27. Kai #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?”