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Pietro puts a hand on my waist and leans forward, kissing my cheek.
I feel Connor’s harsh glare.
‘Sunday.’ I nod, watching as Pietro turns and leaves the building.
Connor is still behind me. It takes every single ounce of my strength not to speak my mind. But I’m furious!
‘Where’s your office?’ I ask, the words stony, my eyes not meeting his.
‘Second floor. The McMahon wing.’
‘Fine.’ I move in that direction without looking at him. I opt for the stairs instead of the lift, moving up them quickly then turning right. Classrooms run halfway down the corridor before giving way to a faculty lunch room and then several offices. His is the second from the end. I stand to the side of the door. He’s right behind me. He pauses, not looking at me, either, and then pulls a set of keys from his pocket, sliding one into the door and unlocking it before stepping back.
‘After you.’
I shoulder my way inside, taking brief note of the layout. A desk, leather sofa, a chair, laptop and a window with a view of Holborn. It’s a nice office. Not huge, but elegantly furnished, and yet I bet it’s nothing compared to his usual corporate digs.
I hear the door click shut and spin around, ready to let fly. But the look on his face arrests me. I am frozen.
He is staring at me like I am his only chance for survival. His need is so fierce that, for a moment, everything else evaporates from my mind. The air around us thickens, anger transforms into desire, but then I’m angry again.
‘Why am I here, Connor?’
He takes a step towards me. ‘Who was that?’
I’m tempted to tell him to go to hell, but then I remember asking him this exact same question a few nights earlier, about the woman in the red dress. His curiosity is natural.
‘A friend,’ I say simply.
‘You saw him on Sunday?’ he prompts, scanning my face.
‘Yes.’ I don’t know why I’m being so non-communicative. I certainly don’t want to mislead Connor but I don’t like the way I’ve been hauled to his office like I’ve done something wrong.
‘Let me be clear about something,’ he says with a nod, and suddenly the man who was looking at me as though I were his dying breath has disappeared and I am faced with Connor Hughes, legal genius. He is calm and analytical. ‘I’m not interested in being a fill-in for some other guy. If you’re seeing him, or anyone else, go fuck them, not me.’
I draw in a shocked breath.
He moves a step closer. A muscle is jerking at the base of his jaw. ‘You don’t leave my class early just so you can run your social life.’
The sheer injustice of his accusation is infuriating. ‘I had to get my laptop back off Pietro,’ I snap angrily. ‘He came out of his way to bring it to me so I had to fit in with his timings, okay?’
‘Why did he have the laptop?’
‘I left it in his car on Sunday,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘He’s a good friend of my cousin’s and always comes to our family lunch. He drops me home most weeks.’
Connor’s eyes narrow slightly. ‘Which brings me back to my original point. If you’re seeing him, that’s fine. But we’re done.’
I don’t even want to analyse why the threat makes me ridiculously pleased—the inference that there’s a ‘we’ and that we’re not currently ‘done’. It’s stupid.
‘I’m not seeing Pietro,’ I say, but I am still angry. ‘But we’ve spent one night together, Connor. You have no right to act like a possessive husband.’
He angles his jaw, as if in silent concession of the point, and then he moves the final step towards me so that his body presses into mine. He pushes me back against the wall, trapping me, and I feel that now familiar, insatiable need to be with him burning through me. ‘I saw you with him and I felt... I feel possessive.’ His eyes bore into mine and I feel a hint of what it would be like to have the full force of his attention in the courtroom. How hard it would be to be questioned by him in a legal setting. ‘If you’re with me, you’re with only me.’
His jealousy is palpable. I wish it annoyed me, but it doesn’t. It’s a rush and I know how easily I could get addicted to having all of Connor’s attention and desire wrapped around me.
‘I want you.’ The words are driven by a dark compulsion, almost as if ripped from him against his will. My eyes flick to the door and he nods. ‘It’s locked.’
I don’t need to be told twice. My hands are at his pants, unbuttoning them, loosening the belt, sliding down the zip. I rush them down at the same time I push him backwards, to the sofa. He’s so hard.
