Читать книгу The Dare Collection February 2019 - Nicola Marsh, Avril Tremayne - Страница 17

BY TUESDAY I’M wishing I had stayed at her house. Not just for dinner but for the whole night. By Tuesday, my body is throbbing with needs only Olivia can satisfy. She’s sitting in the third row, writing notes as furiously as ever, but I feel the tension that throbs between us and I ache to dismiss the class and act on it. She avoids meeting my eyes.

Because I am attuned to every movement she makes, I see the instant she reaches into her bag and pulls her phone out. And, even though I’m not looking straight at her, I see the small frown that etches across her face. A curiosity to know what’s on her screen throws me for a moment. I look back at my notes to regroup and carry on.

She has all my attention, though.

* * *

I’m around the corner. Meet you in the foyer.

Why the hell is Pietro messaging me this? I told him I had a lecture from one to three today. The implication was reasonably clear, I would have thought—that I’d prefer not to be disturbed within that timeframe. Yet here we are, fifteen minutes before the end of class, and he’s messaging me?

I can’t ask him to hang around; that’s not fair. He’s doing me a massive favour by bringing me the laptop I left in his car on Sunday, when he dropped me home from my parents’ place. I curse my forgetfulness and I blame Connor for it.

I was thinking only of him. His body. His touch. His games. His kinky self.

And so I climbed out of Pietro’s Mercedes without most of my mind, and without the bag that has my computer, my course notes and various other can’t-live-without things.

I know you said you had a lecture, but I’ve got an appointment to get to. Sorry, bella. xxx

His follow-up message arrives as I’m dithering about what to say or do and it spurs me into action. I slip my notebook into my bag and put the cap on my pen. I try to catch Connor’s eye to mouth an apology but he is resolutely not looking in my direction. I was grateful for that up until a moment ago—grateful for the fact our eyes weren’t meeting. It didn’t change the fact that I felt as though my body was being burned alive, desire lashing at the heels of my feet, need throbbing low down in my abdomen.

I stand up and dip my head forward, moving to the side of the classroom and down towards the door. My hand is on the knob before I hear his voice.

‘Is there a problem, Miss Amorelli?’

I spin around to face him and my breath thickens in my body. Our eyes meet and the thunderstorm is back, vibrating in the room. How is it possible that everyone else doesn’t feel it?

Bloody hell.

I’ve slept with my lecturer.

Seeing him standing there in front of the class, so commanding, so confident, so hot, my insides clench with the easy recollection of how his body possessed mine. How we wrapped around each other and held on as pleasure and satiation robbed us of breath.

It’s as if this moment is the first time I’ve actually realised the enormity of what I’ve done.

‘Sorry, sir, I have to meet someone,’ I say, imbuing the words with as much clinical detachment as I can muster when my breasts are tingling for his touch.

‘I see.’ Concern flashes in his gaze—concern that makes my heart thump almost painfully.

‘Sorry,’ I mouth once more, pulling the door inward and slipping out of the classroom. I make my way quickly down the corridor to the enormous foyer that is the heart of the LLS building.

The campus was built some time in the seventies. It’s an uninspiring brick rectangle from the outside, but the inside is quite spectacular. The foyer is double height and features cream tiles the whole way across. At change of class times, it’s furiously loud, with students and teachers bustling one way or another.

Now, as I make my way to the middle and stare out of the sliding doors, it’s almost deserted. Just a couple of people walking through it, and a girl sitting on a bench listening to headphones.

I’m waiting at least ten minutes, which is flipping aggravating, to say the least. I could have avoided that whole early-departure scenario if only Pietro hadn’t got me out here prematurely.

‘Ciao!’ He strides into the foyer when I’m on the brink of shooting him an angry text message, his expression relaxed, his manner as charming as always. He is handsome, elegant and kind and yet I feel nothing for him, except the warmth of an easy friendship.

‘I thought you were here already.’ My response is short and I wince at it.

‘I was finding a parking space.’ He shrugs, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek.

I force a smile, reminding myself that he’s come out of his way because I was forgetful. He’s being kind. I’m not. His eyes roam my face with an intensity that leaves me cold, and guilt runs through me. Guilt that I don’t love him any more when I think he’s probably still in love with me.

‘What’s your appointment?’

‘A fashion shoot around the corner. I’m just scoping out the lighting today.’

Pietro is a great photographer. He’s very creative and that expresses itself in myriad ways, from his impeccable personal style and grooming to his apartment that is a work of art, to his photographs, that are poignant and breathtaking.

‘Anyone exciting?’ I ask.

‘Just supermodels.’ He grins and I laugh.

‘Nice. All in a day’s work, huh?’

‘You got it.’

Noise around us lifts as various classes come to an end and students begin to move to their next destination.

‘I’d better get back,’ I say, holding a hand out for the laptop. But he puts his hand in mine instead and then lifts my hand to his lips.

‘I really had fun with you on Sunday.’ His dark brown eyes are boring into mine and I fight the urge to pull my hand away.

