Page 49 of Unwritten Rules

Then after dropping Mila off, I’d rushed to London to find that Zara had put in a dispute, citing that elements of my father’s will hadn’t been met, making it null and void.

It had been a shit couple of days and all I could think of was getting back to Mila, of feeding my addiction.

Friday evening was the earliest I could get back to Surrey, only I’d arrived at Hawthorne House to find she’d yet to return from Uni. A quick call to Roland had alerted me as to where she could be found, and I’d been unable to resist the pull of tempting fate, having missed the sight of her face more than I needed air to breathe.

When she’d absolutely annihilated me at pool, I’d stood back and watched her with a growing bulge in my jeans that I didn’t even bother to rearrange.

And when she’d squeezed me between her legs, I knew she had felt my desire for her. It would have been impossible not to.

Thankfully, no lines were crossed, as her friend had thrown up everywhere and broken whatever spell I’d been under, but I’d hexed myself later as I’d walked her to the door of my house.

What was meant to be another chaste kiss, like the one she’d landed on me the previous Tuesday, had grown into a slow exploration of each other’s mouths, making everyone and everything around us fade into the background.

When Mila had gone inside, I’d had sharp words with Zara, reminding her that all interactions must be through legal counsel moving forward. She’d not gotten a single word in before I’d jogged up the steps to join Mila upstairs.

Not that she was in a good mood with me following the entirely inappropriate kiss on the steps.

When she’d said I could have allowed her time to masturbate, I’d leaked a steady stream of precum into my underwear until I heard her slow, even breathing, at which time I’d left our bed to rub one out in the downstairs shower.

Deciding it was safer to hide out over the weekend at the Lake House, I’d kept to myself, only venturing to the main house at night to ensure she rested easily.

Or at least that’s the lie I fed my tortured soul.

I was up and gone this morning by 6 a.m., having watched Mila sleep for a wholly inappropriate amount of time. The day thus far had been interminable, so, in an effort to turn things around, I decided to hold a debate in my Shakespearean workshop rather than finish the scheduled Hamlet.

When the doors to the lecture hall are unlocked, there’s the usual scuffle for front seats, with the stragglers taking the ones way up the back.

My stomach tightens when I spy Mila enter, her long dark hair flowing around her shoulders and her mouth displaying my absolute favourite curve.

I’m a notorious ass man, and although Mila DeMarco’s ass is a thing of beauty, it’s blown out of the water by that simple curve of her full lips.

One she’s displaying beautifully for the inane Mr Richards who lurks in the back of my lessons without a single contribution. I grit my teeth, tearing my eyes away before I do something stupid.

“Professor, I brought you some cookies….”

“Professor, is there a Mrs Hawthorne—”

“Oh, Professor! Why did you shave off so much of your beard?”

“Professor, I heard you’re related to the royal family….”

My teeth ache, my head pounds, and my temper frays, leading me to do something entirely out of character.

“SHUT UP!”

My bellow silences the entire space, reverberating around the room as I’m met with wide eyes and stunned faces.

She’s barely in the door, and already she’s got you rattled, dipshit.

“I beg your pardon. I-I have quite a headache this afternoon.”

My eyes move slowly through the room, displaying my remorse to each and every student, but studiously avoiding Mila’s face, unjustly angry with her for unknowingly eliciting such a powerful feeling inside of me.

“Let’s get down to business, then, shall we?”

Initially, all is going well.

I start with a synopsis of Romeo and Juliet, outlining the main themes we shall be discussing today.