Page 107 of The Headmaster’s Rule

A man at breaking point.

Eleanor hovers by the paint-splattered table in the middle of the room, and I force myself to take a deep breath, inhaling the smell of turpentine and old wood as I stalk in front of the long, wide window that overlooks the lawn. The room is a mess; stacks of sketches scattered across the table, brushes soaking in the sink, paintings hanging to dry. Why did I come here? This place is chaos. We’d be better in my office, where I can remain in control.

But I know I’m kidding myself. I haven’t been in control in my office for some time. I haven’t been in control anywhere.

“I know you’re mad,” Eleanor says, gaze dropping to the floor. “I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you out there.”

I turn to run my gaze over her. She’s in a long-sleeved emerald green dress that falls to her knees, calves in heeled purple boots that lace up the front. Her hair is half tied back with a purple ribbon, tendrils falling loosely around her face after working in the wind, cheeks pink from the cold.

My heart seizes at the sight before me. At her unbelievable beauty.

She’s right, I am mad. I’m fucking furious.

But not with her.

I’m angry with the situation we find ourselves in, the sheer injustice of it. How she can be everything I could possibly want, but the rules state I can’t have her. That if I try, I’ll lose my job. My career. Everything I’ve ever known.

It was fine when it was just me and Eleanor sneaking around, not knowing where this would lead, before we went to the city when everything changed.

Before I finally admitted to myself that I’m in love with her.

But now I can’t stand it. I can’t stand having to sit by and watch her be so fucking brilliant while having to keep my mouth shut.

So, yes, I’m furious.

Furious at how much I feel for this woman. And how powerless I am to officially make her mine.

“You can punish me,” she whispers. “Punish me for being bad.”

I know what she’s doing. She’s deflecting from the pain of this shitty situation, deflecting from us having to face how we’re really feeling, having to admit it to each other. Giving me some control again.

And while a better man wouldn’t take it, I’m not a better man.

I’m not the man I thought I was at all.

I cross to her, sliding a hand over her shoulder, up her neck, thumb tightening on her throat for a second. Her eyes widen, breath hitching in anticipation before I release, stroking the side of her neck gently. I’ve never loved her more than this moment, giving me this gift. The chance to feel in control, however fleeting, however illusory.

But I need to know I can take it. Truly take it.

“Is that what you want?” I grit out.

“Yes,” she breathes, reaching for my hand to place it back on her throat. Her eyes are dark pools of heat as my fingers tighten on her windpipe again, her words reverberating under my thumb. “Show me what happens when I’m naughty.”

I feel the moment when I let go. The moment when I know I’m going to take what she’s offering, here in the damn art room, of all places.

I stride to the door, double checking it’s locked. Then I hit the light switch, plunging the room into shadow. The windows glow with the last rays of daylight, making the room dark enough to give us the privacy we need to do this right here, in front of the window. My eyes adjust quickly, and I turn to find Eleanor watching me with a gaze hot enough to burn the school to the ground.

I love how willing she is, how dirty she loves to get. She’s the picture of sweetness, so wholesome and innocent with her pretty dresses and flower barrettes, then she lets me finger-fuck her in the copy room, lets me spank her over my desk. She isn’t only pretty, and smart, and funny, she’s filthy, and she loves letting me lead, letting me dominate her. Something I never knew I needed until I met her. Something that helps me feel like I still have a grip on this precarious situation.

“Turn around,” I say thickly. “Hands on the table. Bend over.”

Her breathing accelerates as she does what I ask, hands braced on the edge of the art table, ass in the air for me. But when I push her skirt up over her backside, I realize she’s wearing skin-colored tights underneath. That absolutely will not do.

“These,” I mutter, tugging hard enough to tear them, “are in my way.”

She gasps as the sound of shredding fabric rings through the room, but I don’t care. I let it fall around her legs, yanking her panties down too, until her perfect ass is bared to me.

Then I take a second to simply appreciate it, running my hands over her warm, creamy skin, following her curves. I can’t help myself—I sigh, leaning over her as I press my already stiffening cock to her softness. I breathe in the sweet scent of her, wanting to kiss her gently, to voice every single emotion that’s pressing against my chest, desperate to escape.