Chapter 27 #3
The sloppy, wet smacking sound is so filthy, every hair on my body stands on end. I bite my lip, fighting back beastly grunts as I’m overwhelmed by the sheer sick pleasure of what I’m doing.
It’s so wrong, I want to be sick.
It feels so good, I can’t wait to come.
And when I do, I come so fucking hard I let out a groan I swear the dean must have heard in her office.
It’s not like anything I’ve ever felt. It’s a delicious, awful, full-body convulsion that starts at the base of my spine and radiates outward until I’m shaking apart.
I empty load after load down Rooke’s throat, gazing down with unfocused eyes as he drinks me down like it’s nothing.
When it’s finally over, I slump back against the bookshelf, panting, my entire body tingling.
Rooke rises to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are puffy, his hair disheveled. I’ve never seen him look this…fucked. And he’s still hard, his cock straining against his pants.
“You—” I reach for him, but he catches my wrist.
“No.” He brings my hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to my knuckles. “This was about you.”
“That’s not…fair,” I manage weakly.
“Nothing is.” But he’s smiling, and it doesn’t look smug or cruel. It looks fond, if that’s even possible. “Consider this my apology.”
I’m afterglowing so hard, I don’t know what he’s talking about. “What?”
“For the way I spoke to you. The taunting.” He’s tucking himself back into his pants, wincing slightly. “I saw you spiraling and instead of comforting you, I—”
“Don’t,” I rasp.
He pauses in the act of reaching for me. “Don’t…what?” he asks carefully.
“Don’t apologize.” I twist away from him, yanking up my jeans, nearly catching my deflated cock in my zipper as I yank it up. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to be the bigger man after everything you’ve—“
Rooke scoffs. “I’m not trying to be the bigger man. I’m trying to—“
“You’re a fucking cunt, Rooke.” I whirl around, in his face again, but it’s different now. So different, he leans back like he’s expecting me to hit him. Probably because my hands are in fists.
I force them open, holding them up between us. They’re shaking, but there’s nothing I can do about that right now.
“You’re a manipulative, controlling cunt, and I hate you. I hate that you make me feel like this. I hate that I can’t stop thinking about you. I hate that I just let you—“
“Then why did you?”
“Because I wanted it!” The admission tears out of me. “Because I’ve wanted it for weeks and I couldn’t—I didn’t know how to—“
I break off, chest heaving.
Rooke rushes to me, hesitates, and envelops me in a hug so tight I can hardly breathe.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs.
“It’s not.”
“It is.” He strokes my hair with one hand, my back with the other, his words pouring over me. “You’re allowed to want this, Kai. You’re allowed to want me. It doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t make you less of a man. It makes you human.”
I want to argue. To shove him away and storm out and pretend none of this ever happened.
Instead, I hug him back.
And then I kiss him.
It’s slow, and soft, and for some fucked up reason feels just as good as the mind-blowing orgasm he just gave me. Even though I can taste myself on his tongue. Even though I can feel his cock hardening against mine again.
His hands slide into my hair.
Mine find his waist and cling on fiercely, desperately.
When we break apart, we don’t step apart. We just stand there, tangled together in his destroyed office, breathing each other in.
Thud-thud—thud-thud
We shove away from each other, both of us turning to the door.
My eyes can’t go any wider.
Even Rooke looks flustered—lips parted, hair wild.
“Start cleaning up,” he mutters, grabbing my hoodie and shoving me toward the shattered glass by the wall. “There’s a dustpan in the bottom of the filing cabinet.”
“Wh—”
I cut off at his glare and lumber over to the cabinet, my legs feeling like fucking Jell-O.
He rips his jacket off the back of the chair and slips into it, buttoning up the front to hide his ripped-open shirt.
His voice is uncharacteristically unsteady when he says, “Come in.”
I freeze as I’m taking out the dustpan.
Jesus. He’s not actually gonna—
“Afternoon, Professor Rooke,” a familiar voice says from the door. With my back turned, I don’t see who it is, but I sure as fuck recognize the voice. “Got a minute?”
Fuck.
I glance over my shoulder, my blood freezing in my fucking veins when I see Deputy Thatcher standing in the doorway.
Rooke’s mask slides back into place so fast it’s fucking terrifying.
“Of course.” His voice is perfectly calm, if a touch surprised. “What brings you by?”
