5. This Fucking Scholar

CHAPTER FIVE

This Fucking Scholar

H e wanders around the room, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he's trying to memorize every detail. He picks up a book from the floor, studying the cover. "Advanced Theoretical Mechanics and Structural Dynamic," he reads aloud.

I prop myself up on my elbow. "Don't. It's so boring you would die."

His lips quirk. "My brother wrote this."

Shit. "What I meant was—"

"I agree with you."

I grin at him like an idiot. "Is it weird having a brother who likes…" My voice drops to a whisper, as if I'm saying an evil word. Which I kind of am. "Math?"

"He was strange in our household. My father studied Shakespeare. And then me. Asher was always fiddling with one instrument or another. Only Cormac took after our mother that way, but she was across the ocean."

"You never saw her?"

"It was better when we didn't." He picks up a framed photo from my desk and studies it. Rusty is my dog, and the main thing I miss when I'm at school. "You two look happy."

"He'd just chased a squirrel into the lake that day, so he was happy."

"What about you?"

"I'm not that fast of a runner."

He gives me a slow, devastating smile. He sets the photo down, his gaze lingering on it for a moment longer before he moves on to where, unfortunately, I have the original black and gold invitation pinned to the wall.

He runs a forefinger over the embossed skull design.

The same finger he used inside me an hour before.

It's wrong in every way, but there's something about the way he handles my things, the way he makes himself at home in our little world, that sends a thrill coursing through me. "You should get some sleep," he says, his voice husky. "It's been a long night."

"Stay," I murmur, the word slipping out before I can stop it .

Why did I say that? Even as I berate myself, I can't take it back. The room is cold without him. So empty. His vibrance makes everything more interesting, more full, more sweet. It's the terrible truth about him.

"I don't belong with you," he says, and the most surface, most scared part of me thinks, of course he doesn't. He belongs with someone beautiful and wealthy, someone who doesn't need to be rescued.

That part of me has been muted by the whiskey. It's still there, but the volume has been turned down. Instead, I'm able to hear something even better. Something Shakespeareans love the most: subtext.

He says, I don't belong with you, and the subtext, the undertone, the literary analysis of those words means, I'm too dangerous, too old, too stuffy for you.

Exactly as I'd accused him in the taxi.

They weren't a lie, either.

Maybe I wouldn't normally have said them, but nothing about tonight is normal. He's all those things, but I want him anyway.

"Why were you at that hotel?" I ask again, almost knowing the answer, even though it defies belief, even though it's impossible .

I might as well believe in ghosts telling me that my father's murderer was my uncle, like Hamlet, but why not? Why not think unthinkable things? The magic of black ink and flipping pages feels prescient in the room.

"Don't." But even as he says it he draws closer.

I sit up as his hungry gaze moves over my body. "Tell me."

He hesitates, glancing at the door before returning to me. For a moment, I think he's going to say no, to leave me alone in the quiet darkness. Alone. Alone. Alone. The way I've always been, really.

His eyes are dark, unreadable, but the tension in his body mirrors my own. "Anne," he says, his voice a low warning. "This is madness."

It's a madness we both crave, a fire that burns too hot to deny. I stand and press my lips to his in a desperate, hungry kiss. For a moment, he resists, and then he's kissing me back, furious and tender, possessing and possessed.

"Tell me," I repeat in a whisper.

"I've had you watched," he says, the words torn from the tarnished center of him. "Stalked, basically. Is that what you wanted to hear? I have you followed while you're walking your dog on long rambles going nowhere. While some asshole tries to cop a feel while you pour his coffee. You should have poured it onto his lap, by the way."

"It was tempting."

"I knew the exact moment when you got to campus. And when you left with Ms. Bradshaw, all dressed up, I knew exactly where you were going."

"You followed us there."

A rough laugh. "I left in the middle of an important pre-semester dinner with other professors, probably sounding like a madman, coming up with some half-formed excuse, because I couldn't tell them, there's no way I could tell them I was going to see a student about sex."

About sex.

I should be appalled, of course. Society is quite clear on this. I should shove him away and scream and maybe even call the police. That's what young women are supposed to do when faced with a stalker. But society doesn't have anything to say about parents who hit you, parents who lie, parents who just need a few dollars for medicine, my God, Anne, why are you so selfish?

About sex.

Society doesn't have anything to say about working so damn hard so that the magic carpet of academia can take me away, only to find myself still wanting, still needing, still so damn alone it feels like a physical ache.

Society can go to hell.

About sex.

"Do it," I whisper, my lips inches away from his chest, at the V where the white dress shirt opens, revealing the tanned hollow of his throat, a vulnerable point on a strong man. "Do what you told me in the taxi."

He groans, this articulate man. This professor of literature. This author. This fucking scholar. He's become wordless.

We're a tangle of limbs and clothing, shedding layers as we stumble towards my bed. The thin mattress creaks under our combined weight, but I don't care. All that matters is the feel of his skin against mine, the taste of his kiss, the way he makes me feel alive.

His hands roam over my body, mapping out every curve and hollow. I arch into his touch, my fingers digging into the muscles of his back. We move together in a dance as old as time, our bodies speaking a language all their own.

I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, a tangible force that sets my skin alight. He's watching me with an intensity that borders on predatory, and yet, I feel no fear. Only a deep, aching need that throbs in time with my heartbeat.

