Chapter 26

The class passes by in a blur. After our conversation, where it took every ounce of self-control to step away from her, I took a minute to myself in the garden shed and waited for my flagpole to disappear before making my rounds at each table stationed around the large rooftop garden.

It was manual labor, hefting heavy bags of soil and pots of various sizes, and then answering questions people may have or directing them to Millie.

A thin layer of sweat coats my skin but when I stand to the side and look at her, watching her bright smile and calming patience as she bids her students goodbye before they filter out of the garden. I can't help but smile, my cavernous chest flooding with light and warmth.

The afternoon sunlight peeks out from behind the clouds, the rays bathing her in a warm glow, and the traitorous heart of mine jumps and leaps.

This afternoon is a glimpse of what life could be like if we were just a normal man and woman, without the shackles associated with my family name and the forbidden nature of our relationship between us.

But we don't live in a land of what-if and could-be. The kiss that day at the office should've never happened.

We can never happen.

I need to tell her that, to tell her not to put her hopes in me.

The crowd thins out and the only folks left are the workers, all diligently cleaning up the space. I walk up to Millie, who is now fiddling with the supplies on her table.

She smiles as I approach her, her beautiful eyes lighting up, but whatever is showing on my face causes the joy to dim in her expression.

I sigh. "Millie, the other day in the office—"

"Tell me, why did you carry my scarf with you that first day in class?"

I freeze, my mind thinking back to that first day when my lungs forgot how to breathe in her presence, when she picked up my things from the floor.

I can't give her myself, but I want to tell her the truth.

"It was a reminder of you. A softness I don't deserve in my life."

When I left LA, I couldn't forget her but I couldn't go to her. And so, instead, I'd resigned myself to carrying around her gift for me, her handmade scarf, despite what she told me. Even to my untrained eye, the varying stitches and the uneven widths were obvious.

My fingers would touch the softness in the dark moments, when the pressures of life felt too heavy, and I'd imagine it was a caress from her. And on the frigid winter days, I'd curl it around my neck when I braved the snow, and my heart would feel a little less lonely.

Her eyes soften. "You deserve a lot more than you give yourself credit for," she whispers. Her lips curve into a sad smile.

"Do you know my favorite flower is the pasque flower?" She stacks seed packets into an orderly pile. "It blooms in the early spring when the environment is still recovering from the harsh winter. It may look delicate with its thin, lavender petals and gold stamen, but it's strong. A fighter. Flourishes in the middle of hardship. They say the flower symbolizes rebirth and new beginnings."

Her voice is passionate and strong. Just like her. A fighter, as she said. My fingers clench the clay pot in front of me. Anything to stop me from touching her.

I want to feel her vitality, the pulse beating against her throat, bask in the strong rays of her sunshine, and let her chase away the suffocating darkness in my soul.

Instead, I reply, "My favorite animal is the snowy owl."

Her hands pause and I sense her stare. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I continue, "They are rare and beautiful. Their feathers are as white as freshly fallen snow. But despite their beauty, the snowy owls are powerful hunters. They relish in solitude."

"Independent and strong." I hear the smile in her voice. "Just like you."

I scoff. "No, not like me. I'm the facade. They're the real deal."

"Why do you feel this way?" Her voice is gentle, soothing, quietly teasing the wisps of darkness out of me.

"Being an Anderson isn't an easy task. I love my family more than anything in the world, but the expectations growing up, the responsibilities…" My voice trails off as guilt snakes its way inside my chest. I'm privileged, living a life most people can only dream of. And yet, I'm still complaining.

Clearing my throat, I continue, "We're born knowing we need to take a place in the family business and uphold the family's pristine reputation. Ever since I can remember, I've known one day I'll be taking the helm of Fleur alongside Maxwell. There are hundreds of years of unimpeachable Andersons in my lineage. A lot of history and character. It…it doesn't—"

"Leave a lot of room for you to live for yourself," she finishes as she places her delicate hand on top of mine. I freeze at her soft caress, the warmth, the gentleness.

Her magic.

