Chapter 28 John
JOHN
I’m desperate for a way to spend more time with her as John, hoping that I can build her trust, but I’m running out of ideas for how to do it without looking suspicious.
Mary may have given me her blessing, but I still have to be cautious about this.
Sitting in the back row of the house of the theatre watching rehearsal, I can’t stop thinking about our interaction a few weeks ago.
I’d been surprised when she called, and I was fairly certain she was only pretending to be injured, especially after watching her easily walk around the stage days later.
Does that mean she wanted to see me? I reveled in the way her body curled into me when I carried her home, but I left quickly after depositing her on her couch, not wanting to draw suspicions from her roommate.
The actors onstage are nearing the end of the play, and my stomach sinks when I think about what’s coming.
It’s the end of March, and the show opens in four weeks.
I’ve watched Emma try to get out of it—hell, even though she doesn’t know it, I’ve even helped cover for her when it was clear she wasn’t ready to block the final scene of the show.
But it’s getting close to crunch time, and she’s going to have to practice the kiss.
I watch as Jeremy whispers in Emma’s ear, and she nods. Then the fucker places his hands on her cheeks to pull her into a kiss. Her body stiffens, and I fight the urge to march onto that stage and push him off of her, wrap her in my arms, and carry her away from here.
Just as he gets close, she shoves against his chest, nearly knocking him to the ground.
“Emma, what the hell?” he spits as he stumbles over his feet trying to right himself.
“Do we have to do the kiss?” she asks Jeremy, breaking character even more. “It’s not even in the script.”
He takes a step toward her, his voice a little louder and more irritated. “I just asked you to marry me. The kiss is implied.”
“But we don’t have to do it, do we?” Emma asks, directing her attention toward the house.
“Stop!” yells Mackenzie from several rows up. “Emma, do you need a minute?”
She folds in half, bending at the waist and clutching her knees as she drops her head. I watch as Jeremy reaches out a hand like he’s going to rub her back, and I’m out of my seat stomping toward the stage. “Stop!” I yell.
Jeremy throws his arms up in defense as the entire cast grows silent, looking between us, the tension palpable. “Whoa, man, chill! I was just going to rub her back.”
“She clearly doesn’t want to be touched, hence her reaction,” I bark back angrily.
He stares me down, his arms still in the air as he takes a step back at my approach. I drop into a squat in front of Emma, careful not to touch her. “Are you okay?”
She shakes her head, inhaling a shaky breath as she refuses to look at me.
“I did everything we talked about. I let her know I was about to touch her and she was okay with it. I didn’t mean to upset her,” Jeremy prattles on, but my focus is on Emma.
“What do you need?” I ask her.
“I need quiet,” she softly replies.
“Follow me to the green room.” I walk through the throng of students, clearing a path for her to follow me.
Once we’re inside the room, she collapses onto a couch and starts crying.
I want to pull her into my chest and soothe her, kiss away every tear that falls down her beautiful face, and tell her how proud I am of her.
She’s actively facing her fears, putting herself in a situation that she knows will be difficult for her because of her trauma.
But I refrain because I know that anyone could walk in on us here, which would not be discreet. Instead, I hand her a box of tissues and place my hands on my hips, standing in front of her.
“I can’t do it. I’m going to have to quit the play. I tried, but I can’t control the urge I have to punch him when he leans into me for a kiss. He wanted to practice the kiss, but I said no.”
“He wanted to practice kissing?” I force down the bile rising in my throat at the thought of that little fucker’s lips on her.
“Yeah, he brought it up that night you picked me up in the snow,” she says, wiping her cheek.
“I’m not sure it would help, though. This happened to me with every guy I dated in high school.
As soon as they got close enough to make a move, I’d hit, kick, or laugh.
I bruised more than just egos and developed quite the reputation, which has followed me here. ”
“How so?” I lean back against the arm of the couch opposite her, folding my arms over my chest.
“So there’s this club, made up of my exes. It started in high school when a few of the guys I’d dated got together to swap stories about me. In order to save face, they all agreed that they’d tell everyone that they hooked up with me, even though none of them had.”
No wonder she doesn’t trust men. Between that and her abusive father, it explains why she has so many nightmares.
“And apparently, that reputation followed me here.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, the hair on the back of my neck prickling at her words.
“Do you remember after auditions—”
“In the parking lot?” I cut her off, so she doesn’t have to relive that encounter. It was the same fucker, Trent, that confronted her on campus last year during spring break.
“Yeah, that guy was one of the guys I dated in high school.”
I nod, not letting on that she’s already told me about this as Daddy Dom. “What does that have to do with what happened on stage just now?” I ask hesitantly.
“So that night when it snowed, I was able to hold Jeremy’s arm when we walked across campus. And then I saw you. But the next morning there was another letter taped to my door. This one had my name on it where the others didn’t, and it freaked me out.”
Others? She’s been getting letters? I wait, letting her share more at her own pace. When she breaks into a sob, I walk over to her and sink onto the couch next to her, keeping space between us, but letting her know I’m here if she needs it. “What did the letter say?’