‘Miss Amorelli.’ Connor’s voice is like spiced rum on my nerve-endings. Hot and dangerously addictive. I don’t yank my hand out of Pietro’s but I dislodge it carefully and drop it back to my side, turning slowly to face him.

‘Mr Hughes,’ I say with what I hope sounds like professional detachment. I turn back to Pietro. ‘This is Connor Hughes—one of my professors.’

Pietro’s impressed. He, like I, keeps up with the news. ‘The Donovan barrister?’

Connor’s tight smile is confirmation, then his eyes clash fiercely with mine.

‘I need a word with you in my office.’

My heart palpates. Is he crazy?

‘Fine,’ I say, not sure I want to do any such thing.

I can feel Connor’s enmity towards Pietro and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

‘I’ll be there soon,’ I say dismissively, turning my attention back to Pietro.

‘Now,’ he insists softly, but with an edge that I understand.

I roll my eyes and Pietro laughs, unhooking my bag and passing it to me. He seems completely oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. ‘I have to go anyway,’ he says with a grin. ‘I’ll see you Sunday?’

‘Yeah.’ I nod, but I’m frowning, wondering what the hell Connor is playing at.

Pietro puts a hand on my waist and leans forward, kissing my cheek.

I feel Connor’s harsh glare.

‘Sunday.’ I nod, watching as Pietro turns and leaves the building.

Connor is still behind me. It takes every single ounce of my strength not to speak my mind. But I’m furious!

‘Where’s your office?’ I ask, the words stony, my eyes not meeting his.

‘Second floor. The McMahon wing.’

‘Fine.’ I move in that direction without looking at him. I opt for the stairs instead of the lift, moving up them quickly then turning right. Classrooms run halfway down the corridor before giving way to a faculty lunch room and then several offices. His is the second from the end. I stand to the side of the door. He’s right behind me. He pauses, not looking at me, either, and then pulls a set of keys from his pocket, sliding one into the door and unlocking it before stepping back.

‘After you.’

I shoulder my way inside, taking brief note of the layout. A desk, leather sofa, a chair, laptop and a window with a view of Holborn. It’s a nice office. Not huge, but elegantly furnished, and yet I bet it’s nothing compared to his usual corporate digs.

I hear the door click shut and spin around, ready to let fly. But the look on his face arrests me. I am frozen.

He is staring at me like I am his only chance for survival. His need is so fierce that, for a moment, everything else evaporates from my mind. The air around us thickens, anger transforms into desire, but then I’m angry again.

‘Why am I here, Connor?’

He takes a step towards me. ‘Who was that?’

I’m tempted to tell him to go to hell, but then I remember asking him this exact same question a few nights earlier, about the woman in the red dress. His curiosity is natural.

‘A friend,’ I say simply.

‘You saw him on Sunday?’ he prompts, scanning my face.

‘Yes.’ I don’t know why I’m being so non-communicative. I certainly don’t want to mislead Connor but I don’t like the way I’ve been hauled to his office like I’ve done something wrong.

‘Let me be clear about something,’ he says with a nod, and suddenly the man who was looking at me as though I were his dying breath has disappeared and I am faced with Connor Hughes, legal genius. He is calm and analytical. ‘I’m not interested in being a fill-in for some other guy. If you’re seeing him, or anyone else, go fuck them, not me.’

I draw in a shocked breath.

He moves a step closer. A muscle is jerking at the base of his jaw. ‘You don’t leave my class early just so you can run your social life.’

The sheer injustice of his accusation is infuriating. ‘I had to get my laptop back off Pietro,’ I snap angrily. ‘He came out of his way to bring it to me so I had to fit in with his timings, okay?’

‘Why did he have the laptop?’

‘I left it in his car on Sunday,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘He’s a good friend of my cousin’s and always comes to our family lunch. He drops me home most weeks.’

Connor’s eyes narrow slightly. ‘Which brings me back to my original point. If you’re seeing him, that’s fine. But we’re done.’

I don’t even want to analyse why the threat makes me ridiculously pleased—the inference that there’s a ‘we’ and that we’re not currently ‘done’. It’s stupid.

‘I’m not seeing Pietro,’ I say, but I am still angry. ‘But we’ve spent one night together, Connor. You have no right to act like a possessive husband.’

He angles his jaw, as if in silent concession of the point, and then he moves the final step towards me so that his body presses into mine. He pushes me back against the wall, trapping me, and I feel that now familiar, insatiable need to be with him burning through me. ‘I saw you with him and I felt... I feel possessive.’ His eyes bore into mine and I feel a hint of what it would be like to have the full force of his attention in the courtroom. How hard it would be to be questioned by him in a legal setting. ‘If you’re with me, you’re with only me.’

His jealousy is palpable. I wish it annoyed me, but it doesn’t. It’s a rush and I know how easily I could get addicted to having all of Connor’s attention and desire wrapped around me.

‘I want you.’ The words are driven by a dark compulsion, almost as if ripped from him against his will. My eyes flick to the door and he nods. ‘It’s locked.’

