Chapter 10
A RISKY CONFRONTATION
LIAM
Simone bursts through my office door without knocking, eyes electric and mouth twisted with intent. I’m still clutching the mug from my previous appointment, but the jolt she brings makes me set it down—too fast, coffee splattering in a ring on the edge of the desk.
She turns to me, shoulders squared and hair wild from the wind, the blonde of it glowing against her back.
Her skirt is a mini so I can see a length of white thigh, and her t-shirt hugs her big breasts lovingly.
Her lips are glossy and pink, her knuckles white from the grip on her canvas backpack.
She could be auditioning for ingénue in a film about ruin, but she’s not here to play sweet.
“What the fuck, Professor Thomas,” she spits. “What was that about?”
I get up and poke my head into the hallway before doing a quick scan for eavesdroppers—my hallway is a deathtrap of prying TAs and undergrads—but the only other soul in sight is the maintenance guy mopping at the end of the corridor, earbuds in and oblivious.
I shut the door and then approach, careful to close the distance between us with the slow, measured movement of a man on the edge of a firing squad.
She throws her bag onto the guest chair, never breaking eye contact. The air in the room is already different, charged and stifling, sunlight leaking through the half-open blinds and painting stripes across the wall of books, across my hands.
“You texted me after dinner,” she says. “‘Meet me. Alone.’ What the hell, is this a spy movie? Then you warned me off Dylan when you’re seeing Claire! What the hell!”
Her voice is shaking, but she’s not afraid. Her anger is a weapon, freshly sharpened and hungry for use.
I keep my own voice neutral. “I had to see you, Simone.”
She crosses her arms, which is a mistake because it shoves her tits together and now I’m the one with a tremor in my hands.
“No, you didn’t,” she says, “because you already moved on. That’s what I saw at the Olive Branch, right? You parading your new girlfriend in front of the whole world like you’re the last man standing.”
She stabs a finger at me. “You made me feel like shit, Liam. Like I was the side piece and she was the main event. Is that what I am to you? The practice run?”
The words hit harder than I expect. For a second, I just stand there, the walls closing in—hardcover books, the diplomas, the faint stink of ten thousand student papers ground into the carpet.
I watch the sunlight crawl up her bare thigh, watch her fidget and flush, and realize I’m the only one in the room who still believes there’s a right way out of this.
“Simone,” I say, and my voice cracks, just a little. “It wasn’t what you think. Claire and I aren’t together. We never were.”
She laughs, high and bright, pure derision. “She was all over you, Liam. I saw. You were holding her like you couldn’t wait to get home and fuck her. And now you want to say it was nothing?”
I reach for the window, twist the wand on the blinds until the light fractures into slashes. “It’s complicated,” I say, but that’s not enough. Simone deserves more.
She moves, prowling between desk and wall, eyes following me. “No,” she says. “Explain. Why did you drag me out of my dorm, why did you care if I was with Dylan, why do you even give a shit who I fuck if you’re out there screwing someone else?”
There’s no way to make this sound good, but I try anyway.
“Claire’s a friend. We dated last year—briefly.
She’s not interested in books, or actually, in anything I actually care about.
” I pause, hating the weak note in my own voice.
“I called her last week because I was trying to convince myself I could move on from you.”
Simone rolls her eyes so hard her whole head goes with it. “So you’re just a liar,” she says. “That’s better than being a whore, I guess. At least then you’d be honest.”
I finally close the distance between us, blocking her in near the window. “Simone, listen to me. I haven’t slept since I saw you with that asshole jock. He doesn’t deserve you. No one does. Especially not me.”
Her hands drop, the posture faltering. Her mouth softens, just a fraction. “I went out with Dylan because I thought you didn’t care,” she says, voice small now. “You said that this thing between us was just for fun. That we’re adults, nothing serious. So I tried to play along.”
I want to touch her, but I don’t. “I lied. I care. I care so fucking much I can’t stand it.”
We stand in the quiet, both of us a little stunned by the admission.
The sunlight stripes her cheeks and neck, drawing lines I want to erase with my hands.
I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly her mouth is on mine, angry and hot, and I’m pressing her against the wall of books, one arm braced to keep from breaking her, the other tangled in her golden locks.
She feels so good, so right in my arms, and my heart leaps and then falls in my chest.
She bites my lip, hard, and I groan into her mouth.
