23. Six-Letter Word

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Six-Letter Word

T he Pinnacle Hotel feels like stepping into another world where the air is perfumed with wealth and power. The chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the opulent lobby. Plush velvet chaises invite the elite to sink into luxury.

Twice now Stratford has been my unexpected savior here.

Now what is he? I'm not sure.

I make my way to the brass elevator and go up beside a gorgeous blonde woman who's dressed in a trench coat and heels. Definitely seems like she's heading to a room for sex, but is it an illicit affair? A call girl thing? Or maybe a married couple on a date, the kids at home with the babysitter.

Though the more prescient question is what I'm heading to the room for. Sex? Likely. Our chemistry seems irrepressible. Love? Unlikely, at least on his end. I believe he has some tenderness for me, some affection, but that has nothing to do with deep waters. A man like him is never going to drown.

At least not over little Annie Hill.

Most likely this meeting is a strategy session. For all I know, he might even have PR people who want to coach me on what not to say. Or a lawyer who has a confidentiality agreement for me to sign. I hereby swear that I will never tell anyone that I sucked William Stratford's cock, that I loved doing it, that I imagine about the taste when I touch myself, that I almost need it to orgasm.

The elevator dings. I step into the hushed corridor of the fifth floor.

Maybe he called me here to punish me for the scandal with rough sex. If that's the case, I'll take the sting, the burn, the lash of his dominance. It might not take away his frustration, but I think it might somehow soothe mine.

The key card turns the little light green.

With a resolute push, I open the door and step inside.

The walls are a deep teal. They catch the light from the vintage brass sconces. A silver tray with a decanter of amber liquid and two crystal glasses rests on the small table beside it. The carpet beneath my heels is plush, a symphony of swirling patterns in shades of cream and gold that makes me feel like I'm walking on a cloud.

Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the glittering skyline of Tanglewood City.

Though the view that takes my breath away is Stratford.

He's dressed in a crisp white shirt, the top few buttons undone to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of tanned skin. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showcasing muscular forearms. Even from the other side of the suite, the air is filled with the faint scent of sandalwood and something else, something uniquely him. It's a high beyond any gummy or pill that Daisy could find.

"Anne." A storm brews in his gaze—regret, desire, a hint of something I can't quite place. Lights cast long shadows across his chiseled features.

The door falls shut behind me with that heavy way of hotel doors.

"Professor Stratford," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel.

"I'm sorry."

The simple words destroy my defenses. "For what? You weren't the one who published the post on Tanglewood Tea, were you?"

He moves around the room, not approaching me. "No, but I was the one who arranged to mentor you. I was the one who had sex with you at all, so that there was anything to discover."

I find myself moving counter to him, letting the fashionable furniture stand between us, not sure what will happen when we collide. "I think the worst thing you probably did to me was take on the Society. They're probably the source that tipped off whoever runs the account."

"Probably."

"Though…" I stand still, allowing him to catch me. "If you hadn't taken on the Society, you wouldn't have come back to Tanglewood. You wouldn't have been my professor. You wouldn't have found me here last semester."

Expressions move across his face like quicksilver. A lamp hangs down like an upside-down triangle, its pearl-white panels held in place by gold metal. It highlights them like a movie strip: possessiveness, grief. "Someone else would have touched you. Some other bastard would have taken your virginity. It didn't even happen, and I want to find the imaginary fucker and kill him." He pauses. "Which sounds fucked up when I say it out loud."

"You're a little unhinged. Then again, so am I."

Another step, and he's standing in front of me, his expression severe, his sandalwood scent enveloping me. He looks like he wants to devour me. But he doesn't. Because of the rumors? He might not have called me here for sex or strategy.

He might have called me here to say goodbye.

"Hi," I say.

His lips curve. "Hi."

"I don't suppose anything interesting has happened lately?"

"Nah, I've had to resort to finishing crossword puzzles to fill the time."

I grin. "What's a six-letter word for catastrophe?"

"Fiasco."

Even though we're talking about something serious, it feels like flirting. This is the same game we played on the first night, when he asked for six-letters words to describe my body. Chubby , I said. Erotic , he said.

Though the word of the night was virgin .

As in, I sold it to him.

"Turkey," I say, adding to the list.

He snorts. "Foul-up."

"That's two words."

"Not according to the Oxford English Dictionary."

God. Why was a smart man so freaking hot to me? "Defeat."

He shakes his head slowly. "We're not defeated."

"You sound a little defeated if you don't have another word."

"Upturn."

"Anything is an upturn when you're at rock bottom."

"Exactly, Ms. Hill." He sounded so much like he did in the lecture hall, a kind of condescension with a low, intimate rumble that makes me so freaking aroused. I sway, and he catches me in his arms. His expression is knowing, because of course it is. The freaking intelligence. So annoying.

"How bad has it been?" I ask.

"That's what I want to ask you."

"Well, I said it first."

"It's been…bad. The calls. The bullshit with the school. The worst part is Brandon. He's pissed as hell, and I can't really blame him."

"He was mad at me, too."

His eyes narrow. "He called you? What did he say?"

"No, he ran into me on campus. He was upset. I think we were both in shock."

"He shouldn't have done that. You've done nothing wrong."

"It feels good to hear you say that, considering the number of derisive looks I've gotten in the past few days, but I'm not sure I totally agree."

He looks genuinely annoyed. "You needed money for textbooks for college. Then you ended up my student, under my influence. I don't see how that means you did anything wrong. If anything, it proves that the academic system is a fucking caste system parading as a meritocracy."

I can't hold back a smile.

"What?" he asks.

"I've just never really seen you mad before. I mean you've been like stern and controlling and you were even an asshole at the Provost's house that night, but I've never seen you…you know, worked up. It's kinda hot."