“Hope I’m not interrupting.” Thatcher steps into the office, and I swivel my head down, focusing on the dustpan as I sweep up the glass.
Don’t look up.
Don’t look guilty.
Jesus, is it just me, or does it reek of cum in here?
“Just had a few questions for you.”
“Do I need to call my lawyer?” Rooke says.
I expect Thatcher to laugh. Maybe Rooke does too, because when Thatcher just keeps staring at him, he thins his lips and gestures to one of the visitor chairs.
“Please, have a seat. I’m always happy to assist law enforcement in any way I can.”
I’m so busy staring at Rooke that I slice my finger on a shard of glass. My hiss draws Thatcher’s attention, his thick brown eyebrows drawing together in surprise when he recognizes me.
“Mr. Jordan?”
“I’m filing,” I mumble.
Thatcher looks at the dustpan in my hand. At the glass scattered around.
“Filing,” he repeats slowly.
“I, uh—” I gesture vaguely at the mess. “I was filing, then—”
“Coordination was never my T.A.’s strong suit,” Rooke adds dryly. “Luckily, he makes up for it in other ways.”
Thatcher’s gaze flicks to the bookshelf. To the books scattered on the floor.
“Like I said, zero coordination.” Rooke almost sounds like he’s holding back a laugh, and that makes heat rise to my cheeks.
Thankfully, Thatcher doesn’t push. He makes a noncommittal sound and settles into the visitor’s chair. I try to get back to cleaning up the mess I made—that part wasn’t a lie—but the cop keeps watching me with that steady, unreadable cop stare of his. “You must be relieved about the news.”
“News?”
Thatcher’s eyebrows rise. He glances at Rooke, then back at me. “Your lawyer hasn’t been in contact with you about the case?”
I crawl a little closer to the desk to sweep up more glass. Thatcher bends to pick up something off the floor, but toys with it instead of tossing it into the dust pan.
Jesus, it’s everywhere. Good thing I got onto my knees on the other side of the room, not—
“What’s happened?” I blurt out.
Can’t think about that now. Can’t think about that ever.
“The DNA came back.” Thatcher leans back in his chair, still frowning. “Results were inconclusive. The DA dropped your charges.”
The words don’t compute. I stare at him, dustpan forgotten in my hands.
“It’s over?”
“Case was closed a few days ago.” Thatcher’s gaze slides to Rooke. “Strange that Mr. Barnes hasn’t contacted you already. Any idea why that is, Professor Rooke?”
I turn to look at Rooke. His expression hasn’t changed—still calm, still composed—but there’s a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there before.
“None whatsoever.”
“Oh.” Thatcher doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds…curious. “I thought your lawyer would have—”
“Broken attorney-client privilege?” Rooke cuts in smoothly, even sounding condescending. “Mr. Jordan’s own lawyer was unavailable. I merely referred Barnes. Nothing more.”
“Makes sense.” But Thatcher doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, congratulations, Mr. Jordan. You’re a free man.”
I should be relieved. I should be fucking ecstatic.
Instead, all I can think about is that Rooke knew.
Barnes works for him. Rooke had to have known about the results, and that my case was dropped.
But because he is—and always will be—a cruel, sadistic bastard, he decided not to tell me.
“Thanks,” I force the word out through numb lips. “It’s good to finally know.”
I focus on the carpet again, but not before I see Rooke’s eyes narrow just a fraction at my tone of voice.
“So what can I do for you, Deputy?” Rooke stays standing beside his desk, leaning on the knuckles of one hand. There’s glass by his shoes, but no fucking way am I crawling over there to dust it up.
“I’m not sure how extensive your knowledge of the Parker case is.”
“Not extensive at all. Unless you include campus gossip.”
“Were you aware that she was missing for several days before her appearance on campus?”
I look up at Rooke before I can stop myself. He’s watching the deputy with an unreadable expression.
“I noticed she wasn’t in my class, as I do whenever one of my students slack off.” Rooke makes a soft sound. “I’m guessing that wasn’t the case.”
“So the last time you saw Miss Parker was at your study group that Sunday?”
Rooke’s mask stays on, but the hand on the table tightens just a fraction. I don’t know if Thatcher notices, but I won’t put anything past the pencil-pushing cop and his Sherlock fetish.
“Come again?” Rooke sounds genuinely confused.
