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"Jesus Christ." He rocks back on his heels as if he's truly stunned. He stares at me for a second, and then shakes his head, mumbling, "I'm a fucking idiot. The answer was staring me in the face all along. I knew there was something familiar there, something I was missing." His eyes flash to mine. "Why didn't you tell me your real name?"
"Because I wasn't supposed to be there," I huff, refusing to be sidetracked. I'm the one who is angry here. He has to wait his turn to be mad. "Now, are you going to answer my question?"
"Which question?"
"What game are you playing, Jared?"
"I'm not playing a game, princess." He cocks his head to the side, frowning at me. "What makes you think I am? I waited as long as I could for you to show up yesterday morning. I was out of my mind, worried something might have happened to you."
Why do I feel so horribly guilty about that?
"I'm fine," I say, trying hard not to cave like a paper house. I want to cave though. "I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about my sister. What are you doing with her?"
"I've never touched your sister," he growls, narrowing his eyes. He steps around the desk toward me, but I back up a step, bumping into the open door. " Is that what you think of me? I may be an asshole, but I don't lie. I told you the other night, I don't date. I'm not with anyone, certainly not one of my students."
"That's not what I meant," I say, not doubting him. For some reason, I know he's telling me the truth. "You've made her miserable since she started school."
A flicker of guilt crosses his face.
"She's an incredible writer and an even more amazing person, but all you do is criticize her. There's a point when criticism stops being constructive, Jared. She hates college because of you."
"I know."
The fact that he doesn't argue with me snatches the wind right out of my sails . So does the regret in his voice. It reflects in his eyes and in the way he dips his head as if he's ashamed to meet my gaze. I expected Professor King, the asshole, not Jared Kingston, the charming, poetic prince.
"And now you're offering to write her a recommendation? If this is some game, I'm calling my brothers to help me kick your ass," I tell him, still a little mad. It would break my heart if they actually kicked his ass, but since I probably can't do it by myself, they're just going to have to help me. I can regret it in silence.
"It's not a game, princess," he swears, holding up his hands in silent entreaty. He expels a sharp breath, his expression grim. "I'm an asshole, but I'm not intentionally cruel. Your sister is one of the most gifted young writers to ever walk through the doors of one of my lectures. She has a real shot of winning the Braxton Prize. I just want to help her."
"Why?"
He grimaces at the suspicion in my voice and leans a hip against the side of his desk. "Because there's a point where criticism stops being constructive, and she hates college because of me. I swear to you, that was never my intention."
"Oh." I narrow my eyes on him, suddenly even more suspicious. "You figured out we were sisters and are doing this for me, aren't you?"
"What?" His brows furrow. His expression goes hard, his eyes narrowing on me. "Is that really what you think?"
"I don't know what I think!" I throw my hands up, frustrated because now I feel guilty again and I didn't even do anything wrong. "That's what I came here to find out."
"I didn't know she was your sister," he says, speaking quietly. "But I won't lie and say you didn't factor into my decision when I brought it up to her yesterday."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I spent a night in heaven with a princess and realized that I'm not worthy of being her daddy," he mutters, holding my gaze. The honesty in his eyes feels like little shards of glass in my heart. He really thinks he's not worthy of me. "I told you men would wage war against the devil to hold you in their arms. In this war, I'm the devil, sweet baby."
"You aren't the devil."
He snorts.
"Maybe Beelzebub."
His expression never changes, but I thought it was funny.
I take a step toward him, my anger dissipating. "You aren't the devil, Jared. You may be a dictator sometimes, but I also know you can be the sweetest man I've ever met. No one has ever made me feel like you do…did. Don't tell me that's not part of who you are too."
I cross to him, not stopping until I'm standing right in front of him, breathing in that scent that's haunted my dreams for the last two nights. I reach out and touch the spot in his cheek I memorized.
He groans and pulls me into his arms. They lock tight around me, sheltering me in the same sense of rightness I felt the other night, the same sense of belonging. With him, I don't feel restless and antsy. I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. I feel safe, adored…loved.
Even though I shouldn't, I eagerly tip my head back to meet his advance. Our lips touch. The heat between us blazes to life in an instant, scorching me from head to toe. How is it possible for one little kiss to make me so crazy? I don't know. I also don't know how I end up pressed against the wall by the door with my legs wrapped around his waist and my hands in his hair. But I do.
There's a frantic edge to our hungry kisses, an unspoken desperation, as if we both know this is wrong but can't stop ourselves. He rocks his hips into mine, growling against my lips. His hands travel down my back, over my ass. They grip me hard, bouncing me up and down on him.
