4. Every Secret Place

CHAPTER FOUR

Every Secret Place

T he world spins as I stumble back into the Pinnacle bar, my arm looped through Stratford's, the world suddenly made bright. I squint from the sudden light change, trying to focus on the contours of alcoholic bottles lined up above the bar, but they dance and blur like a watercolor painting in the rain. My heart pounds from the recent climax. I can't shake the feeling of his fingers inside me, the raw, aching need he's stoked to a fever pitch.

"Where's Daisy?"

Stratford's grip tightens on my arm, steadying me. Or holding me down in case I try to bolt. "She's gone. And I'm not going to knock on every door of the hotel looking for her, so she'll have to meet you back at the dorm."

"She wouldn't leave me with you." Though you never really know with Daisy. She might have gone upstairs with a man. Or she might have already left the hotel, off to more mysterious doings. She has her own secrets, her own ways of coping with the pressures of her life. "She knows I hate you."

"Is that why my hand still smells like you?"

Ignoring the flash of heat, I yank my arm away from him. "You're an asshole. I'm not leaving without my friend. She might be in trouble. You know, like she was last time when the Shakespeare Society kidnapped and almost killed her. You remember the society, right? Yeah, of course you do. You led them before, and you're helping them now."

Hearing him admit that in the Provost house hurt.

Though hearing him tell me I was nothing but a cute little co-ed to pass the time felt worse.

"Don't talk about them." His tone holds warning.

Because he's protecting them.

"Right. Secret societies do prefer to stay secret. It's kind of a core feature. Especially helpful when they plan to hurt students. "Daisy's fine," he says, his voice gentling. "And you're fine. I'm going to take you back to Hathaway. She'll show up at some point. And you'll both be hungover tomorrow. Sound good?"

I look down to hide the disappointment that's surely on my face. Part of me wanted to deny it. After all, if he came here to protect me, then he can't be part of them. Instead he told me to not even speak their name. "Fine."

He leads me to the drive with its gold-and-black-felt luggage carts lined up. A few bills pressed into the hand of one of the bellmen, and a taxi appears in front of us. The old-fashioned kind. Not even an Uber.

Despite our harsh words, he's a gentleman about making sure I don't trip or wobble as I get into the backseat. Or maybe he just thinks I'm drunk enough to fall over. I wish. Unfortunately, I'm sober enough to realize how much this feels like a date would be, if we were just two regular people instead of a professor and student. He climbs in on the other side with a terse, "The university," for the driver.

Then we're off, alone in the dark space, lights whizzing by, the scent of his cologne wrapping around me. The ride isn't particularly smooth. The cabbie possibly learned to drive in a video game. He pulls a little hard at the turns, and I find myself leaning into Professor Stratford, my hand grazing the rough stubble on his jaw, my heart doing a tipsy tango in my chest. It's hard to remember why I'm supposed to fear him when he holds me like I'm something precious to him.

"You know, for a stuffy professor, you clean up pretty well." I probably shouldn't admit that, but the whiskey runs through my veins. It makes me honest. Always dangerous, being honest.

"Thanks. Maybe I'll add that to my CV." Despite his curt words, there's an undercurrent of something else, something that mirrors the electricity zapping between us with every accidental touch.

"Why so grumpy, Professor?" I ask, my voice teasing.

He shifts beside me, and the streetlights casting shadows across his stern face. "I'm not grumpy," he says, but his clipped tone betrays him. It's more than being stuffy or grumpy, actually. It's almost like he's in pain.

I tilt my head, pretending to ponder, then a realization dawns on me. My eyes widen, and I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ohhhhh, I know why you're upset."

He raises an eyebrow. "Enlighten me, Ms. Hill."

I bite my lip to stifle a giggle, then let my hand drift over to his lap, feeling the hardened bulge beneath the fabric of his slacks. "It's because you didn't get to come," I say, my voice husky as I trace the outline of his erection with my fingers.

He inhales sharply, a rough sound escaping his throat as he tenses under my touch. But he doesn't push me away. Instead, he stares forward in the cab, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

I take that as an invitation. No, more than that. I take it as him basically begging me, and if that's how strongly he feels about it? Well, then maybe I'll just keep rubbing him, my movements lazy, each stroke fanning the flames of that supply closet. His breathing comes harder, and even though he's not touching me, mine does, too. The cab is filled with the silent symphony of our suppressed desires, the hum of the engine keeping time with the thrumming pulse of desire.

He turns to look at me then, his brown eyes dark and intense, a silent battle waging behind them. But he remains still, trapped between propriety and the raw, animalistic need that I've so shamelessly laid bare. The tension between us is palpable, a living thing that threatens to consume us both.

His hand clamps down over mine, stopping the motion but not pulling it away. "Anne," he murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine. "We can't."

I look up at him, and I'm sure he can see the want in them, the need that's clawing at my insides, begging for release. "But you want to," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the sound of the cabbie's music playing softly on the radio. "And more importantly, I want to."

He shakes his head, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but his resolve is clear. "No. Not here." His words are firm, but there's a ragged edge to his voice that betrays him. He's struggling, fighting against the tide of desire that's threatening to sweep us both away.

I bite my lip, feeling a twinge of disappointment, but there's also a thrill that courses through me, knowing that I have this effect on him. I lean closer, my lips grazing the shell of his ear. "Tell me," I breathe, my voice a sultry whisper. "Tell me what you wish you could do to me right now."

