Chapter Nine
Hayden
That won’t work.
The words slipped out lower than I meant, rougher than I should have allowed, quiet but carrying enough heat to set the air between us on fire. And I saw the way they hit her. They didn’t just land, they ignited, flaring across the small distance we kept pretending was safety.
Her mouth parted, slow and uncertain, somewhere between defiance and shock, and my self-control fractured a little more.
That mouth. Fuck. That perfect, taunting mouth that looked built for sin and apology in the same breath.
I should have looked away. Should have reminded myself of the rules I swore to live by, the distance I fought to keep.
But she stood there, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide, her lips shining under the dim light, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing in me capable of restraint.
That dress didn’t help. Black. Short. The kind of fabric that didn’t cling so much as obey, tracing every curve like it had been painted over her skin just to ruin me.
Her legs, bare, endless, fucking lethal, caught what little light the room offered, and I was gone.
My cock throbbed against the inside of my zipper, the ache sharp and insistent, a brutal reminder of everything I couldn’t have and everything I still wanted anyway.
I wanted her wrecked. Not sweetly. Not carefully.
I wanted her trembling under my hands, her body pressed against the wall, and make her forget the name of every man who ever touched her wrong.
I wanted to hear her break apart under my voice, wanted to taste her gasps against my tongue, wanted to fuck the composure out of her until she forgot every rule she ever obeyed.
I wanted her ruined in every way a man shouldn’t want his student.
I wanted to slide my hand between her thighs and feel just how fucking wet she got from nothing but my voice.
And I didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Because I couldn’t. Not yet.
But I would. One day, I’d stop pretending.
One day, I’d take what kept holding my gaze, the inevitability of it already lingering in the silence between us.
There’d be a night when she wouldn’t have words left to hide behind, when that sharp, arrogant tongue of hers would beg instead of bite, when her defiance would melt into something raw, desperate, fucking honest. And when that night came, I’d make her beg for every inch of it.
The noise of the bar faded into nothing. Just her. Just the pounding in my veins. And beneath it all, that quiet, maddening truth, I’d already lost control long before she even opened her mouth.
The music in the club shifted, a darker bass sliding through the floor.
I felt it in my chest, in my pulse, in every thought that refused to stay buried.
Nights of this kind always fucked with me, the noise never loud enough to drown the memories that lived in every shadow.
It was my birthday. It was a day that meant nothing; I hadn’t celebrated since the accident, hadn’t lit candles or answered calls, because you didn’t raise a glass to ghosts, you only ever tried to outdrink them.
So I did what I always did when the walls got too close and the past started whispering, I dressed in black, grabbed my keys, and found somewhere that didn’t know my name.
A place where people went to disappear into music and touch and bad decisions.
Somewhere I could pretend to be a man who hadn’t destroyed everything he loved.
The bar was a blur of smoke and sweat, the scent of liquor and skin hanging thick in the air. Bodies moved in flashes of light, careless and greedy. I ordered whiskey, let the burn crawl down my throat, and tried not to think.
Then I saw her.
Edwina.
She stood near the bar, half in shadow, half in that sick, seductive glow the club loved to cast on sinners.
The dress was black, light vanished against it, devoured completely, the fabric shaping to her body in a way that made the night seem to belong to her.
Her hair fell in dark waves that brushed her collarbone, her eyes rimmed in smoke, her lips the shade of something holy and ruined all at once.
She wasn’t supposed to be there. Not in my world. Not in that light. And yet there she was, temptation wearing human skin, standing at the edge of everything I’d been running from, and looking too fucking beautiful to survive.
The man beside her leaned in too close, his mouth brushing her ear as he said something I couldn’t hear, and she laughed, a sound that didn’t belong to her, a hollow, brittle thing that died before it reached her eyes.
I saw the small shift of her hand, the subtle retreat, the way her shoulders went taut, her body folding in on itself just slightly, and I knew it wasn’t comfort that made her still.
I told myself to look away, that it wasn’t my fucking business, that whatever she wanted, whoever she came here with, had nothing to do with me.