"Perhaps your world isn't as black and white as you think it is. If your family loves you like you say they do, they won't want you to give up living for yourself because of them…because of traditions."

She twines her fingers with mine, every slide feeling like the right key inserted into a lock, a satisfying click, the moment you feel the distinct snap as you turn and realize this rusty old lock finally opens. "They'll want you to be happy, Ryland."

"It isn't done. Generations of Andersons before me and no one has stepped away."

Because the stakes are too high, because everyone will lose everything if one of us falls out of line.

"Great Uncle Jameson kept the company afloat during the second world war. Rumors said he even had a rifle in one hand as he was closing the books when the fight got too close. Grandfather once said working for the family business was his greatest achievement."

I have stories, many anecdotes of all the Andersons before me who have done their jobs with honor and pride. "And Maxwell, he gave up so much—" The words are stuck in my throat as the old wound inside my chest festers and aches, the boils spreading throughout my body.

"Family is always first," I whisper. "Always."

I hear her quiet breaths above the background noise, feel the comforting graze of her fingers as they twine with mine. Dancing, whirling, making love to me with her hand. My breath lodges in my throat, a sultry heat moving south, and my mouth waters, wanting to taste her again.

To drink from her magic.

"I think, Ryland," she whispers back, keeping us in this startling intimacy, "life isn't as dark as you think it is. Perhaps you can't see it since you're in the eye of the storm, with rain pouring down your face, blurring your vision. But I can. And I don't care what you say about yourself. You're a beautiful man, inside and out, and letting go isn't as hard as you think it is. One day, I'll convince you. You'll see."

That's what I'm afraid of.

The temptation, my heart fighting a losing battle. That ultimately, I'll disappoint everyone around me because of my selfish desires.

Clutching her hand tightly in mine, I watch her fingers stiffen under the pressure. I increase my grip and hear her gasp. I give her a peek into my darkness and how I want to unleash the beast within.

Don't you see I'm a monster beneath the suit? I can snuff out your life with a pinch of my fingers. I'm not roses and sunshine. I'm lightning and thunder.My thumb swirls a circle on the back of her hand, which is reddening by the second as the blood pools there.

Instead of pulling away, I hear the quickened pace of her breathing and fuck, I can't help but turn and look at her, expecting anger or indignation in her eyes, or a furious command to let her go.

But what I see on her face threatens to burn through the steel chains of my restraint.

Her skin is flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded. Her mouth parts mid-gasp. I see her canting her head toward me, her luscious tits brushing against my arm. I can make out her nipples pebbling with each second of my gaze and the throbbing pulse in her neck.

She looks like my darkest dream coming to life. Submissive, yet both strong and soft for me.

She can take your darkness. She's a fighter.

I want to drag her away to the private gardens on the other side of the rooftop, throw her on the ground, and render her immobile underneath me, her face pressed against the soft grass.

I want to hear her whimpers as she fights to escape, only to succumb to my need for her.

I want to hear her scream my name when she comes undone.

"I see you, Ryland Anderson," her voice is a half moan, half whisper, "I see you and I'm not afraid of you."

Heavy heat—anger or lust or a combination of both—sweeps through me with the power of a flash flood.

Her words shatter the last of my restraint and a low growl tears from my lips. Ignoring onlookers who have turned their heads our way, I drag her to the nearest garden shed, throw open the door, and toss her inside.

Before the door fully shuts, I have her pinned against the wall.

"Not afraid?" I rasp against her neck. You silly, silly girl. "If anyone finds out about this, your precious future—the one where you'll go to grad school then travel the world teaching—will be ruined."

The selfish beast inside me takes over, forgetting about the family reputation, the tenure opportunity, the IPO, morals, ethics, everything I'm supposed to stand for.

Illuminated by the faint glow of the sliver of light coming in from the door, I can see her eyes dilating, her hands coming up to where my arm is banded across her chest. But instead of clawing me off her, she wraps her luscious legs around me, the heels of her shoes digging into my backside.

"No," she gasps, her lungs no doubt fighting the burn for oxygen. "I'm not afraid. Not when you're like this, all sharp fangs and talons or when you're giving me your umbrella so I don't have to be cold from the rain."

