6. Vincent
Chapter 6
Vincent
I n an effort to get Elle off my mind, I did the one thing guaranteed to distract me. At the end of the day, I settled on the couch in my living room and carefully opened the box that had been waiting for me on the porch. Under protective layers of bubble wrap and tissue paper, I found a breathtaking rare edition of Lord Byron’s complete works. It had cost a pretty penny at the online auction, but I didn’t regret the hefty price tag.
I gingerly ran my fingers over the gilded cover, turning the delicate pages with exquisite care. Rare books had been the bane of my paycheck ever since I got my first job as a teaching assistant. The musty paper and the earthy leather covers were like catnip. I never grew tired of this moment—holding a beautiful, old book in my hand, finding a place for it on my shelves where I could visit it any time I wanted.
A quiet knock rapped at my front door. I glanced at the clock—10:23pm. A little late for unexpected visitors.
When I answered the door, Elle stood there. Her breath frosted in the air.
“I’m changing my major.”
Her teeth chattered and the tip of her nose was turning red in the October chill. She wore pajama pants with pink donuts on them, hastily stuffed into a pair of brown boots. I didn’t smell alcohol on her breath, and she seemed clear-headed, focused. Not drunk, then. Good.
“Glad to hear it,” I replied. “Although I fail to see why you needed to show up on my doorstep at this hour to make that announcement.”
Was I relieved and pleased to see her again? Of course. But it was a risk to bring her here before. I didn’t want her taking that risk again.
Elle’s gaze shifted past my shoulder. The faint strains of Miles Davis drifted from the living room. A bottle of bourbon sat on the coffee table. The lingering scent of my dinner—pasta with a creamy garlic and lemon sauce—wafted from the kitchen.
“Oh,” she said in a small, pained voice. “Do you…have a date?”
Tearing her gaze away from my house, Elle looked up at me, beseeching, and hopeful, and valiantly trying to fight off her disappointment if I said yes.
“No,” I replied. “I’m alone.”
A small smile flickered at the corner of her mouth before she ducked her head.
“I came here because it was your idea to change my major. You suggested it. And now, I decided I plan to study English, like you did. I’m not smart enough to become a professor, but…I’ve always liked your classes and…”
Oh, boy. I stifled a sigh and rubbed my forehead.
“Elle,” I said.
She trailed off and raised her eyebrows waiting for me to continue.
“Is that what you want?” I added. “What kind of future do you envision for yourself?”
Elle swallowed. She shifted in place and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, self-conscious. Then she glanced away.
“I…I don’t know,” she whispered. “God, what am I doing here? I’m so sorry to bother you. I’ll go—”
As she turned away, I curved my fingers around her elbow. Elle stopped and slowly brought her gaze back to me. Goddamn it, I could kiss that promotion good-bye. I didn’t stand a chance at being Dean of East Regent University as long as I wanted her this badly.
“Come inside for a few minutes,” I said. “It’s cold. I’ll make you some tea. We can talk.”
I led Elle into the kitchen. As I filled the kettle with water, she took a seat at the table, fiddling with the cuffs of her coat sleeves.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Not really. I didn’t mean to intrude…”
I waved her off.
“You didn’t interrupt anything important. I ordered a rare edition of Byron’s work and it came in the mail today. I was looking it over when you knocked.”
“That sounds expensive,” she replied.
I hummed in agreement as I retrieved two mugs from the cabinet, along with a box of chamomile tea.
“It is, but I consider it an investment. When I retire, I hope to open a shop for rare books in Boston, or maybe New York. I can’t teach forever. Wait here a moment.”
Ducking back into the entryway, I retrieved a handful of pamphlets I kept in my bookbag for students who needed them. Returning to the kitchen, I placed them in front of Elle.
“I know it’s none of my business,” I continued. “But after our chat, I think you should speak with a counselor. There’s no shame in it. Everyone needs help once in a while.”
Elle said nothing, picking up the pamphlets and studying them. The kettle began to boil until it whistled, and I poured water into each cup. She was so quiet that I couldn’t tell if she was upset, offended, hurt, or relieved.
I placed a cup of tea before her, and pulled out a chair to join her at the table. I waited as she folded the pamphlets with careful diligence, and wrapped her hands around the mug, drawing it closer.
“My name is actually Giselle,” she whispered. “My father is Daniel R. Roche. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
The entire world had heard of him—a wealthy, powerful man. Although Elle didn’t look anything like the glammed-up girl usually hounded by relentless paparazzi.
“How did you manage to keep it quiet?” I asked. “I’m surprised the news that a millionaire’s daughter attending our university hasn’t spread like wildfire across campus.”
She shrugged.
“A few people know. Dean Wilcox knows because my father made an exorbitant donation in order to have access to my courses and smooth over my abysmal SAT scores.”
