Chapter 14 Reyna
REYNA
“Get on your knees, Miss Sinaga.”
Hungry green eyes stare down at me. My breath catches as I lower myself onto the plush carpet, staring up at Maddox’s naked body. Heat unfurls low in my core, sending tendrils of desire to every corner of my being.
The smell of sex and sweat sticks to my skin from the hours we’ve spent in his office, unleashing every whisper of tension that’s been brewing between us. My nipples pebble in the cold room, and I arch my back in search of friction.
“He can’t touch you the way I can.” His thumb skates over my bottom lip. “Tell me you want me to bend you over the—”
An alarm blasts through the room, yanking me out of my lust-addled haze, and I slap my surroundings to put an end to the sound.
The blankets twist around my body as I pant, blinking away the vivid dream.
The duvet wedges between my thighs and presses against my swollen center.
Desire swirls in my stomach, and I clamp my mouth shut to suppress a groan.
My legs curl around the thick maroon fabric to increase the pressure, and my eyes flutter closed to relish in the sensation. The foggy haze of sleep edges my mind as I move my hips against the blanket. It whispers the same tempting words that Dream Maddox said to me.
That’s it. You can take it.
My fingers snake down my waist, beneath my sweatpants. My hips buck at the first caress against my clit.
So responsive, Miss Sinaga.
The pads of my fingers press against my aching core. Sparks of pleasure thrum up my spine, and I shudder when I imagine it’s Maddox dipping his—
I jolt upright, snatching my hand out from my pants.
No. Nope. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Having a sex dream about my professor is bad enough. I am not about to have an orgasm because of him. That’s crossing way too many lines.
Jesus Christ. No. He’s an ass. Not to mention my teacher.
Plus, I’m late. And Maddox doesn’t deserve my climax. Or my dirty dreams.
I rub the back of my neck, glaring up at the ceiling, cursing the sound of cars on the other side of my bedroom’s window and of Kimi chatting away on her phone in the kitchen while something sizzles in the background.
Huffing, I drag myself over to the end of the bed and intentionally don’t make eye contact with the pile of laundry I dumped on my computer chair. My room isn’t messy per se, but I’m not about to welcome guests with open arms either.
A couple of books I thrifted are lying around, waiting for me to make space for them on my shelf.
I dumped my filming equipment in the corner after helping Nicole with her project yesterday.
It’s also been on my list to get double-sided tape to stick down the corner of one of my movie posters that’s lifted from the exposed-brick “feature” wall—my guess is that it was a cost-cutting decision. The landlord special.
So much to do. So little energy.
I force myself to extract my body from the comfort of my bed and all things associated with the deplorable things my professor did to me in my dream last night.
“Morning sunshine!” Kimi twists around from the stove when I whip open the door.
She gives me a once-over like she knows what I was dreaming about, and the thought that she might have caught me makes my stomach flutter in an extra concerning way.
Fucking hell. I need a cold shower.
I walked into the biweekly film workshop early with my chin high and every intention of getting on with my life and pretending like whatever weird shit went on yesterday never happened.
After tossing and turning all evening, I boiled Maddox’s reaction down to stress and exhaustion. What I thought was jealousy was probably just irritation that his brother was potentially harming his career.
I’m not sure how far the scope of fraternization goes, but it probably covers family members dating your student, right? Public perception doesn’t need a contract for that type of stuff to be considered wrong or taboo.
To make matters substantially worse, the dirty words Dream Maddox said to me in his sultry accent keep playing on repeat in my head, and I can hardly focus.
Frankly, I don’t think I can look him in the eye ever again.
I expected Maddox to glare at me when I arrived. Maybe he’d sneer or scowl or make some scathing comment about my abilities, but nothing. Nada.
I respectfully said, “Hi, Mr. Shaw,” as I passed, and he didn’t acknowledge me.
His pen momentarily faltered, but he didn’t look up from his notepad or even nod his head.
Undeterred from trying to be a half-decent person who did not have a sex dream about her professor, I beelined for an empty chair in the middle of the room, turned on my computer, then waited while everyone else trickled in, and still he didn’t look my way.
He just stationed himself in the corner of the classroom, sketching something on a pad.
Only half of the seventy-ish people who’ve signed up to the class attend this particular workshop time. The others take an early-morning one. And Maddox is all “Good afternoon” for every single one of those thirty-odd people who says hi to him.