Her fingernails dig into my taut muscles, and the room feels feverishly hot. "You can't scare me away, Ryland."

"Fuck," I grunt and release my arm across her chest to grip the two cotton-covered globes of her ass.

My hands knead the firm flesh, and I grind my throbbing cock on her heat. She whimpers and thrashes as I rut against her with nothing but my casual dress pants and her little cotton shorts separating us.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." My dick hits her clit, and she lets out a mewl.

Unable to withstand the temptation any longer, I slam my lips over hers and drink the magic at the source, her sweet taste of honey and coffee giving me the highest of highs.

I can't think. I can't breathe. I can't listen to the faint warnings my mind is giving me—to tell me to step away and stop this before we reach a point of no return—I can only invade and take.

Take. Take. Take.

Sweeping my tongue in her mouth, I duel with hers for dominance and she scratches my back like a feral cat in heat.

The fight turns my vision black and overwhelming lust corrupts the last rational thoughts as my teeth scrap over her slender neck, biting the hammering pulse which has taunted me earlier.

"Ryland." She lets out a tiny scream. I try to pause but she won't let me, her legs clamping harder against my back. "More. More. I'm not afraid of you, Ryland."

I lose my fucking mind.

My hand coils around her neck, giving it soft pressure—not enough to cut off her airway, but definitely enough to make her lungs fight for the precious oxygen.

"Still more?" I rasp. I hear the madness in my voice.

Her legs shake around me, her lips forming the words, "More," and I lean in, my breathing heavy against her ear. "I'm not fucking you, Millie. This isn't happening. You can't break me. I'm your fucking professor and I. Am. Not. Fucking. You."

Millie claws at me in earnest now, her eyes defiant as she tries to pull my lips toward her, even as she's gasping for breath.

The fight in her is intoxicating. Addictive.

She succeeds and bites my bottom lip and a sharp pleasure shoots straight to my cock, which hardens to the point of bursting. She soothes the bite with her tongue and attempts to grind her hips over my aching dick.

"I'm not fucking you. But your little pussy needs me, doesn't it? I bet you're dripping wet, needing release. And I wouldn't be a good professor if I didn't take care of my student now, would I?"

Without waiting for her response, I shove my free hand inside her shorts, keeping the other caged around her neck. Swiping her panties to the side, I plunge my finger into her wet hot heat. She lets out a ragged scream and slams her head against the wall.

"You're so fucking wet. So tight. Look at your pussy sucking me in."

I keep my eyes on her face as my finger thrusts into her and my thumb rubs circles around her swollen clit. Her muscles lock with tension, her fingers digging into my hand around her neck, her hips buckling under the onslaught of my fingers.

"R-Ryland," she rasps, "what's happening to me? It has never been like this." Juices sluice out of her and I crave a taste.

The wet sounds of my fingers sawing in and out of her tight pussy have me hanging on by a thread. Pre-cum leaks into my pants, but I couldn't care less.

"Your body wants both oxygen and to come, the needs feeding into each other. But you can't do either until I let you." I insert another finger inside her, fucking her hard and she nearly careens off the wall.

Her moans are loud and obscene as she thrashes against me. Her nails will no doubt leave marks on my skin after this. Her wetness drips all over my hand and her legs tremble. I feel the telltale signs of her pussy throbbing.

"I-I need," she begs, panting harshly, before rolling her eyes back. Her entire body starts spasming in my hold.

"Come for your professor, Millie. Fucking cream in my hand."

I hammer my fingers inside her, and she explodes. I quickly let go of her neck, watching her lungs heave in the much-needed oxygen, her mouth parted in a silent cry of ecstasy.

She's so fucking perfect.

My balls are so heavy, my cock is so hard and throbbing, everything is about to burst, but I don't want to grip it, to give it the few life-giving pumps and unleash my cum because this is the punishment I'm giving to myself, a professor with the hots for his student, dirtying up her innocence, snuffing out her halo.

I will not be the one to clip her wings.

I can't.