I smile into the phone, drowsy and satisfied . . . for now.
“Mia.”
Blinking, I swallow and whisper, “Oh, God. I can’t believe I did that. I’m so sor—”
“Don’t go anywhere,” he growls. “I’ll be there soon to take care of this . . . this indiscretion.”
I’VE DRIFTED OFF waiting for him when the door slams open, the knob hitting the plaster of the wall just on the other side of the bedroom. Startled, I sit up, pushing my little skirt down my legs, rubbing my eyes as Ansel storms into the bedroom.
“What the f**k do you think you’re doing?” he roars.
I scoot back to the headboard, disoriented and heart pounding as my brain slowly catches up to the adrenaline racing through my bloodstream. “I . . . you told me not to go anywhere.”
He stalks toward me, stopping at the side of the bed and tugging his tie loose with an impatient jerk. “You broke into my house—”
“The door was open—”
“—and got onto my bed.”
“I . . .” I look up at him, eyes widening. He looks genuinely upset, but then reaches forward, reminding me it’s all a game by gently sweeping his thumb across my bottom lip.
“Mia, you broke about a hundred university rules and several laws tonight. I could have you arrested.”
I push up onto my knees, sliding my hands up his chest. “I didn’t know how else to get your attention.”
He closes his eyes, moving his fingers to my jaw, down my neck to my bare shoulders. I’m wearing nothing but a short skirt and underwear beneath, and his palms slide over my br**sts before he pulls his hands back, forming tight fists.
“You don’t think I notice you in class?” he growls. “Up front, your eyes on me the entire hour, lips so full and red all I can think about is how they would feel on my tongue, my neck, my cock?”
I lick my lips, bite the lower one. “I can show you.”
He hesitates, eyes narrowing. “I’d be fired.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
His conflict feels so genuine: he closes his eyes, jaw tight. When they open again, he leans in and says, “If you think of this as rewarding you for breaking into my house . . .”
“I don’t . . .” But he sees the lie in my face. I’m getting everything I want and my dark smile makes him growl, cup my br**sts again with rougher hands.
My skin rises to meet his touch, and inside, my muscles and vital organs twist as if being wrung out, pushing heat down my chest, into my belly where it pools low, down between my legs. I want him so much I feel restless and urgent, this elemental need clawing in my throat. I dig my hands into his hair, holding him to me and barely letting him move a breath away from my skin.
But it’s all a ruse. He pulls free of my grip easily, leaning back to look at me with convincing fire in his eyes.
“I had a lot of work on my desk when you called with your little show earlier.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Being near him makes me liquid, my insides slithering and molten.
His eyes flutter closed, nostrils flaring. “What do you think it did to my concentration, knowing you’re here thinking of me, touching skin that could be mine to touch?”
With his eyes anchoring mine, and to make his point, he slides a rough hand into my underwear, two fingers searching, dipping inside and finding me soaked. “Who made you this wet?”
I don’t answer. I close my eyes, pushing into his hand before reaching to grip his wrist and f**k his fingers if he won’t move. I’m on fire, everywhere and especially here, drowning with a clawing need to come, for him to make me come.
With a jerk of his arm he pulls his fingers from me and reaches to push them into my mouth, pressing my taste onto my tongue. His hand grips my jaw, fingers curled into the hollow of my cheeks to hold my mouth open.
“Who. Made you. Wet.”
“You,” I manage around his intrusive fingers and he pulls back, plucking at my bottom lip with an index finger, a thumb. “I thought about you all day. Not just when I called.” I stare into his eyes, so full of anger and lust it takes my breath away. They soften as I continue to hold his gaze, and I can feel both of us stutter in our roles. I want to melt into him, feel his warm weight over me. “I think about you all day long.”
He can see the truth in my expression and his eyes drop to my lips, his hands spread gently across my sides. “You do?”
“And I don’t care about the rules,” I tell him. “Or that you have a lot of work. I want you to ignore it.”
His jaw tenses.
I say, “I want you. The semester will be over soon.”
“Mia . . .” I can see the conflict in his eyes, and does he feel it, too? This longing so enormous it shoves everything else inside my chest into a tight corner? Our time together is almost over, too. How can I possibly be away from him in only a couple of weeks?
What are we going to do?
My heart turns, pounding so hard it’s no longer a safe rhythm. It’s cymbals crashing and the deep heavy pulse of the bass drum. It is thrashing beneath my ribs. I know what this feeling is. He needs to know.
But is it too soon? I’ve been here barely a month. “Ansel . . . I—”
His lips crash over mine, tongue pushing my mouth open, tasting, rolling up against my teeth. I press up, hungry for the flavor of him, of man and ocean and heat.
“Don’t say it,” he says into my mouth, somehow knowing I was going to put something sincere and intense out there. Pulling back, he searches my eyes frantically, pleading. “I can’t play rough if you say that tonight. D’accord?”