For a fraction of a second, I even tried to believe it.
But when his hand moved, sliding down from her arm to her hip as if he had earned the right to touch her, something in me broke clean through the lie.
The sound of it wasn’t loud, but it was final.
I moved before I thought, before I could talk myself down. My voice came first, low enough to scrape against the noise around us. “Say something,” I murmured, close to her ear, so close I could feel the tremor in her breath when it hit my skin. “Or has the drink stolen your fire?”
Her lips parted on a shallow inhale, her tongue slipping out just barely to wet them, and my pulse slammed against my throat.
That single movement was a goddamn provocation.
She didn’t know what it did to me. Or maybe she did.
Maybe she fucking knew exactly how far she could push before I’d stop pretending.
The scent of her was everywhere, sweet, electric, wrong.
She stood there, too near, her dress clinging to her body, every curve visible in the pulse of red and violet light.
My eyes followed the line of her throat, down to where the fabric ended, and I imagined her skin under my hand, the heat of it, the way she’d sound if I pressed my mouth there.
Too late to imagine. I already was.
I leaned closer, enough for my breath to stir the hair at her temple but not enough to touch, and every inch of restraint I’d ever built cracked under the sound of her name in my head. “You’re playing a game you don’t understand, Edwina.”
Her breath caught, that perfect composure she always carried fraying just slightly. I felt it through the air between us, the invisible current that crawled straight to where I was already hard, the ache brutal enough to make me want to ruin something.
Then her voice came, soaked in challenge and sin. “Then teach me, Professor.”
Fuck me.
The word didn’t come out of my mouth; it tore through me.
Everything in me clenched, my jaw, my fists, the careful balance I’d spent years maintaining.
It would’ve been so easy to reach out, to grab her by the waist, to feel her back hit the wall, to taste that mouth and make her gasp the way I’d imagined too many fucking times.
I could already see it. Her lips red from my teeth, her breath broken against my throat, her body trembling with the truth of it.
But I didn’t. Not yet.
I stepped back half a breath, just enough to let the air slide between us, just enough to pretend I wasn’t seconds from giving in.
The space hurt more than it helped. My voice came rough, scraped raw by everything I didn’t say.
“I’m not the man you want to learn from,” I told her. “I break things, Edwina.”
When she looked at me again, her eyes were wide, dark, and trembling at the edges, and for a second, I almost wanted to take it back. But I didn’t. I needed her to hate me more than I needed her to want me. Hate was safer.
She blinked, the faintest flick of disappointment crossing her face, and that was worse than any slap she could’ve given me.
She turned, her hand brushing through her hair as if the touch could steady her, but when she took a step, her heel slipped, the motion small but enough to make her catch her breath.
I reached out before I could stop myself.
I moved before she could hit the floor, one arm wrapping tight around her waist, the other catching her wrist before her balance gave out completely.
Her body collided with mine in a rush of heat and motion, her skin burning beneath my palm, soft and trembling from too much liquor and too little control.
I could smell the whiskey on her breath and the faint trace of perfume underneath, something sharp and sweet that threaded straight through my chest.
“Careful,” I muttered.
Her head lifted, eyes wide and clouded, the kind of look that teetered between anger and humiliation. “I’m fine,” she said, her tone sharp enough to pass for conviction, though it cracked around the edges.
“You’re not,” I told her, the words coming out heavier than I intended as my hand lingered at her waist. I could feel the heat of her through the fabric, the curve of her hip beneath my fingers, and I hated the way it made my gut twist tight, hated how natural it felt to hold her there.
She tried to move, stubborn even now, but the shift threw her off again.
Her knees gave just slightly, and I caught her a second time, fully, completely this time, her body pressed against mine, soft where I was hard, shaking where I refused to.
The heat of her soaked into my chest, and every part of me wanted to lean in, to bury my face against her neck and taste the pulse there.
Her perfume clung to the air between us, something warm and feminine tangled with the faintest edge of citrus that burned its way into my lungs.
“You’re not staying here like this,” I said, the words gritted out between my teeth. “Come on.”