“You’re such an asshole,” she says, and pulls me closer.
I taste her anger, the desperation under the bravado. Her fingers dig into my shirt, pulling me tight to her chest. I feel the heat radiating from her skin, the way her thighs press to mine, the pulse in her neck jumping under my tongue as I trail kisses down her throat.
“You’re all I think about, Simone,” I mutter, words melting into her clavicle.
She pushes me away, only to slap me across the face, not hard but sharp enough to make my ears ring.
“I hate you,” she says, and then she kisses me again, deeper, with a violence that feels like drowning.
The office is hot now, the air a haze of dust and pheromones.
Somewhere in the hallway a phone rings, but neither of us cares.
My hands roam under her shirt, finding bare skin, the rise and fall of her ribs.
I want to ruin her, claim her, tattoo myself into her memory so she’ll never be able to fuck another guy without tasting me first.
Her breath is ragged. She tears at my buttons, popping two before giving up and clawing the shirt off over my head. I barely get her t-shirt off before she’s in my lap, straddling me in the rickety old office chair, her skirt riding up so high I can see the damp spot on her panties.
I’m hard, so hard it’s stupid, and she grinds against me, mouth at my ear.
“You’re not allowed to fuck anyone else,” she whispers. “Ever.”
“Not even if you want me to?” I tease, but it comes out desperate.
She bites my jaw, then pulls back, staring at me. Her eyes are wild, but there’s something soft in them, too. “Why do you even want me?”
I want to answer, but the words are a mess. Instead, I kiss her, slow this time, the kind of kiss you give someone when you’re trying to memorize them. She melts, all the fight going out of her, and I realize I’m losing, too.
I press my forehead to hers, eyes closed.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and it’s the truest thing I’ve said in years.
She wraps her arms around my neck, holding on like the world might disappear.
“I’m not,” she whispers.
We sit like that, tangled together, the chaos of our bodies matching the mess inside my head. The sun slants lower, turning the dust motes gold. I know we can’t stay like this, not in this place, not in this life, but for a second I let myself believe we could.
She shifts, rolling off my lap and straightening her skirt. Her cheeks are flushed, hair sticking to her forehead, but she’s smiling.
“Don’t ever treat me like that again,” she says, trying to sound tough, but her voice is thick. “I almost died seeing you with another woman.”
I nod, and reach for her hand.
“Never,” I promise, even though it’s a lie. “I almost died seeing you on a date with another man.”
We’re both breathing hard, hearts synchronized in their chaos.
There’s a knock at the door—a sharp, impatient knock—and I freeze, adrenaline slamming through me.
Simone laughs, then presses a finger to her lips.
I shove on my shirt, pop the button into the wrong hole, and look at her, my hair wild, my face raw with want.
“Hide,” I whisper, and it’s a joke, but part of me is dead serious.
She grins, grabs her bag, and slips behind a bookshelf just as I crack the door open.
It’s the department chair, of course. He peers in, eyes narrowed, surveying the room like a crime scene.
“You all right, Thomas?” he asks. “You look flushed.”
I force a smile, blood still humming in my ears. “It’s the heat. The vents are busted again.”
He nods, not really caring. “The curriculum committee needs your proposal by tomorrow. Don’t forget.”
“Will do,” I say, and close the door before he can sense that there’s a beautiful, fertile female in my office.
I turn, breathless, and find Simone perched on the edge of my desk, legs crossed, lips parted in a slow, wicked smile.
“Next time,” she says, “I want you to make me scream so loud the whole building hears.”
I want that, too.
But for now, I settle for the promise of it—the way her words linger in the air, sharper than any insult, sweeter than any apology.
I’m already addicted, and there’s no cure.
I approach Simone, catching my breath, trying to keep my cool.
She’s on my desk with one palm pressed to her chest like she’s steadying a runaway heart, the other twisting the hem of her skirt between nervous fingers.
We’re both playing at calm, but I can feel the aftershock of her anger radiating between us—hot, dangerous, and, somehow, magnetic.
Her glare softens by degrees, the hurt draining into a wary kind of hunger. She leans forward, lowers her voice so it’s just for me.
“You really care?” she asks, not quite meeting my eyes. “You’re not just saying that because you want to fuck me?”
The question should sting, but all I feel is relief. It means she hasn’t walked out. Yet.
I take her hands, both at once, squeeze until I’m sure she feels it in her bones.