3. One Little Kiss

CHAPTER THREE

One Little Kiss

G randpa turns, his mouth dropping open.

His surprise is nothing compared to mine.

Professor William Stratford stands there looking dashing as hell.

I blink, trying to shake off the haze of surprise.

Professor Stratford stands at the entrance to the bar, radiating power, his suit molded to a lean muscled frame. He looks like a battle-hardened knight, ready to charge in and slay the grasping dragon.

Except, of course, he is the dragon.

I hate the traitorous flash of relief I feel of gratitude that he came for me. Even though that doesn't make any sense. He didn't come for me. He must just, I don't know, live at this hotel or something. That's why he managed to be here the two nights I've ever been here. Nothing else makes sense. I don't believe in coincidences.

Oh, and I forgot, I hate him.

"Excuse me," I tell him. "We have somewhere to be." And with that, I take Grandpa's withering hand and lead him towards the bank of elevators.

Professor Stratford barks a small, incredulous laugh. "I don't think so."

He puts a hand on Grandpa's shoulder and squeezes. Grandpa is not a particularly small man, but he winces. Professor Stratford must be squeezing hard because his knees almost buckle. "Don't you have an important phone call to take?"

"Yes," he mutters, not quite meeting my eyes. "Maybe some other time, Jasmine. Don't tell your mother."

And then he's gone, leaving the faint scent of talc powder in his wake.

Professor Stratford raises a dark eyebrow. "Jasmine?"

"Don't ask," I say with a scowl.

"Oh, I'm definitely going to ask. I have a lot of questions."

How dare he?

Righteous anger fills my veins, which is nice because now I'm out whatever ridiculous amount of money Daisy negotiated for me. How dare he come here and interfere?

Sure, I did not actually want to go upstairs with that guy, but that's not the point.

How dare Professor Stratford show up and look so frustratingly handsome in his suit, so strong and muscled and vibrant? Professor Stratford isn't nearly as old as that man, but he's definitely older than me. His age doesn't diminish him. It makes him more powerful.

And I hate that about him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he says, his voice low.

"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?"

"Not soliciting, that's for damn sure."

"Are you here for another gala or charity ball or whatever other events rich people invent to show off their clothes and talk about how many yachts they own?"

Those coffee-colored eyes see right to the heart of me. And they are disturbingly kind behind the frustration on the surface. "No, I'm not here for a gala. I'm here to keep you from going upstairs with some random man who is probably diseased and possibly violent."

"Like you?"

"Yes," he snaps. "Like me, like anyone who you don't know. Anything could happen to you up there. You can't be this trusting, Anne."

"That's Ms. Hill to you," I say, jabbing him in his stupid silk tie on his stupid flat abs. That feel hard as steel even beneath the pointy tip of my finger. "Now I need to find another grandpa."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"She might be a little drunk," Daisy says from behind me.

"Christ."

"I'm only drunk," I explain, "because I want to have sex with a random old guy."

"You're not having sex with anyone."

"This is outrageous. I'm outraged. I needed that money. How else—"

"How do I expect you to buy your textbooks?" he asks, because he's a know-it-all. Professors are always know-it-alls. I think it's a job requirement. "They're being delivered to your dorm room right now. Yours, too, Ms. Bradshaw."

"Well, unlike her, I'm not outraged," Daisy says. "Thank you very much, Professor Stratford. Though if you're bringing her back to campus, I'll stay here, if you don't mind."

"I do mind," he says. "We're leaving."

"We are not leaving," I say, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm fighting for right now. It's something to do with strength and independence and the fact that he smells so good. It's all a little bit fuzzy in my brain right now.

My voice has risen because people are looking over.

"Fine," he says. "Let's have a conversation about it. Privately."

Only somewhat chastened, I allow him to lead me, his hand on the small of my back, into a dark hallway. Somehow we end up in a supply closet full of boxes.

I read some of the labels out loud. "O'Connell Monument Whiskey. IBEX Premium Vodka. Handmade in small batches. Louis XIII Cognac RARE CASK Collection. This is a lot of alcohol. Like how drunk could I get if I drank all of this?"

"If you get any more drunk, you're going to fall over."

"I'm not even that drunk. I'm just tipsy."

"Tipsy enough to go upstairs with a creep."

"That's the whole point of this field trip. Going upstairs with a creep. And I don't know why you're so mad about it. I did it with you."

"That's right. It's hypocritical and commandeering and I don't give a shit."

