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Damn it. Her and her bratty mouth.
Regretfully, he left her to go start the shower. When it was steaming, he motioned her in. “Come on. Let’s clean you up.”
“This is awfully personal for a professor.” She eyed him slyly.
Taking her arm, he helped her in. “Now I’m just your boyfriend.”
The warm water hit her sore body, making her wince. “Ow.”
Chuckling, he moved the dial and made it a little cooler then got in the shower with her. “Sorry.”
“You don’t look sorry.”
“You deserved it.”
She couldn’t argue with that. And anyway, the feeling of being used and abused was fucking hot. It’d been a long time since she’d felt this good.
No, actually, she’d never felt this good. No man had ever managed to satisfy her so thoroughly. Sex had been boring with her vanilla exes and kink had been hollow with random play partners.
But Ambrose . . . He blew her mind.
He took his time soaping her up, gently and carefully, like he was taking care of an injured kitten. When his hands ran over the welts on her ass, she gritted her teeth and moaned. He frowned and she wondered if he regretted hitting her so hard. She didn’t.
His words from a minute ago finally registered.
Now I’m just your boyfriend.
“So you’re my boyfriend, are you?” she asked, trying to sound cocky and indifferent, but wondering if it came out vulnerable, like she felt. Rejection was still a risk, and it knotted her stomach.
He looked up from where he was kneeling while washing her legs. “I think it’s time to label it that way, don’t you?”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Sure.”
With a satisfied look, he stood up then pointed the nozzle so it rinsed the soap off her body. Each time it hit her ass, it reminded her how well he’d managed her. How he didn’t take shit, but didn’t try to squash her fun either. That she could expect laughter with him but also the stern disciplinarian she needed.
She was starting to think that falling for someone wasn’t so bad. Sure, she felt a little out of control, but maybe that’s what love was. Free-falling and hoping someone would be there to catch you.
* * *
It was a little late to have Ambrose over, but he was coming anyway. She had to work tomorrow morning, so it was a good thing she wasn’t in the mood for sex. PMS did that to her. But Ambrose had practically been text-begging to see her. He’d sounded a little off, so she’d agreed.
Nerves made her already sore stomach worse. What was so urgent that he had to come over at ten at night on a Friday? She knew he had a work holiday party that night, and that dates weren’t allowed, much to her disappointment, but now she was worried something had happened.
Trying to resist pacing a hole in her living room floor, instead she poured herself a glass of wine to settle her anxiety. When a knock sounded at the door, she jumped and almost spilled it all over herself.
She opened the door, knowing it was Ambrose, and he stumbled in. Far from looking like a blue-collar guy gussied up for an uncomfortable office party, his tailored black designer suit made him look like a high-priced hitman, or a celebrity. His style was too staid for GQ, but, hell, the sight of him was enough to make a girl sit up and beg.
Too bad he was hammered.
“Um,” she said, watching him sway a little. “Hi.”
His eyes narrowed as he looked her over slowly. “You’re hot.”
She’d purposely worn oversized pajamas so she didn’t give him any ideas. “Uhh. Thanks.”
Something weird was definitely going on. He leaned in and hugged her, then sniffed her hair loudly. “Mmm. You smell like I remember.”
Yeah, she could smell him too. Alcohol. “You’re drunk.” She pushed away.
