Chapter 39
39
Raze
T he quiet patter of heels ascending my loft stairs warns me of my visitor before she appears in my doorway.
Abigail Gracer leans against the door jamb with a sultry smirk and her signature bottle of red wine, those impossibly high heels shining bright against my dark, worn carpet.
“I thought you could use a break,” she greets in that breathy voice she seems to reserve only for me.
I remember the exact moment she sunk her hungry teeth into me. It took me two years after she started her career as a counselor, fresh out of graduate school, before I gave in to her constant advances one lonely, drunken night. Once I did, she all but claimed me, aggressively—and annoyingly—chasing off any other woman on campus who dared show their attraction around her. Despite the fact that I’ve made it clear that there is no chance of us ever moving beyond our late-night hookups. I was sure it would scare her away, but the commitment-phobe that she is, she happily agreed. She hasn’t released her feral grip on me since.
An Aetheris woman, through and through.
Leaning back in my chair, I tilt my head to gesture her over with a matching smile.
As irritating as she is, she sounds like the perfect distraction from my runaway thoughts right now.
She pushes off the door jamb and sashays toward me, setting the bottle beside me on my desk before rounding the corner where I’m seated. Settling her ass on my knee, she bends over so her dress rides up just enough to tease, then opens my bottom drawer and pulls out the two wine glasses and corkscrew I keep there for these exact occasions.
Straightening, she leans across to grab the wine, carefully placing her chest right in my line of view. She’s unbuttoned the top three buttons, allowing her full breasts to teeter over the edge, begging to be set free.
I watch her in numbed silence, feeling around deep in my pit of a soul for any semblance of excitement at the prospect of what’s to come. To my utter disappointment, I come up short.
“You haven’t been around,” Abigail pouts, uncorking the bottle and pouring both our glasses with seductive ease.
My hand finds her ass and gently caresses the skin just below her hemline. “I’ve been busy.”
She hums her disapproval, pushing herself backward to force my hand further up her skirt. She’s used to my nonanswers by now—knows it’s not worth her mental health to get all bent out of shape about it when I clearly don’t give a fuck.
Reaching toward her left side, she slowly moves the zipper down, revealing the red, lacy bra I gifted her last Christmas. The usual excitement that comes with her touch is nowhere to be found, and I’m still left with this heavy, dead feeling I’ve been carrying around. Instead of experiencing the moment as an active participant, my mind has me hanging above the scene, watching it awkwardly play out from a distance.
I know exactly what the problem is—or rather, who . I haven’t been right since the night I watched my disobedient little nightmare writhe around on the desk below me as she sought her release from that barbaric animal. Those few torturous moments play in my head on repeat like a broken film. The sick, intrinsic need to satiate her lingers behind as an itch I cannot seem to scratch. To prove myself as the greater man. But I refuse to acknowledge it as anything more than a minor annoyance. An inconvenient, primal desire that simply can’t be met, so there’s no use dwelling on it.
Abigail should be the perfect balm to ease my constant ache, yet I feel nothing with her.
Swiping her hand across my chest, she slinks around to the back of my chair, wrapping her arms around my neck to undo the top buttons on my shirt.
“I’ve missed this,” she coos into my ear, scraping her nails against the bare skin of my chest.
I don’t answer.
The emptiness remains, even when she abandons her assault on my pecs and reaches further, unbuckling my belt before repeating the process on my pants. Tugging the neatly tucked hem out of the way, she hungrily gropes my half-erection from atop my briefs.
And then, the most peculiar thing happens.
As if my thoughts conjured her, the Ellery girl appears in the open doorway like an apparition, cheeks flushed. Somehow, among Abigail’s heady words and my distracted thoughts, we missed the warning sounds of her climbing the steps.
“I’m so sorry,” she sputters, staggering to a halt.
Abigail quickly rips her hands out of my slacks to take a step back and button the front of her dress, and I smirk at the little nightmare as she gapes at me, frozen in place.
Finally . It’s like my internal systems have returned to their usual working order. My soul has been sucked back into my body.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll come back tomorrow,” she rushes out again, already turning to leave.
Blood surges down to my groin. The view of her standing there in dingy, loose workout clothes does more for me than Abigail has managed in the past fifteen minutes.
“You weren’t interrupting anything,” I tell her, unhooking my cuff links to roll up my sleeves.
I won’t make myself look guilty by rushing to redress the way Abigail did. She huffs her disagreement behind me, but I don’t give a fuck what she thinks right now. This game doesn’t include her, I’ve realized. She’s only a misplaced piece from a completely different box.
Reaching across my desk, I grab up the stack of exams that was waiting for the girl on the corner of my desk. The ones I emailed her about picking up earlier, never anticipating such a delicious surprise.
Holding them out toward her, I keep my tone even as I say, “I have the tests here.”