"Though you weren't really that creepy. "

A reluctant puff of laughter escapes him. "Not that creepy?"

"Not creepy at all," I tell him, though there was some reason I was supposed to stay angry at him. I shouldn't tell him that he made me feel so good that I can't sleep because I want him. That every other boy around me looks like just that—a boy. He's a man.

And then he kisses me, leaning me back against the door, tipping my chin up with his thumb. It's a short kiss. When he pulls away, I find myself leaning forward to prolong it, my lips seeking his warmth, his tenderness. The kiss might be a lie, but it's a sweet one.

Then he's standing at full height, shaking his head at me, disapproving.

I can't even believe it. Disapproving, as if he isn't the one who kissed me? As if he isn't the one who's part of some crazy secret society who's endangering people?

"Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to put you and Daisy in a cab. You're going to take an Advil and drink a full glass of water and go to bed early, because you have school bright and early tomorrow morning."

Part of me recognizes that he's right.

That is probably what's going to happen .

The other part of me, the part that enjoyed the kiss, the part that's furious and attracted at the same time, wants to make him suffer a little bit.

And I'll make him suffer by kissing me.

It makes complete sense in my head.

"We don't have to leave right away," I say, leaning back against the door.

His gaze flashes down to the deep V of my dress, and it feels like a victory. He scowls. "Actually, you do."

"Not really. We have enough time for you to call me Jasmine and make me call you a—"

"Don't say it. I'm not old enough for that."

I grin. "But you are old."

He curses under his breath.

"I don't mind, honestly. That's not why I hate you. I hate you because—"

"I know why you hate me."

"It should make me not attracted to you. Like people I hate shouldn't be handsome, sexy professors who understand Shakespeare references."

He puts his hands to the bridge of his nose. "This must be penance. I would ask God what I've done to deserve this, but frankly, there are too many options."

"It's because you're not a nice person," I explain to him.

"Exactly, which is why we need to get you home."

I don't have a home. The dorm doesn't count. "Just one little kiss."

"We already kissed."

"That one was short. One little, longer kiss."

His gaze goes to my lips.

My eyelids drift shut. "I want to remember what it felt like that night, the night you met me here. I was so nervous. So afraid. And then you took me upstairs and made me feel good."

When I open my eyes, he's only an inch away, those golden flecks standing out in the dark of the storage room. Somehow his hand's behind my neck, tilting me up to face him. His other hand is on my hip.

"Goddamn." His voice rubs together like gravel.

"You made me feel so good," I say again, plaintive. "Can you do it again?"

I'm not even sure what I'm asking for, a hotel room? No, that's not what I want. At least I shouldn't want that. And it's not what he gives me. Instead, there's a burning kiss, his hand covering my breast, his thumb brushing against my nipple .

"God, your body should be illegal."

I giggle. And I never giggle, but somehow the alcohol has done this to me.

Or maybe it's just him. He's like some kind of liquor, a drug. Something that makes me act in ways that I normally wouldn't.

He kisses me again. And then I'm lost in the moment and the pleasure and the feeling of his hand sliding up my thigh and then between my legs where he cups my pussy with possessive command, with the firm press of ownership.

Professor Stratford's hand tightens on my hip, his breath hot on my ear. "You think this is a game?"

I can't answer, not with his fingers tracing the lace of my panties, not with his thumb circling my clit. My breath hitches, and I arch into his touch. The space is dark, but his eyes glint in the sliver of light from the entrance. He's angry at me. It only makes his touch feel like fire.

His hand slides under the fabric, and I gasp as he strokes me, slow and deliberate. "You were going to let some stranger touch you like this?"

I shake my head, but my hips move against his hand, betraying me. He finds a rhythm that has me clutching his shoulders, my breath coming in quick gasps. Pleasure builds, and I'm close, so close—

His movements slow to agonizing languidness.

My climax drops out of reach.

His fingers move again, slower this time, building me up with agonizing precision. I moan, my nails digging into his shoulders. He brings me to the edge again, and again, he stops.

I whimper, trying to move against him, but he holds me firm. That's when I realize he's doing this on purpose. A frustrated sound escapes me.

A dark chuckle. "Do you need something, Anne?"

He's playing my body like an instrument. "Please."

His fingers circle my clit, and I'm so close, so close—

He stops again, and I cry out in frustration. His lips curve into a smirk. He's not going to let me come. Not until he's ready. Not until he decides.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

He leans in, his lips brushing mine. "Be a good girl for me."