I fought the urge to flinch at the mention of Dean Wilcox, knowing he would rescind his offer of putting in a good word for my promotion if—or when—he found out about my involvement with Elle. Even though I hadn’t done anything inappropriate, I was undeniably blurring the lines between student and teacher.
On the other hand, Dean Wilcox was no saint in this situation either. He’d been bribed.
Elle continued.
“I’ve been an embarrassment to my father for my entire life. It was easy to convince him that I should fly under the radar while I was going to school, earning my degree. My last name is common enough that people don’t really think twice about it as long as I go by Elle.”
“And no one has ever recognized you?”
She shrugged.
“Not yet. Dad has a team of makeup artists for me and my sister. You’d be amazed at the magic they can wield with some foundation and a brush. Our public appearances are usually somewhat of a spectacle, so we have to put on a show to make my dad look good. I discovered at an early age that sneaking out with a bare face made me invisible. Nobody had a clue who I was. I loved having that freedom.”
“It must be very hard living in your father’s shadow,” I replied.
“You have no idea.” Elle closed her eyes and inhaled the steam of her tea. “He controls everything—what I study, what I eat, the job I’ll get when I graduate. He expects me to run his firm with my sister and it’s so… boring . I hate it.”
I couldn’t imagine enduring that kind of pressure. No wonder she was floundering.
“You’re legally an adult, aren’t you?” I asked. “As long as you’re over eighteen, you don’t have to answer to him.”
Elle made a skeptical noise and scrubbed her coat sleeve against her cheek.
“You make it sound so easy.”
“I never said that.”
She squeezed her mug until her knuckles turned white. The slightest tremble racked her from head to toe as if that mug was the only thing holding her sanity together.
“Elle,” I said softly.
I slid my chair around the table to get closer. Prying her fingers away from the cup, I grasped her hand. Should I still call her that? I’d come to know her as Elle, the college student with an attitude. Not Giselle, daughter of a rich businessman.
“I’ve tried,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ve tried to get a job. I wanted to make my own money and live my own life. But Dad bribed the managers to fire me. More than once. He said menial labor is beneath the Roche name and I won’t embarrass him like that.”
My grip on her hand tightened as her story came pouring out. This wasn’t simply an overprotective or overbearing father. This man wanted to control his daughter like a puppet so she didn’t damage his public persona.
“For once in my life, I want to be a good daughter,” Elle said. “And I just…can’t.”
Even though I hadn’t met Elle’s father, I hated him for tearing this poor girl down. She was intelligent and beautiful and she deserved to look forward to a future of her own choosing, rather than one forced on her that clearly made her miserable.
“Then you need to succeed,” I said.
Elle choked on a watery laugh and her face crumpled.
“God, you sound just like him.”
I grasped her chin and tilted her head up until she looked at me with red-rimmed eyes.
“I’m not your father.”
“Don’t you think I want to succeed? I hate being a failure. I hate fucking up, over and over.”
“You’re not going to succeed for your father, Elle. You’re going to succeed for you. On your own terms. Not his.”
She bit her lower lip, searching my face as my words began to sink in. My gaze fell to her mouth. I reached up and teased her lower lip free from her teeth with my thumb. She blinked a few times, lashes fluttering, pupils dilating.
Fuck, I was falling hard and fast.
My stomach clenched and every drop of blood in my body raced south at lightning speed. I fought the urge to shift in my chair as my cock strained against my zipper.
“I kissed you once,” Elle whispered. “The decent thing would be to kiss me back.”
I arched an eyebrow.
“That would not be decent, Elle.”
“Right,” she muttered and her gaze dropped, blushing pink to the tips of her ears.
I felt her begin to retreat, pulling away. But I closed the distance between us and kissed her.
Elle whimpered against my mouth. The next thing I knew, she climbed into my lap, straddling me. I grabbed her hips, coaxing her into a slow, grinding roll against my cock. I could feel her through the thin fabric of her pajamas—the slick neediness of her pussy, the soft warmth of her body.
I fumbled at the zipper of her coat and dragged it down until I saw the oversized gray t-shirt she wore. My t-shirt. She kept it.
Why did that make a possessive little thrill rocket up my spine?
Because it was proof that she didn’t see me as a quick fuck for the novelty of it like other students would have—eager to sleep with me for bragging rights. She wore my clothes for comfort, to feel safe when the world was against her.
I slipped one hand under her shirt, pleased to find no sign of a bra to slow me down. Elle gasped as I cupped her breast in my hand, rubbing her nipple with my thumb. My clothes against her bare skin was too much to take. I arched my hips up, savoring the way her breath hitched when the bulge of my cock met the apex of her thighs.
No underwear either, judging by the damp spot on her pajamas.
Elle shimmied out of her coat and let it drop to the floor. The air between us practically crackled with sexual tension, frantically grasping at each other, grinding, tongues tangled together.
I was going to hell for this.