Chapter One

Chelsea

I’d wanted him for so long. Years now. And in the name of the dear Lord, the man could have me. He could take me, strip me, and do what the hell he wanted with my needy, ripe young body. I’d become convinced a hard, fast fucking from my professor was the only thing that would satisfy this gaping hole of need in the core of my soul.

I looked around Oval Lecture Theater. For good reason, I’d picked a seat right at the very back, in the shadows, there was no one at my side or behind me. Hell, I was practically invisible.

Which was just as well now that I’d slipped my hand up my skirt to press on my swollen clit. I always attended Professor Andrew Deacon’s lectures without underwear, just in case, you know, he decided to dismiss the other students, lock the door, and tip me over the front bench to bang the crazy out of me.

No, that would never happen, the crazy was there to stay. Crazy for him. If he speared his cock into me it would just fuel the fire, I was sure of it.

My mouth dried as I circled my aching clit. He was looking up at me from all the way down there. He’d spotted my presence. I held in a moan—if just our gazes connecting felt so good, what would it feel like if we were sweaty and naked together? Our bodies connected.

If I’d surprised him by being there he didn’t show it. He kept running through a complex murder case that hadn’t stood up in court. The defendant had been a famous football player, the evidence stacked against him, yet he’d been acquitted. This didn’t sit well with the professor, I could tell by the line over his forehead and the way he gripped the lectern so tight his knuckles paled. The man appreciated justice in a big way. Heck, he yearned for it.

Which was hot. Oh yeah. I continued to masturbate, my belly taut and my pussy damp. I could smell my arousal. This wasn’t the first time I’d done this, in fact, I’d lost count. It was over twenty times, that was my best guess.

“So despite an overwhelming body of evidence,” the professor said, glancing around at the undergraduates who were all enraptured. “Stokes was cleared of all charges.” He turned and gestured to the screen behind him. “And the key things to think about are, were the jury frightened of riots, being that he was a black man and incredibly popular?” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Or perhaps a few gullible members of the jury believed the defendant’s lawyers’ closing statement, maybe there was intimidation, bribery, we’ll never know.”

A young man on the front row put up his hand.

“Yes?” The professor pointed at him.

“It doesn’t seem fair.”

“You’re right it’s not fair.” The professor stared right up at me, his jaw tense. “A person who is guilty of a hideous crime should always be punished. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

Fuck, the man was so sexy when he got passionate about his subject. His wide shoulders tense under his suit jacket and his deep, husky voice echoing.

I bit on my bottom lip; my orgasm was building to release. But could I control the rush of pleasure? Could I trust myself not to cry out and fill the lecture theater with gasps of his name? He was in the same room as me, for fuck’s sake, the object of my obsession was right there!

“So while we’re studying crime, criminal behavior, and the justice system on this course, we must always remember the loopholes, the holes in the net. It’s vital we learn from cases like this.”

Oh, his voice, it went straight to my pussy as if it were an actual vibrator. My pen fell to the floor. I ignored it rolling on the wood.

He looked my way again, his eyes flashing. “And we can all thank whatever god we believe in that Stokes walks this earth no more. Dead and buried in the cold, dank ground where he belongs. Brutal mugging that went wrong apparently.”

I came. It was a sweet yet intense orgasm that curled my toes in my shoes and caught my breath.

He paused but kept staring at me, his mouth parted, ready to speak but no words coming out.

I was pulsing down below, my inner thighs tight and bliss traveling over my nerve endings. Did he know what I was doing? Had he guessed I was coming just from looking at him?

My cheeks reddened, and I snatched my hand from beneath my skirt and sat back. I was breathing fast, my breasts rising and falling behind my orange t-shirt. I didn’t have to peek downward to know my nipples would be like two bullets directed at him.

He cleared his throat, appeared to have to pull his attention from me, and then changed the screen behind him. “This week, your task is to read…”

I zoned out and closed my eyes. I’d read everything before, when I’d done this undergraduate course. It was imprinted on my brain, the way every interaction with Professor Andrew Deacon was.

After a few moments a bell sounded, dragging me from my erotic little haze. I reached for my pen then stood and straightened my skirt.

The other students were filing out. One girl was speaking to the professor, and I scowled at her fitted red pants. I hoped she didn’t think she stood a chance with him, because she didn’t. She wasn’t his sort, and besides, if he was going to have a fling with a student it would be me. That was the only scenario my obsessed brain could comprehend.