His fingers move again, and I'm lost, lost in the pleasure, lost in him. I'm begging, pleading, and he's commanding my body. In this dark shadow, in this secret moment, I'm completely at his mercy.

Desire has made me delirious. "What do I have to do?"

"If you want something from me, you may beg."

He pinches my clit, hard enough that my lips open on a harsh gasp. No words come to me like this. I'm desperate and hungry. Some distant part of me recognizes that I should refuse his demands. Begging will change the balance between us. It will weaken me. Then he presses gentle, whiskery kisses against my throat, and I lose any will to fight this, to fight him.

He prompts me, his voice. "‘ Please, Professor Stratford. Put your fingers inside me. I need to be filled by you .'"

Oh God. "Please, Professor Stratford. Put your fingers inside me. I—"

The words dissolve as he presses one fingertip into my core, circling such a sensitive place, dragging the wetness around. "Am I making this hard for you, dear heart? Good. I like to see you struggle."

"I need to be filled by you," I say, the words coming out in a rush.

My body responds before my mind can fully process his question, two of his fingers pressing into me with a demanding insistence that sends shockwaves of pleasure through my core. My thighs clench reflexively around his hand, my back arching as I struggle to contain the sensation.

"Do you think about me?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that resonates through me, setting my nerve endings alight. His breath is warm against my temple, stirring the fine hairs there, each exhalation a tangible reminder of his proximity, his power over me. "When you touch yourself, do you moan my name?"

The truth spills from my lips without hesitation, a single, breathy syllable that holds the weight of my desire, my obsession. "Yes," I confess, any semblance of pride or self-preservation abandoned in the wake of his touch.

"Good." The word is a growl of pure masculine satisfaction, a sound that vibrates through me, claiming ownership of my pleasure, my body, my very soul.

It should bother me, this loss of control, this surrender to a man who holds the power to unravel me completely. This isn't right, a voice whispers in the back of my mind, a feeble protest that's swiftly drowned out by the thrum of my pulse in my ears. But the whiskey has turned my brain to mush, clouding my judgment, loosening my inhibitions. Sure, Anne, blame the whiskey. As if you aren't mush anytime he touches you.

The sensation of his fingers thrusting into me is exquisite agony, each stroke stoking the fire that's been simmering beneath my skin since the moment I first saw him. He's relentless, his fingers expertly curling, hitting that secret spot that makes my body arch and my breath hitch. I'm pressed against the door, my fingers scrabbling for purchase against the unyielding wood, as if I could somehow escape the overwhelming pleasure that's threatening to consume me.

His touch is rough, the pads of his fingers leaving a brand inside me that I know I'll feel long after this moment has passed. The raw intensity of it all forces a cry from my lips, a sound that's swallowed by his kiss. His mouth claims mine with a possessive fervor that leaves no room for doubt—I am his, completely and irrevocably. My cries of pleasure are muffled by the insistent pressure of his lips, transformed into moans that echo the desperate pounding of my heart.

The climax that tears through me is a force of nature, unstoppable and wild. It's a tempest that sweeps away all thought, all reason, leaving nothing but the searing heat of release. His teeth sink into the flesh of my shoulder at the height of it, the sharp sting of pain merging with the waves of pleasure, extending the ecstasy into an almost unbearable intensity. The sensation of his bite, the feel of his fingers still buried deep within me, it's all too much, and yet, I crave more. I want everything he has to give, this man who holds the power to unravel me with just a touch.

The moan that emerges is worse than a secret. It's my private shame. "William." It comes out before I can stop it, propelled by pleasure and a terrible fantasy where this man is more to me than my teacher.

He strokes me as I come down. My whole body shivers. I can't seem to stop. Even in the shelter of his embrace, made suddenly kind in the aftermath, my cheeks burn from shame. I didn't moan Professor Stratford .

William. Something I've never called him before now.

Something I never will again.

He sets me gently against the wall as he straightens my clothes. I'm unable to move, unable to help. I'm limp as he arranges me for the generic public, like a doll he's about to parade. Except he didn't have an orgasm. Why? He was hard against my stomach. I can still feel the imprint of him, burning hot beneath layers of silk and wool.

His dark gaze meets mine. "Now, I'm going to take you back to campus. Don't argue with me. And don't even look at another man in the bar. They're not going to help you. I will put you over my shoulder if I have to."