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‘Condom.’ The word is husky. I’m impatient, waiting for him to produce one from his wallet and then I run it down his length. My fingers are shaking with the urgency of my need for him. I slide my underwear down my legs and straddle him on the sofa, taking him deep as I slide over him. He throws his head back with relief, his skin white beneath his tan. His fingers dig into my hips as I move myself over him.
He drops his head forward and I move faster. This is not a seduction. This is sex. I am at a fever-pitch of feeling within a minute. I roll my hips and dig my fingers into his shoulders as I explode. It is only when he lifts a hand to my mouth and covers it that I realise I’ve been crying out and these walls are probably paper-thin. At my look of shock, he smiles and begins to move once more, making me ride him, making me soar with all new feelings. I tip over the edge, my orgasm intense, and he comes with me, his eyes holding mine as he explodes.
It is a primal, animalistic, silent coming together. Our angry foreplay after days without each other. We are like oil and flame—explosion inevitable.
But this, being here in his office, while incredibly sexy is also stupid as fuck. When euphoria subsides, I stand up on legs that are shaking in a wholly new way and reach for my underwear. The moment I bend down, there is a knock on his door.
‘You in there, Connor?’
His eyes meet mine and he swears under his breath. I am shaking, terrified. There is no escape. He lifts a finger to his lips and I freeze, deathly still, completely silent.
‘Connor?’ the disembodied voice persists.
Then another adds, ‘I thought I saw him go in there. Maybe he was just picking something up.’
‘Yeah. Okay, I’ll give him a call later.’
I’m jittery as anything. Even after it’s been silent for a full minute, I still feel like we’re hovering on the edge of a warzone, wearing fluorescent jackets, begging to be hit.
I stare at him and don’t move until he does. He stands, stalking across to me, taking my underwear from fingertips which are numb.
He crouches down then and holds my pants for me to step into. I do so, but I can’t believe how close we just came to being caught.
‘That was so stupid,’ I say and I’m angry again. Furious, but with myself now. ‘We can’t do this.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If we get caught, my God, Connor. If anyone found out...’ My whole life flashes before me. The work I put into being accepted into LLS. The support my parents have given me. Their expectations, their pride. My own desperate need to graduate and get an amazing training contract placement, to establish myself as a success in my own right.
I slept with Connor in part because I wanted to run from my ‘good girl’ instincts, but it turns out you can’t hide from yourself.
‘I don’t think I can do this.’
He stares at me and his expression runs the gamut from argumentative to acceptance in the space of three seconds. ‘You’re right.’ There’s resignation in his voice. ‘That was spectacularly stupid.’
* * *
After Thursday’s class I’m slow to pack up. I am, I suppose, waiting to see what happens. We haven’t spoken since I left his office, days earlier. Since I told him we can no longer do that... Every time I’ve thought of how we were in his office, though, need has hammered me from the inside out.
I stare at him from my seat without really realising that’s what I’m doing. He’s putting away his lecture notes, his iPad, and the room is slowly emptying of students. But I don’t move. I watch him, completely entranced by his economy of movement. I imagine him without the shirt. I see his chest, covered in swirling ink. Stories and mysteries in all those markings.
My stomach twists.
‘Miss Amorelli,’ he says without lifting his head. My heart surges. But we’re not yet alone, and now I desperately want to be.
When I don’t answer, he shifts his gaze to my face. Fire—invisible but no less potent for that—flashes between us.
‘Would you come here, please?’ he says, turning his attention back to the desk. There are other students still milling about, so I make sure to flatten any look of anticipation or desire from my features—aiming instead for nonchalant.
‘We need to have a meeting about your group assignment,’ he says, barely looking at me.
‘Oh. The one I handed in last week?’
Now his eyes briefly spark with mine. ‘Is there another group assignment for this class that I’m not aware of?’ It’s a joke, but it comes off as sarcastic. It hurts.
Perhaps that shows in my face because his expression softens and a tight smile passes across his face, and then I am aware of him sliding something across his desk. I look down at it curiously. It’s an envelope with my initials on the front.
‘Come to my office tomorrow morning,’ he say
