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But he’s right here and he’s said my name.
I’m not exactly in the business of ignoring my professors. I’m someone who does everything that’s asked of me. Besides, I’d be lying to myself if I pretended I wasn’t intrigued. The hurricane around us swells, cracks; a shiver runs the length of my spine in anticipation.
He’s my lecturer. My teacher. So prohibited from me, from the things I want. But, oh, how I want them.
And therein lies the problem. I don’t do illicit. I don’t do naughty.
Ever.
But Connor makes me want all the naughty, all the time.
‘Yes?’ I ask, the word throbbing with expectation despite my efforts to quell my racing pulse.
‘Shut the door,’ he murmurs without looking up from the paper he’s reading.
It’s close to being an order, and I don’t particularly like his tone. I bite back on the desire to remind him to say ‘please’, settling for a noise of disapproval and impatience instead.
I move back to the door and then click it into place.
‘Should I lock it, sir?’ I ask, knowing on some instinctive level that I’m playing with fire by addressing him in this manner, and not caring.
He looks at me then. Green eyes as vivid as the sunlit ocean impale me, making movement difficult. I stay near the door because I fear what I’m capable of. I fear that the temptation to succumb to this overpowering sense of desire and attraction will be too strong. I need the strength of the door—a tether to the real world—at my back.
‘That won’t be necessary.’ He stands and I am again reminded of his size. The sheer breadth of his frame, his muscled body. Does he work out? When would he have the time? Surely his job—his real job, not this university gig—is too demanding?
My eyes flick around the room.
We are alone.
Me and Connor Hughes.
The realisation brings the desert sands back to my mouth. It is dry and chalky and my breath is like overheated vapour. A single droplet of perspiration slinks down my spine. I feel it because my body is hyper-aware of every single sensation.
‘You disagree with my assessment.’ He comes to stand directly in front of me. Just slightly too close—not too close in a bad way, just too close for clarity of mind. His face is only inches from mine. Up close I can see that he has a few freckles across the bridge of his nose, and his lashes are longer and darker than I’d appreciated from the safety of the third row.
‘Your assessment?’ I ask. I told you, he’s too close for any clarity of thought.
‘About the chain of evidence.’
‘Oh.’ Crap. I don’t know. I can’t think straight with him right there! I know I have opinions on this but where the hell are they right now? I suck in a breath—big mistake—the air tastes of him. My body rejoices, and instantly wants more. ‘I...’
‘Yes?’ His eyes roam my face and I feel like he can see so much more than I want him to. I feel like he can look at me and peel away all the layers of who I am to see what I used to be. I feel exposed, and I can’t even say with certainty whether I hate that or not. Because I also feel...fascinated and fascinating, and addicted to that sensation.
‘I’m sorry.’ I dredge up my best smile. ‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about.’
He is unrelenting and for a moment I catch an insight of what it would be like to be in the witness stand, being questioned by this man. ‘You felt my take on the chain of evidence to be...disgusting?’
So he heard. Heat stains my cheeks, warming me up like a paraffin lamp. I might be a little overwhelmed by his nearness but I’m not dumb and I stand by what I feel. ‘I think...’ I take a step back and collide with the door. It’s still there, tethering me, reassuring me. Reminding me who I am and why I can’t be so completely caught up in this swirling storm of need. ‘I think it’s disgusting to discredit hardworking police officers in order to get criminals back on the street.’
His laugh is a gruff sound. ‘Hardworking police officers should be above reproach, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. And I think most are. But I also think it’s very easy to confuse someone on the witness stand. To make them seem uncertain about events that they do actually remember clearly.’
‘As a defence barrister, that’s not my problem.’
‘Justice isn’t your problem?’
His eyes narrow. God, he’s hot. My body is squirming and I fantasise about pushing away from the door and closing the distance between us. I fantasise about wrapping my legs around his waist. I’m not very tall and I’ve always been slender, and Connor Hughes is a man mountain. He would easily be able to hold me around his waist, fisting his hands in my hair, pushing my dress up.