His expression softens. "Your turn. How bad has it been?"

I tell him about the Tempest Prize, which has become basically old news at this point. Based on his little rant about the faux meritocracy, I expect him to erupt. I also expect it will be hot. Unfortunately, he turns unnaturally still.

And pulls out his phone.

"Umm, who are you calling?"

"I won't let this happen. "

"Listen, I don't know if you have the board people on speed dial, but I don't think they're going to react well if you are the one disputing the claim. Besides, it's already done. They're already having the plaque, or whatever it is, printed with Matteo's name on it."

"I don't know the board. I know who funds the board, which is even better. He's an old drama nerd who gives loads of money to Shakespearean causes when he's not hanging out with his vintage cars or his pet falcon."

"You know him?"

"He was on this science fiction show. We met when I was doing consulting for this King Lear episode."

"Wait. Is it William Shatner?"

"No."

"More than one of them love Shakespeare?"

"When I'm done with them, there's not even going to be a Tempest Prize."

"Wait." I put a hand on his cellphone and lower it. "Don't."

"They're going to regret this."

"Maybe, but I don't want it to be because we ended the prize. Even if they basically stole it this time around, that doesn't mean it's broken every year. "

"Fuck."

"Those other people deserve to win."

"How can you be calm about this?"

"I'm not happy about it, but I'm also…used to it."

"Used to losing the Tempest Prize?"

"Used to the world being unfair. I mean, it sucks. I'm pretty mad, actually. I think later I'll have to cry about it. But the important thing is, it doesn't stop me. It hasn't stopped me. Even not getting textbook money didn't stop me. That's what this hotel represents. I am determined to make this happen, so this can't stop me. Simple as that."

"I'm in awe of you."

"You wrote a literal book on Shakespeare."

"Yes, with the privilege of being male, raised on Shakespeare from the time I can remember speaking. My father sang How Should I Your True Love Know? instead of nursery rhymes."

"Is that a real thing that happened or are you joking? Sometimes I can't tell."

"The point is, the Tempest Prize could change someone's life. But it wasn't going to change yours. Because it's like you said. Nothing is going to stop you."

"Aww, that's kind of sweet as a compliment. Also kind of sad. I mean, I'll do it anyway, but I wouldn't have minded a life-changing award."

"You're going to win a hundred of them. A thousand. You're going to do it the same way you deserved to win this one, by caring more about the paper than about the award money."

"You're actually kind of sweet when you aren't pretending to be a megalomaniac society person."

"Was it the cape?"

"It was. Yes."

He grins at me. "You're going to have to accept my money."

"What?"

"I can't keep bribing the bartenders here."

"So that's how you knew I was here."

"He also watered down your drinks."

"But I paid full price."

"Actually, you didn't pay for them at all."

"Oh my God. Did we leave without paying? Because that's very like down-with-the-one-percent, social justice of me. Except I should have tipped the bartender, even if I wasn't going to pay the bill. We should probably tell them."

"I paid the tab before I even got there."

"That's a relief."

He smiles. "You're charming. "

"Is that code for—"

For being innocent. I don't get to finish the words, because he's kissing me. There's a faint flavor of whiskey mixing with something essential, the essence of William Stratford. He kisses me like we have nowhere to go, nothing to do except explore new angles to rub against each other. My nerves come alight.

His hands are sure, confident. They skim down my neck, down the sides of my breasts. He lifts my T-shirt away. My breath unhitches as he see me bare, wearing only a plain cotton bra and jeans. I realize now how much the dresses, the makeup, the shoes—they're armor. And wearing my regular clothes, I'm worse than naked. Completely vulnerable.

I move to cover myself, but he grasps my wrists, turning me so that I'm facing away. Facing the city. Something silky soft wraps around my wrist. His tie, I realize. My breath catches, and I struggle. "What are you doing?"

"Well," he murmurs. "You see, I'm pretty angry about something I heard recently. Someone fucked over the woman I love."

"The woman you—"

"And I wasn't allowed to ruin their lives."

"Did you say that you—"

"I'm afraid I'll have to take out all my frustration on your sweet little body." He turns me around to face him. "Yes, dear heart. Did you not know? You know everything except how irresistible you are."

I'm not sure what to feel about such a direct compliment.

But I don't have to decide, because I'm immediately thrown into an entirely deeper quandary when he says, "I love you."

"You do?"

"And now I'm going to fuck you."

"I love you, too."

He pauses only briefly at the words, continuing to bend me gently but firmly over the curved arm of the velvet sofa. Then my jeans are pulled down unceremoniously, along with my panties. Only my bra is left, but as I look down to where my breasts are hanging, the cleavage made sharp by the heavy swing, the cotton almost looks like fancy lingerie.

His lips scorch a path down my spine. He nips at my skin before laving the spot with his tongue. The trail of sensation leaves fire in its wake. I squirm, but I can't escape the exquisite torment.

Finally, his mouth finds my cunt, and I can't hold back the moan that escapes my lips. His tongue circles my clit, teasing me, tormenting me. This is the punishment he meant, and I'm begging. To stop. To never, ever stop.

He alternates between soft, gentle licks and firmer, more insistent strokes, driving me wild with desire. I'm panting, my body trembling on the edge of release. "Do you know," he says, his voice almost casual, only the barest hint of tension, "I don't believe I ever paid you back for that blowjob."

The one where I edged him over and over again until he was shaking.

He pulls back, leaving me aching and empty, and I can't help but whimper at the loss of contact. A dark chuckle fills me with an intense yearning. I want him to touch me, but I know it only ends with me empty, throbbing, wanting.

This will be a long, beautiful night of retribution.