I don’t need to be told twice. My hands are at his pants, unbuttoning them, loosening the belt, sliding down the zip. I rush them down at the same time I push him backwards, to the sofa. He’s so hard.

‘Condom.’ The word is husky. I’m impatient, waiting for him to produce one from his wallet and then I run it down his length. My fingers are shaking with the urgency of my need for him. I slide my underwear down my legs and straddle him on the sofa, taking him deep as I slide over him. He throws his head back with relief, his skin white beneath his tan. His fingers dig into my hips as I move myself over him.

He drops his head forward and I move faster. This is not a seduction. This is sex. I am at a fever-pitch of feeling within a minute. I roll my hips and dig my fingers into his shoulders as I explode. It is only when he lifts a hand to my mouth and covers it that I realise I’ve been crying out and these walls are probably paper-thin. At my look of shock, he smiles and begins to move once more, making me ride him, making me soar with all new feelings. I tip over the edge, my orgasm intense, and he comes with me, his eyes holding mine as he explodes.

It is a primal, animalistic, silent coming together. Our angry foreplay after days without each other. We are like oil and flame—explosion inevitable.

But this, being here in his office, while incredibly sexy is also stupid as fuck. When euphoria subsides, I stand up on legs that are shaking in a wholly new way and reach for my underwear. The moment I bend down, there is a knock on his door.

‘You in there, Connor?’

His eyes meet mine and he swears under his breath. I am shaking, terrified. There is no escape. He lifts a finger to his lips and I freeze, deathly still, completely silent.

‘Connor?’ the disembodied voice persists.

Then another adds, ‘I thought I saw him go in there. Maybe he was just picking something up.’

‘Yeah. Okay, I’ll give him a call later.’

I’m jittery as anything. Even after it’s been silent for a full minute, I still feel like we’re hovering on the edge of a warzone, wearing fluorescent jackets, begging to be hit.

I stare at him and don’t move until he does. He stands, stalking across to me, taking my underwear from fingertips which are numb.

He crouches down then and holds my pants for me to step into. I do so, but I can’t believe how close we just came to being caught.

‘That was so stupid,’ I say and I’m angry again. Furious, but with myself now. ‘We can’t do this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If we get caught, my God, Connor. If anyone found out...’ My whole life flashes before me. The work I put into being accepted into LLS. The support my parents have given me. Their expectations, their pride. My own desperate need to graduate and get an amazing training contract placement, to establish myself as a success in my own right.

I slept with Connor in part because I wanted to run from my ‘good girl’ instincts, but it turns out you can’t hide from yourself.

‘I don’t think I can do this.’

He stares at me and his expression runs the gamut from argumentative to acceptance in the space of three seconds. ‘You’re right.’ There’s resignation in his voice. ‘That was spectacularly stupid.’

* * *

After Thursday’s class I’m slow to pack up. I am, I suppose, waiting to see what happens. We haven’t spoken since I left his office, days earlier. Since I told him we can no longer do that... Every time I’ve thought of how we were in his office, though, need has hammered me from the inside out.

I stare at him from my seat without really realising that’s what I’m doing. He’s putting away his lecture notes, his iPad, and the room is slowly emptying of students. But I don’t move. I watch him, completely entranced by his economy of movement. I imagine him without the shirt. I see his chest, covered in swirling ink. Stories and mysteries in all those markings.

My stomach twists.

‘Miss Amorelli,’ he says without lifting his head. My heart surges. But we’re not yet alone, and now I desperately want to be.

When I don’t answer, he shifts his gaze to my face. Fire—invisible but no less potent for that—flashes between us.

‘Would you come here, please?’ he says, turning his attention back to the desk. There are other students still milling about, so I make sure to flatten any look of anticipation or desire from my features—aiming instead for nonchalant.

‘We need to have a meeting about your group assignment,’ he says, barely looking at me.

‘Oh. The one I handed in last week?’

Now his eyes briefly spark with mine. ‘Is there another group assignment for this class that I’m not aware of?’ It’s a joke, but it comes off as sarcastic. It hurts.

Perhaps that shows in my face because his expression softens and a tight smile passes across his face, and then I am aware of him sliding something across his desk. I look down at it curiously. It’s an envelope with my initials on the front.

‘Come to my office tomorrow morning,’ he says, continuing our earlier conversation with ease. In the periphery of my vision, I see one of my classmates begin to move towards us and I quickly slide my fingertips over the envelope, palming it subtly towards my hip.

His eyes glow when they meet mine and then he’s dismissing me with a curt nod, turning to face the other student.

I leave before I hear their conversation, moving down the corridor and turning into the first ladies’ room I reach. I lock myself in a cubicle and only then do I dare open the envelope. There’s a card inside, like a bank card. When I flip it over I see the branding:

SleepInn Holborn

I recognise the name—it’s a hotel only about a block from the law school. There’s another piece of paper in the envelope. It’s got Connor’s confident writing scrawled across it.

Room 1318. 4 p.m.