As I walked down the steps, my damp thighs sliding against each other, I watched him finish the conversation with the other student. She nodded, gave a cheery goodbye, and rushed off.

The screen went black, and he picked up his briefcase. “Chelsea, I was surprised to see you here.”

I stopped, held my notebook and pen across my chest and considered him. His features were interesting rather than classically handsome. A nose that was perfectly straight but could be thought of as slightly too big. Thick dark brows, and deep-set intense eyes. His skin was tan, his jaw line stubbled. His mussed up heavy brown hair was cropped around his ears, the right of which held a tiny diamond earring. “Why? Why were you surprised to see me here?”

He chuckled and stepped closer. His height and width seeming to block out light.

I inhaled the scent of his spiced cologne. It was always strongest in the morning.

“You know why. You’re a postgraduate, Chelsea, you’ve done this course.”

“I particularly liked this lecture.” I licked my bottom lip, tasting the strawberry gloss I’d recently applied, and smiled. “And it’s relevant to my thesis.”

“Ah yes, that.” He nodded seriously. “You’re the only student on the course who has not yet handed in a provisional outline for me to read before you get down to the bare flesh of the research.”

Bare flesh, hell yes, I could get down to that with him. I shifted from one foot to the other and had to stop myself from suggesting something carnal. I wanted to see his bare flesh, every last inch, trace my tongue into every dip and rise and discover his flavors.

“It’s victimology based, right?” He tapped his index finger on his bottom lip. There was a small perfectly round scar by the knuckle; it was red, the dime-sized injury gotten in the last few weeks.

“Victimology, yes.” I nodded. “It’s the area I’m passionate about.” I gazed into his eyes and drew out the word passionate.

He swallowed then cleared his throat. “How about you drop it off at my office later, I’ll give it a read through tonight.” He paused. “Ah, no, I can’t read it tonight I have something on, but drop it off anyway, I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”

My jaw clenched, teeth gritting. What did he have on tonight? I hoped to hell it wasn’t a date. I’d seen that English literature professor, Miss Slutty Shoes, talking to him the other day. If he and her were a thing I’d…

“So about five.” He checked his watch. “Come to my office. I need to make sure you have the foundation right for this piece of important work. It saves time in the long run.”

“Five o’clock.” I nodded. “See you then.” And before he could step toward the door, I did. It was always best to have him walking behind me, that way he could see my wriggling ass. He could think about fucking it, spanking it, kissing right the way over it, down my cleft to my asshole if he wanted. All he had to do was say, and I was his, all his. Forever.

* * * *

Andrew

I watched Chelsea Taylor walk ahead of me. The woman was sassy all right, sex on a damn stick, and she smelled like all of my favorite flavors of ice cream rolled into one sweet, peachy scent that hit me every time she was near.

And her ass. Fuck. What I could do with that. Each taut cheek was the perfect handful. Her flesh would be pale, too, but would it be freckled like her face? And would her pubes be as red as the curls on her head? I wanted to know, I needed to know. It was a powerful urge that I could barely keep under control…but I had to.

Following her, I pulled in a deep breath; heat was flooding my groin, and a hard-on was not what I needed when I had to walk across campus to my office. That was uncomfortable and not a good look.

“See you later,” she said in a high-pitched girly voice that seemed to strum the chords of my testosterone all the more. “Have a lovely afternoon, Professor.”

She turned right, whereas I was going left. For a moment I lingered and watched her riotous hair swing from side to side. It was in a high ponytail, thick and shiny, and dropped to the curve of her lower back.

I clenched my left fist. Fuck, it would feel good in my hand, held firmly, tugging it until she gasped. I wanted to do that from behind, as I sank into her tight, twenty-something pussy and made her come around my cock.

“Damn it,” I muttered when she went out of sight. Now I had a full-blown erection. The woman was as dangerous as she was beautiful.

There was a staff toilet opposite, so trying not to walk stiffly, I negotiated the busy corridor, swiped my key fob and let myself in.

“Thank fuck for that,” I muttered. It was empty. I needed a minute or three to myself. My senses were flooded by her. Everything about her was fixation material.

I dashed into a cubicle, dumped my briefcase on the cistern, and released my throbbing cock. This was insane, but I had no choice.

With my nostrils flaring, each breath deep and urgent, I fisted my shaft. It was a greedy fucker, my cock. I’d jacked off two days ago after seeing Chelsea from a distance, laughing with a friend, the breeze pressing her thin summer dress to her body and leaving very little to my imagination. I’d also had a wet dream the week before about her; about me and her. I’d been up close and personal with her pussy, my tongue working her clit while she bucked into my face. My bedsheets had needed changing.