“It said, ‘I better not see you touch that guy again. You belong to me.’ Except it used more colorful language. I have no idea who sent it and… and…” She drops her head into her hands and sobs.
“You got this letter weeks ago?”
She nods and more tears spill over her long, thick lashes.
“And you’re worried that whoever sent it will see you touch Jeremy in the play and come after you?” I ask, and she nods her head. “Have you gotten any more letters since that last one?”
“No. But that’s why I’ve kept to myself. I haven’t been seen with anyone but Rylee and Megan on campus. I don’t want to upset whoever’s sending them. But I’m also kind of hoping he just moves on.”
“Have you contacted the police or campus security?”
“I called campus security after the last one, but it was a week later, and they were no help. The other letters were sweet and romantic, and I… I thought they came from someone else. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Do you think it was that guy from the parking lot that sent the letters?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? But if he started a new chapter of the Emma’s exes club here, it could be anyone. Getting in my pants was almost like a game to them. Who could have me first?”
What in the actual fuck? How do I fix this?
How do I keep her safe from this? For once the thought of chaining her to the cross in my private room at Pulse doesn’t seem like a bad idea after all.
And because I’m a sick fuck and a glutton for punishment, the thought of having her first makes my cock swell in my slacks.
I push down my lust, ashamed that I’m no better than the shitheads that taunted her in high school.
“I have a buddy in campus security. I’ll follow up with him about this. Can you send me a picture of the letter? At the very least Nate can file a report, and I can see if they can have someone patrol student apartments regularly.”
“Okay. Like text it to you?” she asks, sniffling.
Fuck, that would mean giving her my number, and she doesn’t know she already has it saved under a different name. “Just email it to me.”
——————
Emma
When I get back to my room, I take a picture of the letter and email it to Professor Ali.
I don’t get a reply, but something in my gut tells me that he’s already taking care of this.
There’s no logical reason for my feelings, but I haven’t really followed my logic when it comes to men these past two years—getting involved with a masked dom at a Pulse, dealing with my crazy ex and his friends on campus, and flirting with my super-hot professor.
Ever since I started doing the play with him, he’s seemed like a different person. The cold, stern A-hole who tormented me in class has been replaced by this warm, caring individual, almost like he likes me more now that I’m not his student.
I still have feelings for Daddy Dom, though.
He was the first guy who was able to touch me without making my skin crawl.
While he comes across as unattached, his commanding presence should be intimidating.
Heck, the man has tied me to a cross and spanked me.
But he also treats me with so much warmth and care in the moments after a scene, in the way he listens to me talk about my sister and my dream job, and the way he shows up to comfort me when I need him most. He uses his hardness to grind away my pain and trauma, exposing the tenderness underneath.
But lately, seeing this softer side of Professor Ali has caused a rush of confusing feelings to flood my brain—and my panties.
He’s taken the time to console me when I’ve been emotional after a difficult rehearsal, listened to me without judgement when I shared about my past and the letters, and he’s been so patient with me as I work through my aversion to touch.
And then there’s the fact that his touch, sparing as it has been, has not only not bothered me, but has become something I crave.
And I don’t think I’m alone in the way I’m feeling.
There have been times during rehearsal when I’ve felt his eyes on me.
At least two times now, I’ve caught him looking at my lips while I’m speaking.
I know he’s a professor and I’m a student, and he’s at least a decade older than me; by any other standards, or by school rules, this should be forbidden.
But I want him. I doubt anything will come of it.
He doesn’t seem like the type to break the rules, and given our rocky history, I doubt he’d do it for me.
But if I wasn’t still so hung up on Daddy Dom, I might make a move on Professor Ali.
Part of me wishes I could have both of them.
If I could combine the hardness of Daddy Dom with the gentleness of Professor Ali, it would be everything I was looking for in a man.
Someone who can protect me yet also help me get out of my head.
Someone to push me in the classroom, push me to be the best version of myself, but who would also push my limits in the bedroom.
So focused on my pleasure alone that he finishes in his pants.
I don’t think there’s a higher compliment a woman can receive.
And clearly, I have a type since both men are tall and well-built.
They both have short beards, though I’ve only felt Daddy Dom’s since he keeps that mask on all the time or blindfolds me.
Their voices both hit that deep register that vibrates in your ears pinging around the dopamine center in your brain.
And both have tattoos, though Professor A-hole clearly keeps his hidden since I’ve only ever seen it peeking out from his sleeve one time.
What if they were the same person?
My mind races with the thought as I change into my pajamas.
I mean, it would explain some things, like how he was able to get to campus so quickly last spring break when Trent confronted me outside my dorm.
And why I didn’t see much of him last year or go to the club, because neither of us were near the city.
But there’s no way that uptight Professor Ali, who works at a Christian college, would ever be seen at a schmex club.
And there’s no way he would be the kind of man Daddy Dom is in the bedroom, the kind of man I’ve come to crave.
As I get into bed, I fantasize about the best parts of each man, morphing them into my perfect man in my head, secretly wishing they were the same person.