Chapter 8 Nate
NATE
As a teenager, I drove my parents crazy. Of course, I still do, but these days it has to do with my career choice, rather than my unruly behavior.
If I’m honest, unruly hardly begins to cover it.
I was a nightmare. I’m pretty sure I spent more time suspended than I did in class.
I was constantly fighting, constantly sneaking liquor, constantly getting called in to be berated by the head master at the fancy private school they paid a fortune for.
My parents had no idea what to do with me.
If there’s one thing they value more than wealth, it’s order.
People like us—people with money, with status—are supposed to behave a certain way.
They wanted a child they could brag about at the club, a child who would follow my father’s footsteps at the most prestigious prep school in the country before moving on to an ivy league education and a lifetime of conquering the business world, just like he did.
I was not the child they envisioned.
My mother despaired of me. My father was certain he could bring me in line if he could just threaten me with the right consequences. None of it worked.
Though I would never admit it to them, I didn’t actually enjoy those years of debauchery.
My entire world felt out of control. Unsettled and chaotic.
I felt out of control. And there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about it.
I could barely keep my anger in check, an anger that I didn’t understand, that constantly left me feeling confused as I careened from one bad decision to another.
Something changed, when I got to college.
Maybe it was the absence of my parents, finally experiencing a taste of freedom from their oppressive expectations.
For once I felt like I had some independence, like I could be my own man.
Maybe the change was just a hormonal thing, a calming that came with getting older.
Whatever the reason, for the first time in my life, I could concentrate. I felt like I had a purpose, like there were things I could do. Like there were things that were worth doing.
I found myself in my books and my college classes. And no one was more shocked by it then me.
Now that I’m teaching, now that I have some experience with this kind of thing in my students, it’s pretty obvious to me that I had an undiagnosed condition, likely ADHD.
Of course, my parents would have never allowed me to be tested.
No way a child of theirs would do something so unseemly as need help.
People like us didn’t need help—my suffering was a small price to pay for their pride.
I’ve always wondered how much those early experiences influenced my attraction to the BDSM lifestyle.
Through domination, I discovered complete control—both of someone else and of myself.
Through my experiences with my subs I practiced that control, honed it and perfected it.
It’s been years since I’ve felt that uncomfortable confusion I associate with a lack of self-discipline.
But fuck me if I don’t feel it now. There’s something about Harper Cain that saps me of all control and all composure. Something that sends me right back to that confused, pissed off, desperate kid who had no idea what he was doing.
And it only gets worse every damn time I see her on campus the first week of classes.
It feels like I see her everywhere. She’s studying in the library on Tuesday when I stop by to pick up some books I ordered from a partner university.
Making copies of the syllabus for one of Travers’s classes when I go to the office to do the same.
Sitting next to some classmates on the grass of the quad when I pass on my way to a lecture—making me clench my fists at the sight of the asshole at her side, sitting way too close to her and looking for all the world like a fucking puppy who can’t believe he found the bone.
I try to remind myself it’s not the asshole’s fault when I realize I’ve spent the first ten minutes of my lecture imagining new and increasingly violent ways to kill him.
You need to get this under control, I tell myself, for what feels like the thousandth time since the school year started.
But how in the hell am I supposed to do that when she’s fucking everywhere?
It’s bad enough that she’s visiting my dreams every night—the way she had felt under my hands, the way her wet heat had clenched around my fingers.
The way I had known, in that moment, that I would never want for anything in my life so long as I could feel her like that.
Not helping, Chase.
I’m not at all surprised when I receive notice of the grad students I’ve been assigned for my research and see her name on the list. It seems the universe is determined to torture me with the presence of Harper Cain.
I should have asked the advisor committee to place her elsewhere, I think, something like panic licking at my brain.
I immediately feel guilty for the thought—I had been adamant with her that I wouldn’t let whatever this thing is between us impact her academic career.
I’m just going to have to figure out a way to put this shit behind me.
To fucking control myself and stop acting like a horny fifteen-year-old who can’t stop thinking with his dick.
I walk into my first meeting with the research team determined to do just that. I’ll treat Harper exactly the same way I’ll treat all the other students I’ve been assigned.
I manage to make myself believe that until the moment I see her in my classroom, her golden halo of hair loose and shining, looking every bit the naughty angel I met at Club Wyld.
She looks up at me, those wide, innocent brown eyes shining with excitement—for the opportunity she’s been given? Or because of me?
It doesn’t matter. That excitement does something to me. More specifically, it does something to my dick. What I wouldn’t give to see that same excitement shine in her eyes while I walk her into the club and—
Fuck. I sigh, tearing my eyes away from her. This is going to be a long damn semester.
For the first three weeks of school, I throw myself into work.
I can’t think of any other way to deal with the never ceasing desire coursing through me.
When that doesn’t do much to take the edge off, I start adding a second run to my day, hoping if I can just get exhausted enough maybe I won’t dream of pale creamy skin and the sound of her gasping little moans when I fingered her.
I’m rude and demanding with my grad students.
I’ve never had a buddy-buddy reputation when it comes to either my teaching or my research, but even I have to admit that I’m being a dick.
Still, it’s either that or let my guard down around Harper, and that can’t fucking happen.
My control is already dangerously on the edge where she’s concerned.
It doesn’t help at all that the other first-year grad student on the team is the asshole from the quad. Turns out his name is George, not asshole, but I still think it applies. And from the way he follows Harper around, it’s pretty clear I’m not the only one feeling distracted by her.
Does he have to fucking stare at her all day? I have no idea how I’m going to get through this project if he keeps looking at her like that. He sits next to her at every opportunity and each time she gets up from her chair I catch him leaning back to check out her ass.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just get a read on her, get some kind of sense for how she feels about him.
Does she like it when he stares unabashedly at her tits?
The thought that she might makes my vision tinge red.
And the realization that he’s exactly the kind of person she should have a relationship with makes my chest feel hollow.
He’s not some pervy older professor. He’s not friends with her brother.
And he certainly isn’t the type to drag her down into a deprived world of sex games and domination.
You’re acting like a crazy person, I tell myself on Wednesday morning, when I realize I am once again glaring at George and his obvious flirting.
He leans in closer to Harper, saying something in a soft voice that makes her giggle, and fuck I want to kill this kid.
And then he touches a lock of her hair, moving it behind her shoulder, letting the silky strands run through his fingers, and I’m standing before I even realize what I’m doing.
I stalk towards the pair of them, ignoring the curious looks from the two full-time second-year students on the other side of the room.
“Enjoying yourselves?” I snap, and Harper and George both look up at me, surprised.
I see panic on George’s face and it’s comforting—you should be afraid, asshole.
Harper just looks wary, and for some reason that has me clenching my fists at my sides.
“You do understand that you’re meant to be working? ”
“We, uh, we are,” George says, looking nervously from me to Harper.
“Looks like you’re spending more time flirting than working,” I snap, my eyes on her. Harper’s mouth drops open a little, color immediately coming to her cheeks, and fuck, that’s the last thing I need to see right now. Her blush has me thinking of a thousand dirty things I’d like to do to her.
“Sorry, sir,” George says quickly. While Harper’s face has gone red, his is turning an impressive shade of grey. That’s right, I think, be very afraid.
Harper is still staring at me, open mouthed, and I suddenly recognize the emotion in her eyes—she’s hurt. Damn it.
I wave my hands dismissively, suddenly desperate to get back to my own desk. If I don’t go now, I’ll end up dragging her into my arms so I can soothe that hurt away, and that’s absolutely the last thing I should even be thinking about.