Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Ashleigh
C aldwell’s fingers slide further around my ribcage, holding me tightly against him as he turns me into a spin. All I want to do is gag as he presses his hip against mine, allowing me to feel his erection. Unfortunately, there’s fuck all I can do about it.
Glancing over at my parents, I note their bright smiles as they look between us and his parents. Not exactly an arranged marriage, but I’m sure there’s some sort of understanding between them. An understanding that doesn’t include me. As usual, I’m being overlooked for the ‘greater good.’
What greater good? The wealthy getting wealthier? Do they really need to align themselves with each other? I haven’t a clue as to the entirety of my family’s fortunes, but I’m pretty sure the Morgans need us far more than we need them.
Pain slices down my jaw as I do my best to keep my expression neutral. No doubt all I’m doing is looking constipated. If Caldwell notices, however, he makes no mention of it. The neanderthal probably thinks I’m enjoying his attentions.
And why wouldn’t he? I’m sure if he went to school here, all the girls would be clamoring for him to look their way. It’s to be expected from money-hungry little gold diggers.
“Look at me, Ash,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers under my chin to force my gaze to him. “I don’t know why you keep fighting this.” Again, he hugs me close, as if we’re intimate lovers instead of someone I can barely tolerate. “Look at how happy your mother is. Look at how proud your father is.”
Even if he hadn’t pointed it out, I would have to be blind not to notice. They both sit there, preening as if their precious little jewel is out there on display alongside the crown it will soon be set in. How could they know this sack of flesh and bones does nothing for me?
It’s not like they asked me or anything. Not that they’d care to ask in the first place. As the only daughter, I’m to be seen and shown off. Definitely not heard. Definitely not allowed to have an opinion.
“Why do you fight this so hard?” he repeats in earnest. “You know I can make you happy. You could stay home and lounge about the house.” His voice drops an octave as he slides his hand across my flat stomach. “You know, raise the children alongside the nannies.”
As quickly as he touches me, he pulls his hand back and rests it against my lower spine, just above the swell of my ass. His touch is familiar, owning, as if he’s already somehow gotten me, and I haven’t even said a word.
Glancing up into his calculating gaze, I do my best to stay calm. As it is, I’m sure he can hear just how fast my breath flows past my lips. With each inhale, his lids drop, narrowing them even more.
It’s predatory, but not in the way Dean Anderson was. Where his heated gaze made me feel giddy and wanton, Caldwell’s just makes me want to scrub my body clean until I bleed. It’s as if this oaf has already planned our entire future, but he forgot one important thing—where in the hell do my plans fit into all of this?
My lips curve into the most gracious smile I can muster as I do my best to put some space between us. “And what about my aspirations?”
“What aspirations?” He gives a very undignified snort before spinning me around once more. “Scribbling in that little notebook of yours? Come now. You’re eighteen. Almost nineteen. At a prestigious college, no less. Don’t you think it’s time you actually think about your future for once?”
“That’s precisely what she’s doing.” Next to my shoulder, a deep, gruff voice ripples along my skin, setting every nerve on edge. “The moment she was accepted into Loftry, her position in the world was secured. Graduates from here have little to no trouble making their wishes and desires come true.”
Even though I know he’s talking scholastically, I can’t help the shiver of lust that zips down my spine at the word desire. It’s crazy. The man is old enough to be my father. I shouldn’t feel these things so keenly.
Yet, as I gaze up into Dean Anderson’s face, I note the way his jaw clenches as he stares down the man wishing to strip me of everything that makes me, me. It’s fierce and protective, as if maybe he feels the same way about me? But that’s insanity.
Today’s meeting in his office proves he only finds me an annoyance. As the memory permeates my brain, my ass clenches as arousal pools in my body. None of this makes sense. I shouldn’t crave the pain I know those hands can provide.
“I believe the song is changing,” the dean continues, easing his hand around my waist. “It would be rather remiss of me not to dance with the daughter of our bigger donors.”
Thankfully, Caldwell doesn’t put up a fight. With a nonchalant shrug, he removes his hands from my body, allowing me to breathe for the first time since he dragged me out to the dance floor. However, there’s no missing the look of rage in his eyes as he glances at me one last time before heading toward his parent’s table.
For the first time since I’ve met him, fear niggles its way into my heart, making me freeze from the inside out. It doesn’t matter that Dean Anderson’s warm arms wrap me in a tight embrace as he leads me into the steps of this easy dance. The heat never seems to reach my heart where I need it the most.
“Miss Hartwell,” he murmurs, swaying me ever so gently to the rhythm of some nameless song. “You seem very far away. Care to join me here on planet earth?”
A soft smile quirks my lips, melting a bit of the ice surrounding me. “It’s nothing. Just... rich people shit, I guess.”
His abrupt stop causes me to crash into his chest. For a moment, all I can feel is hard, steely muscles under his immaculate shirt. But that’s impossible. He’s an old man. A dean. Deans don’t have ripped abs and hard pecs.
“Rich people or not,” he grumbles. “If they make you feel uncomfortable, you’re well within your rights to say so.”
“Shows what you know,” I bite back. “Sorry. That was unkind. It’s been a rather long day.”
“Far longer for me than you, I can guarantee.” His dark chuckle goes straight to my pussy, making my clit tingle with that infernal need to get off again.
Doing my best to take my mind off of the heat of his body wrapping around mine and the intoxicating scent of his woodsy cologne invading my lungs, threatening to turn me into some babbling, needy, wanting mess, I glance back over at the table. Not surprising, I note the pinched look on my mom’s face and the ramrod tightening of her shoulders as she stares at me, studying my every move. It’s rather obvious that she’s unhappy with this new choice of dance partner.