“I’m sure they can wait until tomorrow, Raze ,” Abigail grits through her teeth, scowling down at me from over my shoulder. My name is a curse on her tongue.
I hardly offer her a backward glance, keeping my gaze trained on the young woman still standing in my doorway.
She slowly spins back around, taking careful steps toward my desk as if I’m going to grow six heads and bite her.
No, Little Nightmare. I’ve only got two.
“I’ve got a few notes,” I start to say, but am interrupted when Abigail releases a frustrated growl. She stomps past us and out the door with her dress still unzipped and her hair in disarray, mumbling a string of insults toward me.
“It really could have waited until you were less . . . occupied,” Ellery says in a low voice, as if she doesn’t want Abigail to hear. “She’s going to hate me forever now.”
“She’ll get over it,” I promise boredly. Or maybe she won’t. I really don’t care either way. Something about this woman makes me this way—vicious, uncaring, cruel.
“Have a seat,” I command, nodding toward the chair before me.
Her eyes drop to my exposed chest, then even lower to my black briefs and, fuck me —my erection grows even bigger right before her eyes.
“I should give you a moment,” she suggests in a tight voice, flicking her gaze back up to meet mine when she realizes she’s staring.
I chuckle at her coyness, shaking my head. “Surely, we’ve moved beyond such awkwardness after I’ve seen you completely bare.”
I nearly explode at the mention of that night.
Standing to re-button my pants, I change my mind halfway through the task, leaving them wide open to prove my point as I swipe up my wine glass and walk behind my desk.
And fuck, the image that’s been torturing me for weeks replays in my mind again. I’m so hard, I can’t even think straight, but I refuse to squander this opportunity to pay her back even the slightest bit. The crimson of her cheeks deepens and spreads further down her neck, disappearing beneath her shirt.
“You love bringing that up, don’t you?” she says through a heavy sigh.
Leaning forward to grab up the wine bottle Abigail left behind, my shirt falls open even more, exposing my entire torso as I point to the spot again.
“Sit.”
There’s no room for argument in my tone. With my lips set in a straight line, I slowly pour myself another glass of wine, as if we’ve got all the time in the world.
Thankfully, she obeys my command. Reluctantly. Her eyes remain fixed on the floor as she falls into the seat with a huff. I can’t say what it is about her in this state that riles me so much. I prefer the snarky, bold version I’ve witnessed when she had no idea I was looking. The one who had no issue speaking her mind.
It seems as if she reserves this pliant side of herself only for me as her own little act of rebellion. That’s the only excuse I can come up with when I’ve made it crystal clear that her submission pisses me off.
She hates me. Whether from how I’ve treated her from day one, or because I witnessed what she considers an embarrassing moment and refuse to allow her to forget it—I don’t know. Either way, I don’t care. She can hate me all she wants, so long as she continues to show up and play our game.
“Don’t start with that again.” I swirl my wine around.
“With what?” she squeaks.
Using my glass to gesture toward her withdrawn posture, I say, “The innocent, docile little act you put on. I know you want to stick that letter opener in my neck right now. Why pretend otherwise?”
Mouth popping open, she rolls her eyes and looks at the sharp object sitting beside me. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”
My answer is swift. “I want you to stop lying.”
About your identity. About your innocence. About everything.
“I’m not lying!” Her high-pitched voice echoes through the doorway, off the books and furniture downstairs. I don’t have to reprimand her before she’s snapping her jaw shut in embarrassment.
Anyone could hear us and walk in here to find me sitting less than three feet away from her, half-naked with an erection the size of Texas.
They could , but I’ve ensured they won’t.
“I glanced over some of these exams this afternoon. Nearly every student got number sixteen incorrect,” I begin casually, if only to get her attention back on me.
My head knocks back to finish off the last of my wine before I put the glass down beside the stack of papers that brought her here in the first place. I round the front of the desk, settling my backside against the edge.
As a small compromise, I begin lining up the bottom button with its corresponding hole of my dress shirt, tugging it closed. But the rebellious, pissed off part of me keeps my pants undone.
Without taking my eyes off hers, I continue. “I’ll need you to add a section in my lecture notes about that one so I can make sure they’ve got a grasp on it before the final exam.”
She scowls up at me disbelievingly, her embarrassment long forgotten as her emotions play out clear across her face. She doesn’t believe I give a fuck about my students. That’s what she said before.
“Is there a problem?” I prod anyway, hungry for a peek at her feisty side.
Dropping her head, she leans forward to grab a pen from my desk, right beside the letter opener. In her true snarky nature, she swipes her wrist against my thigh as she pulls off a sticky note from the dispenser beside me and I stiffen at the unexpected contact. As if nothing happened, she sticks the note on top of the first exam and begins writing a reminder.
I take the free moment to reign myself back in. I should have fucked Abigail when I had the chance, because the sexual tension between us feels downright diabolical. I truly am masochistic.