I tipped my head to the ceiling, eyes closed, and worked my shaft faster. I had to bang this one out before anyone else came in to use the next-door cubicle.

I pictured her rosy-cheeked face in the Oval Lecture Theater. Had she been doing what I thought she had? Touching herself? Making herself come right there and then? I’d been able to see her right shoulder shifting.

It was daring, blatant, filthy thing to do, but I wouldn’t put it past her. Chelsea Taylor was a spoiled little rich girl who had always been given exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it.

But did she want me?

The way she looked at me, stood a fraction too close, licked her delectable lips right before she smiled at me, made me think that maybe she did.

“Ah, yeah.” I worked my cock. I was hot, sweat peppering my forehead and underarms. I thought of her pussy, of her fingers stroking her clit as she listened to my lecture. She was seated at the back, in the shadows, she could have gotten away with it.

She had gotten away with it.

“Fuck.” My balls retracted, and I wished it was her pussy gripping my cock and not my own fist. Her hot, wet delicious pussy that I’d have gushing with girl cum within minutes if were let loose with her.

I clutched the top of the cubicle. It creaked, and I climbed the last steps to release. The agony of not being with her was as acute as the need to climax. Then it was there, and I let a groan of relief wash over me. My palm was flooded with my warm cum, and a modicum of tension left me, but by the time I’d wiped up my mess it was back.

The only thing that would truly satisfy me was her. Fucking her pussy, her mouth, her ass, and hearing her crying out my name every single time she orgasmed.

That was what I wanted.

I blew out a breath and went out of the cubicle, washed my hands. Then carrying my briefcase, I made my way over the lawn toward my office.

A young guy was walking in front of me, head down, hands in his pockets. He reminded me of Bailey Jones. Not that I’d see Bailey Jones walking around, a drug dealer had murdered him the previous year. A drug dealer, Ray Icke, who hadn’t been brought to justice by the law courts, despite having not one but four murder charges brought against him and two violent rape cases.

Lack of evidence. A missing witness. Charges dropped suddenly and suspiciously. It all stacked up to mean one thing.

A job for Galahad.

My office was still and quiet, the wooden paneled walls absorbing the sounds from outside. The window was west-facing, and the sunlight pouring in danced with dust motes.

I strode past the bookcase and printer and sat at my hefty wooden desk. The top was made of dark-green leather, and on it sat a laptop and three stacks of papers I needed to read.

I stroked the small round scar on my hand, a cigarette burn mark I’d gotten in a tussle, and reached for my phone. “Hey, Dalton, we still on for tonight?”

“Too fucking right we are, he’s breathing his last breaths and walking his last steps right now.”

“Yup.” I scanned the room, my attention settling on a picture of Sadie at eighteen. She would always be eighteen.

The usual darkness in the pit of my stomach swelled, threatening to swallow me whole. Vengeance, revenge, reckoning, reprisal, retribution, payback, they were all emotions that rattled around inside me—ate at the very depths of me. If I didn’t let them raise their heads from time to time with my Galahad crew at my side, I wouldn’t be able to breathe.

Tonight was one of those times.

“We’ll meet at Filly’s, eleven, he eats there after doing his rounds.”

“Filly’s, that place on Old Knight Street, right? The shitty end.”

“Sure, that’s the one.” Dalton paused. “Grant is coming, too.”

“Why? This is a two-man job. We can handle it.” I stood and went to the window, tension pulling at a muscle in my shoulder.

“I know, he says its personal, like. Asked me to ask you.”

A tabby cat was stalking a song bird that was searching for grubs under a bush. The cat’s movements were stealthy and its focus absolute. The poor bird had no idea of its fate—that a plan had been formed to end its life.

“I haven’t seen Grant for a while,” I said, not wanting to create friction but at the same time not wanting to see the guy who’d nearly got us all caught a few months ago.

“He’s had some time away, with his family, like, but he’s got his head back in the game.”

“You sure? ’Cause this is a real dangerous game if he starts making mistakes, not just for him, for Galahad, for all of us.”

“I know, Andrew, for fuck’s sake, I know. He just asked me to speak to you.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay, okay, bring him along. I’ll see you later. Outside Filly’s at eleven.”

“And you’re cool with Grant?”

“If he’s cool about the job?”