Somehow, it’s as if I should only be dancing with Caldwell and no one else. Fuck the consequences. What the hell was I supposed to say? No to the fucking dean of my college? It would be different if I was merely visiting or even just considering if I should go here. There wouldn’t be anything at stake if I rebuffed him and carried on with Caldwell.
Unfortunately for me, so much is at stake here. The very future of my career could rest in his capable hands. Not to mention the fact that I’m already stirring up trouble and controversy with my articles. I’d rather have his wrath over a conscious choice I’m making and not one being forced upon me.
Poor little rich girl, I muse to myself as we glide across the dance floor. Such problems really are pedantic if I stop to think about them. However, with each twitch of the dean’s fingers against my back, I find my ability to think becoming far harder than it should be.
His thumb grazes a touch lower, perilously close to the swell of my ass cheek. The same ass cheek he blistered not more than a few hours ago. So achingly close yet still within the bounds of propriety.
Even as I glance up at him, it’s as if he’s still so very much unaffected. In direct opposition, my body responds as if there’s some pavlovian response here. For a brief moment, all I want him to do is shove all the dishes off of our table and bend me over it so he can spank me again.
At least with the discomfort distracting me, I can lose myself in the world of what if. What if I was never born a Hartwell? What if Caldwell was some middle-aged, balding bastard who already had his ‘heir and a spare’? What if I was free to do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted and didn’t have to answer to anyone about anything?
“Miss Hartwell?” The dean’s voice cuts through the fog, drawing my attention back to him.
“I’m sorry. Did I miss something?” It’s only then I realize we’re stopped at the edge of the dance floor while everyone else is heading to their seats.
“The dance is over, Miss Hartwell. Allow me to escort you back to the table.”
“Thank you. How kind,” I tease. “Seems like you can be such a gentleman when you want to be.”
His eyes darken a touch as he tips his head forward, his lips curving into a wolfish grin. “And I’m sure you can be just a sweet, innocent little angel when you’re not trying to be a colossal brat.”
“Touché.” The soft giggle erupts from my lips, unbidden, unfettered, and, according to my mother, wholly unladylike.
“Ahh. It’s good to see my only daughter enjoying herself tonight. Normally, she prefers staying home,” my dad booms as he reaches out to shake the dean’s hand. “However did you manage to convince her to show up?”
I study Dean Anderson, taking in every minute movement. It’s as if everything tightens up as he forces a smile to his lips. “Your daughter has an extraordinary work ethic when it comes to her journalism. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to offer her the chance to cover this event for our paper.”
“Ahh. Yes,” he teases, giving me a patronizing wink. “That makes sense. You lured her out with a promise of letting her scribble away at the table. I should have thought about that myself. Now then, if you have a moment, I’d like to discuss some things regarding my sons.”
With a smooth, fluid motion, Dean Anderson extends his arm to me. “Allow me to escort my lovely dance partner back to the table. Then I’ll see to your questions.”
“Of course,” he sputters, extending his hand to allow us both to pass.
For a moment, my father’s face blanches as his cheeks tinge in red. It’s almost as if he forgot all about me for a moment. But then, it’s not as if I’m instrumental in getting him what he wants. So it makes sense for him to just rudely dismiss me as if I don’t matter.
“Will you be okay here by yourself?” he murmurs as he pulls out my chair.
Thatcher leans over and winks, his eyes gleaming. “Hardly alone. Don’t worry, boss. Grigori and I can take excellent care of her while you grease the palms.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Though his tone sounds light and playful enough, his gaze hardens as he looks over at Grigori.
The two seem to be having a complete conversation in the silence stretching between them, one I’m certainly not privy to. Once Dean Anderson nods his head, he gives me one more glance before heading over toward my father. Unable to look away, I watch his retreating back, detesting how so fucking alone I feel already.
“So, John tells me you’re the one who demanded he start the Loftry Lantern,” Grigori chuckles, tipping his drink in my direction.
“I merely pointed out the lack of a paper and how a school of this stature is remiss by being without. I hardly demanded it.”
“What word would you use then?” he counters.
For a moment, I’m dumbstruck as I watch the Russian behemoth shoot back his drink as if it’s water. How does he even know about this? To my knowledge, this was a meeting between the dean and his student. Not the dean, a student, and some random guy.
As he shakes his head while another deep chuckle vibrates in his throat, I get the sinking feeling that I’ve been the topic of several conversations. Does this stranger know what happened in the dean’s office? Did Mr. Anderson regale him with how he bent me over and disciplined me for doing my civic duty?
“It was merely a conversation. If he took anything out of it, it’s his imagination. I can’t control him. Obviously I made a good enough argument, because the paper now exists where there wasn’t one to begin with.”
“I don’t know,” he continues as he leans back in his chair. “I’ve known John for a long time. Never known anyone to be able to convince him to do something he didn’t want. My guess is you came to him at just the right time for him to be so receptive to something so invasive.”
“Invasive,” I scoff. “It’s the free press. There’s nothing invasive if you have nothing to hide.”
“My dear, na?ve Miss Hartwell,” Thatcher nearly purrs next to me. “You will soon find out in this business that everyone has something to hide.”
My gut clenches as I look back over at the dean. What does he have to hide? It’s obvious from the others at this table that they could easily deal in nefarious things. It’s just the nature of the business—rich people doing rich people things.
But what about the dean? He doesn’t seem to be hardened like the others. He’s not jaded in a way that speaks to a hard life of underhanded crime.
That doesn’t mean he’s all light and innocence. Everyone has a past. Everyone has a dirty little secret hidden in their closets.
As I watch him interacting with the affluent around him, my curiosity burns far hotter than it ever has before. What darkness lurks that the mantle of dean is hiding?