With her head down, she seems to regain that spunky confidence back because as she’s scribbling her note, she says, “I had no idea you paid any attention to what concepts your students were grasping. Or maybe it’s just my class that gets neglected.”
“Watch your mouth, Little Nightmare.” It’s a weak threat, and she knows it.
She kicks her chin back up, her lips set in a smug line. “Or what?”
The words fall from my lips without any forethought. “I can easily come up with a few ways to use it instead.”
Her eyes immediately fall to my open pants, lips pursing when she realizes how hard I am again. “That’s a novel suggestion. I don’t think it’s big enough to fully stop me, though.”
Scoffing, I brace my hands on the edge of the desk to stop myself from wrapping them around her neck and testing the theory.
“And you say I’m the inappropriate one.”
“Only one of us is sitting here, fully aroused with their pants undone.” She points the pen toward my groin with a shrug, donning her best attempt at a bored expression.
I chuckle at that, leaning my head backward to stare at the heavens and beg for mercy before I completely ravage this woman in the middle of my office.
It would be so cliché—the professor and their assistant. It’s a line I’ve never thought to cross with any student, yet it feels like it would be so effortless with her.
I’ve got two options here. I could end this right now. Refasten my pants and walk back over to my seat to put some distance between us before dismissing her.
That’s the safest bet.
Or, I could push this. See how far I can bend her until she breaks—preferably across my desk with her ass in the air.
When I bring my gaze back down to hers and see that defiant, challenging glare boring into me, I’m afraid that decision is already made.
“I would bet an entire year’s salary that if I ripped those sweat pants off right now, your panties would be completely soaked.”
Proving my point, she shifts in her seat to create friction between her thighs and ease the ache that mirrors mine.
Her hand grabs at a random strand of hair, twirling it around her finger—a nervous tick, I’ve learned. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. And as you’ve pointed out before, I’m far less capable than Ms. Mercer.”
Ah, but she would make such a great study.
Words escape me. Every response I can think of at this moment is inappropriate and out of line.
Once she realizes I have no retort, she stands from her chair, pausing a few inches away, and tucks the exams tightly to her chest. From this angle, I have to crane my neck to look at her, giving her the upper hand.
“Why don’t you email me the rest of your notes. I’ll go back to my dorm,” flicking her eyes down to my pants, she smirks. “And we’ll forget this ever happened.”
She makes it one step before my hand is wrapped around her thigh, the tips of my fingers digging so deep into her flesh, I can feel her tendons and muscles twitch against them. Tilting my chin upward—just the way she intended—I curve my lips into a sly smile, flashing my teeth. I’ve already thrown my sanity out the window, but if she expects me to beg for what has been laid out before me, she’s terribly mistaken.
I’ll take what I want and leave nothing but scraps behind, and she’ll fucking thank me for it.
“ Or how about this, Little Nightmare,” I begin, tugging her leg with the slightest bit of force to knock her off balance and send her flying into my lap with a cute grunt. I catch her in my arms, our faces mere inches apart now as I offer the real proposal.
“How about we stop pretending for a few minutes and fall into these filthy desires? Give ourselves something to forget .”
She allows her eyes to roam across my face, gauging the seriousness of the offer I’ve just made. The responsible, ethical side of me hopes she’ll say no and spare me the mental torture that is sure to swarm me once her come has dried on my face and she’s safely tucked back into her dorm. But the manic side of me knows that even if she tries, I won’t allow her to walk away without acknowledging that she feels the same way, too.
This sexual tension between us has had me incapacitated for weeks.
Her brows pull together as she subtly shakes her head against my arm. “We can’t,” she mumbles—more as a reminder to herself than a response to me.
“Of course, we can. We can do whatever the fuck we want.”
I’ve traveled far beyond my mind and entered a state of being that even I can’t seem to identify. Driven by pure desire and lust, it appears my prefrontal cortex has shut down and given my testosterone the steering wheel. Leaning forward, I graze my nose against her jawline. A small whimper escapes her lips, and I’m completely unhinged.
“One night, and we’ll go back to the way things should be . . . ”
She swallows, her head beginning to shake in the negative again. My words almost echo that asshat who took advantage of her.
I stiffen my grip on her, lining my lips against her ear as I whisper, “Let me make you come the way you wanted me to that night.”
It’s unfair, really. Using a moment of weakness against her to influence her decision in my favor. It’s that tortured expression that haunts me each night, though. The way her eyes begged me to come down the stairs and finish her off. Only in my weakest moments have I admitted to myself that I wish the same thing.
Her resolve is ironclad, I’ll give her that. When her expression goes stony and I think she’s about to shove me away and go tearing down the stairs, she surprises me by gently stepping away, hooking her thumbs into those god-awful sweatpants, and shoving them down her legs.