"I would start by tracing the curve of your neck with my lips," he'd said, and now he's fulfilling that promise. His mouth is a whisper against my skin, a ghostly touch that sends shivers cascading down my spine. He explores me with a reverence that's both humbling and empowering, his lips charting a path from my jawline to the sensitive spot where my pulse flutters wildly.

I can't help but arch into his touch, my body moving of its own accord. I'm desperate for more, for the feel of his hands on me, and he doesn't disappoint. His fingers skim over my shoulders, down my arms, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake. He's re-learning the softness of my skin, his touch a mixture of tenderness and command that leaves me breathless.

He pulls me closer, his hands settling on my hips, and I can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against me. It's a heady reminder of the power I hold over him, a power that's both thrilling and terrifying. He's a man of intellect and control, and yet, with me, he's unraveling, his carefully constructed fa?ade slipping away to reveal the raw, primal need beneath .

His lips find mine in a kiss that's both a question and a demand. I open myself to him, our tongues dancing in a sensual rhythm that mirrors the ebb and flow of our bodies. He tastes of whiskey and something darker, something that speaks of late nights and forbidden desires.

I'd let my hands wander, re-learn the softness of your skin.

His hands roam freely over my body, cupping my breasts, teasing my nipples into hard peaks. I gasp into his mouth, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core. He breaks the kiss, his eyes dark with desire as he watches my reaction to his touch.

"You're so responsive," he murmurs, his voice a low growl that vibrates through me. "So beautiful when you let go."

I can feel myself blushing at his words, but there's no time for embarrassment. He's moving lower, his lips blazing a trail of fire down my neck, over my collarbone, to the valley between my breasts. He worships my body with his mouth, his hands, his very presence, and I'm lost in a sea of sensation, adrift in a world where only he and I exist.

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.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties, his gaze never leaving mine as he slowly peels them away. There's a promise in his eyes, a dark, delicious promise that makes my heart race with anticipation.

"Spread your legs for me," he murmurs.

I do as he says, my body obeying before my mind has fully processed the command. He settles between my thighs, his breath hot against my most intimate parts. I'm exposed and vulnerable, but I've never felt safer, never felt more desired.

He looks up at me, his eyes locked on mine as he slowly, deliberately, runs his tongue over me. The sensation is electric, a bolt of lightning that courses through my veins, setting my nerves alight. I can't help but cry out, my hands fisting the sheets as he explores me with a thoroughness that leaves no part untouched.

He's relentless, his mouth and tongue working in tandem to drive me to the brink of madness. I'm a symphony of moans and gasps, each note drawn from the deepest part of me, each breath a testament to the pleasure he's wringing from my body.

"Please," I say, not knowing what I'm asking for, only that I need more, need him, need the release that's hovering just out of reach.

He answers my plea with a low chuckle, the vibrations sending me spiraling closer to the edge. "Patience, dear heart."

And with that, he plunges two fingers inside me, curling them in a way that makes my back arch off the bed. He's everywhere, his fingers and mouth working in unison to drive me wild, to shatter me into a thousand pieces.

I'm teetering on the precipice, my body wound tight with need, when he suddenly stops, pulling back to look at me with a wicked glint in his eye.

"You know what I need," he says, his voice a dark whisper that sends a shiver down my spine. "What I want. And you're going to give it to me."

I'm left panting, my body aching for completion.

My brain fumbles with the scratchy, sepia-toned tape of the cab ride.

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.

The words slip from my lips, a surrender of sorts, even though the implications of them terrify me. "William, please. I'm yours."

It's a declaration, a plea, and a promise all wrapped into one.

He growls in response, the sound vibrating through me, and then his mouth is on me again, his lips closing around my clit with a suction that feels like a direct line to my soul. The sensation is too much, too intense, and I cry out, "William," loud enough for anyone on the floor to hear.

Orgasm hits me like a freight train, my body convulsing under the onslaught of pleasure. It's endless, wave after wave crashing over me, reforming me into someone else, a creature of need and sensation. The words echo in my mind, I'm his now. His. Forever. It's a terrifying thought, and yet, in this moment of vulnerability and ecstasy, it feels right.

I collapse onto the bed, a boneless, panting mess, as he continues to lick me gently, his touch soothing now, rather than demanding. I'm floating, adrift in a sea of bliss, my body humming with satisfaction.

With tender movements, he pulls my dress down, covering my exposed skin, and then he's rearranging my limbs, positioning me so that I'm laying properly in the bed. I feel like a doll in his hands, limp, utterly at his mercy.

His gaze lingers on me, a possessive gleam in his eyes that sends a shiver down my spine. "Sleep now," he murmurs.

My body's already succumbing to the dark sea, lulled by his steady dark gaze, the echoes of my orgasm. Except it's not time for that. "But you said that—" I stammer, too embarrassed to speak clearly, my words made slow and drawled from the echoes of orgasm. "You said that you would shove your—That after you would—"

"Go on," he says, his eyes glittering.

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.

"You said you wouldn't stop."

He presses a kiss, almost chaste, to my forehead, as if I'm a small child and he's tucking me in. "That was a fantasy, Anne. It was a dream. In real life, I'm a predator, and you're the prey. Stay away from me. Push me away if you want to save yourself, because the next time I see you I'm fucking that beautiful mouth."