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After putting my body through it, it feels good to just move for fun.
Awareness prickles the back of my neck. An ominous chill coils between my shoulder blades. I hear no noise outside of the music playing in my ears, but I feel the air shift behind me. There’s someone there, I can sense it in the way the energy changes.
I wonder if it’s Rex, come to intimidate me when there’s no one to interrupt us. I wouldn’t put it past him.
It’s late, dark, and I’m alone, but I refuse to be afraid. I continue to dance as if nothing is wrong but imperceptibly, I change my grip on the handle of my épée. When it’s clenched tightly in my fist, I rip my headphones out and whip around with my arm fully extended.
In an instant, I have the pointe of my sword up against the intruder’s Adam’s apple, my eyes momentarily locked in on that patch of tanned skin before I flick my gaze up to meet his.
Shock ripples down my back when an icy gaze connects with mine.
Tristan stands there, tall, furious, and so fucking handsome that my heart manages to flutter even through the walls of the impenetrable enclosure I keep it locked behind.
I don’t know how long we stay like this, frozen in this moment, separated by a few feet with my sword at his neck, but the seconds stretch on excruciatingly by.
His eyes rake over my face, the anger in them searing my skin. I don’t look away. My heartbeat thrums so loudly in my ears that for a second, I wonder if he can hear it.
But then he takes a step towards me, pressing the épée deeper into his skin. He doesn’t flinch or give any sign that he even notices it, let alone feels it. My stomach pitches when he opens his mouth and finally speaks.
His jaw is tight, his voice rough with anger, his words delivered like an insult.
“Jenny, the graphic designer.”
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Chapter 11
Tristan
“Jenny, the graphic designer,” I snarl.
Nera.
Her name is Nera. The beautiful woman who I’ve thought about nonstop over the past two weeks is actually a beautifulgirland my student.
My throat tightens, not because of the pressure she continues to exert on my neck with her sword, but because I suddenly realize how much I’ve fucked myself.
I’m supposed to be staying out of trouble, and specifically staying celibate, and I’ve unknowingly gone and slept with one of my students.
If there was a Fucking Up event at the Olympics, I’d have more medals in the sport than Michael Phelps in swimming.
Her lips part slightly when I speak, the one sign that my words have affected her in any way. She looks as delectable as she had naked and laid out on my mattress.
Then her mouth flattens into a thin line and her eyes narrow at me over the blade of her sword as anger replaces surprise.
“Gary, the lawyer,” she declares, grimacing like the words have a bad taste to them. “So, you do remember me.”
How could I forget?
I slap the thin blade of her sword away from my neck but with a quick and deft flick of the wrist that shows her adroitness in the sport, she has the pointe right back up against my throat.
With a touch, she presses it further into my neck, a warning meant to make it clear that she’s in charge here.
My cock hardens in my trousers, excited by her assertiveness as much as the last time we met.
My physical reaction makes me even angrier. My dick hasn’t gotten the memo yet that I shouldn’t and can’t find anything about her attractive and very fuckable.
I followed her here after classes ended and waited hours until she was alone to confront her. To find a way to make her keep her mouth shut about what happened in Geneva.