An hour and a half later, once we’ve all been given today’s assignment, there’s nothing more for Shaw to do other than sit back in his brown leather wingback chair and answer questions whenever one is asked. But still nothing. He didn’t even throw a single question my way.
Well, he did respond when I put my hand up to ask for clarity on a concept—in the same tone he would to any other student. The exchange felt like I was talking to an entirely different person.
I didn’t like it.
The Maddox Shaw I’ve come to expect is a raging dick who forces me to participate in class, has strong opinions on my extracurricular activities, and maybe potentially probably was not jealous of his brother for touching me.
Mr. “That’s a good question. We can circle back to that in class next week and cover it in more detail” is not my Maddox Shaw. Not that any version of him is mine.
When I feel the heat of someone’s gaze on me, I look his way to find his nose in his sketchpad.
Fine. If he doesn’t want to look at me, I’ll shamelessly look at him.
He’s beneath the light of a single desk lamp, backdropped by the green chalkboard covered in his elegant writing.
It’s enthralling to watch him be so focused. Even with the bags under his eyes, it’s the first time I’ve fully seen him this relaxed. Occasionally, he tips his head to the side or frowns at whatever it is he’s drawing like he’s committed some kind of offense.
The tendons and veins in his forearms ripple with each minuscule movement. Flashes of those fingers curled inside me have my core tightening. I regret not fixing the issue before I left for class this morning. Now I’m going to spend the whole day with the lady equivalent of blue balls.
Even picturing the way his hands would look pulling my bra down before his lips descend on my—
No. I am not lusting after Maddox Fucking Shaw.
I swear I need to be tied up like a damn werewolf on a full moon whenever I’m ovulating. I don’t recognize myself.
Actually, I take it back. I don’t need to be tied up. I need to be put down.
Watching Maddox is making my deprived libido even more depraved. In that dream, he told me to put my hands on the painted canvas while he fucked me from behind. Since the most creative thing I’ve done is get on my hands and knees in bed, that dream is permanently ingrained into my brain.
I could sit here for hours watching the way his hands move while he’s in his element. I’m half tempted to creep closer to sneak a look at what he’s drawing, but he’s positioned himself perfectly so no one can see the sketchpad on his lap.
If I’m insistent enough on getting his attention, maybe I’ll get a reaction out of him. Which probably isn’t a good idea since I apparently have a meeting with him soon.
In all honesty, I’ll be screwed if Bradford comes back. Shaw gave me an A? on the last assignment, which isn’t great, but it’s bumping my GPA just enough to make me feel slightly more secure that I won’t lose my scholarship by virtue of bad grades.
“What I would give for five minutes alone with him,” the girl next to me says dreamily.
I look away from the murder scene I’m editing from a previous assignment. I recognize her as one of the girls in the Cresswell film club. If memory serves, she’s best buds with the club president, who told me I lacked the “credentials” and “background” to join.
What she really meant—based on what I overheard her tell the girl beside me—was that she thinks my work is “messed up” and “too inappropriate” to represent such a prestigious institution.
I glance at Nicole to see if she was listening before flicking my attention back to the girl who’s staring at Shaw. The lust in her eyes has me questioning if I have what it takes to be a killer.
“He’s a busy man,” I say through pursed lips.
“A busy man still has needs.” She smirks.
Beyond a smile here and there, I’ve never interacted with this woman before. I don’t even know her name. Now she’s telling me that she wants to fuck our teacher? Seriously, is Nicole hearing this?
I don’t know what has me twitching more: the unprofessionalism or the fact that she could sleep with literally any other teacher and I wouldn’t bat an eye.
But him?
The girl’s gaze flicks to my screen, and I watch her remember, in real time, why she never interacts with me. Her face morphs, lips pull into a scowl, nose turns up in repulsion, and I hear her thoughts without her saying a word: she thinks something is wrong with me.
My chest tightens as I stare blankly at the screen. I almost exit out of the video to work on an essay for another class, but it’s a fleeting moment of weakness.
Screw her, and her predictable, unoriginal films. People glance my way as my fingers tap the keyboard a little too loudly.
Nicole takes her earbuds out and leans over. “You good?”
“Perfect.”
“You sure?”
I hum my confirmation.