more time.

Bend me over the desk. Spank me. Then take me. I'm yours.

I meet her gaze. Her eyes are wide and guileless. She can act. And she sure meant it when she said this was a third date.

"What do you think?" she asks innocently.

I can't think right now. I remove the glasses and stand, stalk around to her, and line up behind her. I slide a hand slowly, sensually up her beautiful back, pushing her down against the desk. As she flattens, she cranes her neck back to look at me. "I did it wrong, didn't I? I was supposed to write a paper." There's a quiver in her lips. Admission in her eyes.

"You were naughty, Miss Dumont."

"I was very bad. All I could think about in class was you fucking me."

My neck burns hot. My cock jumps, straining against my pants. "You've been so bad though. I'm going to have to spank you first."

She nods obediently. "I deserve it."

"You do." I lift up her skirt and freeze. She's got nothing on. A breath stutters past my lips. My woman is so daring. So bold.

I'm dying to drop the roles, but she seems intent on playing, so I draw a sharp breath, trying to keep my wits about me as I stare at her gorgeous ass, the creamy white flesh begging for pink handprints soon.

Then I lift a hand, bring it down, and smack her sweet flesh. She lets out a breathy ohh.

Desire seizes every cell in my body. It takes all my restraint not to fuck her senseless this second. But she wanted spanking.

I raise my hand again, then swat the other cheek. She flinches, letting out a high-pitched moan.

I spank her again, then one more time, then she says, "Why don't you see if I liked it?"

I am not in control. I am not in charge. She has me by the heart and the balls. I slide a hand over those gorgeous globes, then dip it between her thighs. My beautiful reward. "You're soaking wet," I whisper in a filthy voice.

Soaking is an understatement. She's slippery and hot and so aroused.

"Better fuck me now, then." She meets my gaze as I unzip my pants, then adds, "But you should know, I'm a good girl, so I'm on birth control."

I stop, hands on my zipper. "Jumanji."

"Yes?" She's Juliet now.

"I need to know that means you want me to fuck you bare, baby."

"I do," she says, quickly adding she's been tested and she's negative.

"Same for me," I tell her, then I free my cock, grab her hips and line up at her sweet center. She raises her ass for me, inviting me to take her.

Well, that is the assignment. I tease her pussy with the head of my cock, eliciting groans and sighs and then wanton, needy pleas.

"You want this cock?"

"I do."

"Tell me how much," I demand.

"I'm dying for you to fuck me," she cries out.

"Then take it," I say, sinking into her and losing my fucking mind. She's so hot, so tight, so hungry for me.

I tremble everywhere with a wild kind of lust. Unchecked, fevered. A desire that takes root deep in my bones. I bend closer and push her hair away from her ear. "You feel so good," I whisper.

"So do you, Monroe," she says, staying out of character.

Thank fuck. "I needed to fuck you as me," I rasp out. "I needed you to be you. You know that, right?"

"I do," she says, her tone full of the emotion I feel too. Then I ease out, thrust back in. With her hips in my hands, I pull her back hard, slamming her onto my length. Pleasure rockets through me. An engine revved. A car humming.

Like that, I take her, pistoning my hips, thrusting in and out, sinking and reveling in the tight heat of her. Before I know it, her hand is between her thighs, and she's stroking herself, her breath coming in high, little gasps. "Oh god," she pants out. "I'm close."

"Same here," I say.

"Wait for me," she urges.

For a fleeting second, I want to say the same to her. Wait for me. To be ready, to fix myself, to be the man you want.

But the thoughts skitter away as lust grips me. I blurt, "Always," as I fuck her through her orgasm, which rattles the walls, the desk, and my goddamn heart.

Seconds later, I follow her into bliss, the world blurring away.

Later, after a shower, we lounge on the back deck. She's ditched the schoolgirl outfit, and she looks damn good in leggings and a comfy T-shirt. I'm in shorts. We've finished dinner, and once again I'm thinking of those words.

Wait for me.

Would she wait for me? Could I ask her to? Is that the next step after this third date? I've been weighing all day how to broach whatever this thing is between us, but I'm not sure I have a handle on it yet. I'm about to ask something safe like how's your dinner, when she says, "I need your advice, professor."

Oh. Okay. We're back to the roles. Fair enough. "Yes, Miss Dumont?"

She takes her phone from the pocket of her purple leggings, then clicks on her texts, swiveling it so I can see the screen and the last one from her Mom. What happens next with him? Will you see him next week when you return to the city?

My shoulders tense. Shit. She wants to do this now. She's readier than me.

"That's interesting," I say noncommittally. I don't want to screw this up.

"See, I don't want to lie to my mother, but the situation is kind of sensitive."

"How so?" I ask carefully, letting her lead.

She nibbles on the corner of her lips. "I don't knowwhat's next. I work with this guy, so I don't know what to say to him about what happens…well, next week."

My pulse speeds. My instincts tell me to shut down this conversation, but I try to push past them. I fight against them, as I open my heart a bit, cracking the door a little. "I bet it's hard for him too."

There. That's a start. That's being open, right?

"Maybe he's thinking about next week too?" she asks, sounding so vulnerable as she finds a way to ask me what happenswhen we're back in the city, back in the studio, back in the real world. When we've left this make-believe land in the rearview mirror.

She's always been so much braver than I am. I try to meet her with the same emotions. "He doesn't know what's next either."

Her lips flatten, and she dips her face. "Oh."

Shit. That wasn't the way to be brave at all. No more role-play. I reach across the table, lift her chin, make her meet my eyes as I try again. "I want to see you again, Juliet. So badly. You have to know that. Please know that." I sound desperate. I feel desperate. There's something else, too—something deep and powerful, something like forever—as she gazes at me with hope in her eyes. I want to run to that something else and run from it. "But I don't know how to be a good…partner."

Even saying the word scrapes my throat.

"Right. Because of…" She waits for me to finish the thought.

If I could tell Sawyer, I could tell her. At the very least, I need to be honest with her about my fears. "I wasn't there for Elizabeth. I'm not sure I know how to be there."

"I wasn't suggesting that," she says. It's prickly, but in the way an animal bristles its fur in self-defense.

"I know you didn't mean marriage," I say gently.

"I just meant next week." There's hurt in her voice, but she tries to keep it at the edges as she clears her throat and adds, "That's all, Monroe."

It's like she's saying: Can you do even a little? Can you see me next week?

But with her, there's no just next week. There's no halfway. My chest aches as I look at her. I can't test out a few more dates with someone I feel this much for already. What if it doesn't work out? "Relationships are like…" I cast about for an analogy. "The piano. I like the way it sounds. I want to play it. I can tap out Chopsticks. But you deserve Ode to Joy."

She's quiet for a long, painful spell. "I get it." She picks up the plates from the table, saying in a soft, sad voice, "Goodnight, Adam."

As she retreats inside, new awareness dawns. For this last date, she chose a man almost exactly like me.