For a moment, he doesn't respond, and I wonder if I've pushed too far, if he'll shut down and retreat behind the wall of propriety he's so carefully constructed. But then he murmurs into my ear, his words soft but potent, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

"I would start by tracing the curve of your neck with my lips, exploring every inch of you until you're arching into my touch, desperate for more. I'd let my hands wander, re-learn the softness of your skin." A soft, almost self-deprecating chuckle. "I've never been able to forget the way your breasts look. Or the way your hips feel in my hands while I'm fucking you."

I feel my cheeks heat at his boldness, but I can't deny the thrill that races through me, igniting a fire that I've kept carefully banked.

"I'd use my mouth to worship you, to taste every secret place until you're crying out my name, until you belong to me, until you're mine."

His words intoxicate me more than the whiskey could. I'm lost in the fantasy, imagining his powerful hands and skilled mouth. It's a dangerous game we're playing, but in this moment, I'm powerless to resist.

"When you've come again and again, when you're tender, too sensitive, that's when I'd shove my cock inside you. You'd squirm and cry out and tell me it was too much, but that would only drive me on. I'd only go harder."

Each word feels like a caress, igniting a fire that burns low in my belly. I can feel myself getting wetter with every filthy promise, my body aching for him to make good on his words. It's wickedly erotic, the two of us sitting there in the back of the cab, exchanging hushed, heated whispers while the world goes on around us, oblivious.

The cabbie seems to be lost in his own world, his focus on the road ahead, but I'm acutely aware of his presence, just a few feet away. It adds an edge to our illicit exchange, the thrill of the forbidden, the danger of being caught.

It's deliciously naughty.

Stratford's hand is still over mine, pressing me against him, and I can feel him getting thicker, pulsing with arousal. He's so hard beneath my fingers, and I know he's on the edge, just as much as I am. But he's right, we can't do this here, not with the cabbie just a few feet away. So, I settle for the next best thing, keeping my hand exactly where it is, feeling the evidence of his need for me, and I revel in the knowledge that I'm the one who's done this to him.

When we get close to the university, Stratford directs the driver to turn right and then left. And then stop right here. We're pulled up the shortest distance from Hathaway. Any closer and we'd have to pass through one of the little security booths on the major intersections. Cars can only get through if a passenger has a school ID, and even they can't park without a permit.

Stratford pays the driver and helps me step out, where cold night air hits me like a thousand tiny nips. The ride had been a sparkly, sensual dream wrapped around us. It felt so good, the sense of freedom, of boldness, the way he responded to me.

Stepping out of the cab onto the familiar, yet suddenly alien terrain of campus, it's like a splash of cold water. Hathaway Dormitory looms ahead, its grim, dilapidated fa?ade a stark contrast to the opulence of the Pinnacle.

I take a step forward, and my heel catches on the curb, sending me lurching forward. My heart leaps into my throat, and for a moment, I'm sure I'm going to face-plant right here on the sidewalk. But then strong arms are around me, pulling me back against him, his grip firm.

I let out a little giggle, embarrassment mingling with relief. "Whoa, that was close," I say, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet night .

Stratford mutters a curt, "Fuck," under his breath, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he holds me until I'm steady, his body a solid, comforting presence.

"Thanks for the…ride," I say, the double entendre taking me by surprise, and I giggle again. Damn it, I never giggle. Why tonight?

Stratford grunts. "Let's go."

"Umm, what? No. You can't come with me." The walls of Tanglewood University might be thick, but the rumors spread like wildfire.

"Watch me."

"Someone might see. Us. Together." I gesture broadly at the darkened buildings with the occasional lighted window winking at us. "Besides, I know the way to the dorm. It's like, right there."

Stratford's eyes narrow, his voice dropping to a low, annoyed rumble. "I have to come with you or else you'd fall on your face."

"That's not true." I draw myself up, trying to project an air of sober condescendence. "And even if it were, we're close enough that I could crawl there."

"That's not as reassuring as you might think it is." He interrupts me when I open my mouth to argue. "I'm coming. The sooner you accept that, the sooner this is over."

"Fine."

I'm acutely aware of the space between us, the way our bodies seem to move in sync, despite the awkwardness of the situation. I can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment. The night is coming to an end, and with it, the fantasy that's been sustaining me. I know that once I step through those doors, the spell will be broken, and I'll be Cinderella surrounded by pumpkin detritus.

We reach the double-door entrance to Hathaway. I turn to face him, the frosty night air making me acutely aware of the warmth that's been radiating from his body. "Well, good night."

"Keep going."

"We're already here."

"Yes, we're here at a dorm full of drunk, stupid, violent college boys who could drag you into their dorm room before you can blink. I'm walking you to your room."

"Those drunk, stupid, violent college boys have eyes, and we can't be seen together. You're a professor. I'm a student."

"Perhaps you can say it even louder, so everyone can hear."

"You are so stubborn," I say, hating that it makes me hot .

His lips curl, as if he can read the desire on my skin. Maybe he can. Maybe it's written in that old-fashioned scrawl that's tattooed across his muscled abdomen, saying Anne likes it when you're a big, commanding asshole.

Without a word, I whirl and head to the elevator bank.

He follows, thankfully not saying a word.

Despite our fears of random college boys, the dorm is eerily quiet. It's like the whole building is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

On the third floor, I fumble with the key, my fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. He takes it from me, unlocking the door. The door swings open, revealing the tiny chaos of our room. It's empty, of course.

I collapse onto my bed with a long drawn-out sigh. The sheets are cool against my flushed skin, and I fan out my arms as if I'm making a snow angel. I'm horizontal now, safe from any prying eyes or dangerous hands, but Stratford doesn't leave.

Instead he steps inside, allowing the door to close behind him.