“The study group. You did have a study group that weekend, didn’t you?”
Rooke just keeps staring.
Thatcher gives a self-deprecating chuckle, takes out his damn notebook, and flips back a few pages. “So, uh, I’ll admit that was a stab in the dark. Let me see if I can find…”
“Deputy—” Rooke says through a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose like the man is giving him a headache.
“Just a second, it’s right…” Thatcher drags his finger down the page and stabs.
“Ah! There it is. This text surfaced during the investigation, when Miss Parker declined a dinner invite from a young man the Sunday of her disappearance.” Thatcher clears his throat.
“Can’t tonight. Study group with Dark Daddy.
Might run late.” Bright, too-shrewd eyes latch back onto Rooke.
“So you’re not the ‘Dark Daddy’ she was meeting with? ”
Rooke lets out a condescending huff. “Christ. My hard-earned tax dollars at work,” he mutters under his breath, but loud enough that both me and Thatcher can hear him clearly.
“I’m sorry, Professor?” Thatcher says calmly.
“Study group is clearly a euphemism, Deputy,” Rooke replies, just as calmly. “I rarely run study groups, and I certainly never meet with students alone.”
Thatcher gives him an ingratiating smile. “See, this is why I came to speak to you. You’re not the kind of man students go around disrespecting like that.”
“Disre—” Rooke begins with a frown, but Thatcher cuts him off.
“Dark Daddy,” Thatcher scoffs. “Kids these days.”
Rooke’s eyes snap to me, and I nearly drop the dustpan. “What are you still doing here, Jordan?” He flicks his fingers toward the door.
“Uh…filing?” I manage.
“Later.” Rooke’s eyes bounce back to Thatcher. “And unless you have further insinuations, Deputy…?”
I give Thatcher a sheepish look as we both head out of Rooke’s office in unison.
“Wouldn’t want to get on his bad side,” Thatcher says under his breath. “Guess he’s really upset you broke that ornament of his.”
“Award,” I mumble. “It was an award or something.”
“Ah. That would do it.” Thatcher gives me a faint smile. “That true about the study group? Surely Professor Rooke wouldn’t pass up a chance to mentor his students?”
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “Teaching’s not his strong suit. He doesn’t have the patience, I don’t think. Lecturing is more his style.”
Then I realize I’m defending the man who forgot to tell me the criminal charges he’d framed me for had been dropped.
“He’s also a narcissistic asshole with a God complex,” I add dryly.
“Whoa,” Thatcher says, eyes sparkling with amusement when he glances at me. “Tell me what you really think.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, not meaning it. “So what’s with all the questions? I thought the case was closed?”
I expect the deputy to give me some half-assed answer, but he stays silent for a few steps, frowning faintly, then says, “I don’t like him.”
“Rooke?” I say through a laugh. “You and ninety-nine percent of humanity.”
“I’m hoping you fall into that category, Mr. Jordan.” His expression is so stern, I’m forced to keep looking at him even though I’d rather not. We start down the stairwell, trapping me side-by-side with the deputy.
“Didn’t you just hear me call him an asshole?”
Thatcher shrugs. “There’s something off about him.”
Yeah. No shit.
“Just…be careful around him.”
If Thatcher knew I’d just been on my knees for that son of a bitch—
“There you are! I’ve been looking—“
We both stop walking. Haven does too. She stares from me to Thatcher with wide eyes, mouth working soundlessly.
“Afternoon, Miss Lee,” Thatcher says. He turns to me, giving me a polite smile as he tips his hat. “All the best, Mr. Jordan.”
He reaches out a hand, and on instinct, I go to shake it. But instead, he puts something in my palm and closes my fingers around it, patting my fist. Without another word, he turns and heads down the stairs.
Haven watches him leave, plastering herself against the railing like she’d rather fall to her death than risk him interrogating her.
While she’s distracted, I take a peek at what Thatcher pushed into my hand.
A button.
One of Rooke’s fucking buttons.
My fingers snap closed as Haven rushes up to me and grabs my arm.
Her blue eyes are wide and panicked. “What the hell—”
“Nothing.” My fingers close so hard around the button, the plastic edges bite into my flesh.
She scoffs. “That wasn’t nothing—“
“It’s over.” I slide my arms around her, crushing her to me so hard she squeals. “It’s finally fucking over.”