His hands slide down my lower back as he pulls my hips harder against his, pinning me to him. “Don’t be like this. Come on. We’re having a good time.”
My palms flatten against his chest, and I try to push myself off of him, but he’s too strong. He won’t let me go. The second his grip loosens, it travels to the straps of my bra, tugging them down my shoulders. I try to yank them from his fingers, only he won’t let go and one of them snaps and breaks.
“Oh, shit.” Thane’s eyes study mine as he waits for my reaction.
Saying nothing, I climb over his console and into the front seat, searching in the dark for my shirt. I’m leaving.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Take me home.” I’m a fucking moron. “I actually believed for four straight days that you were into me.”
“What are you talking about? I am into you.”
If he truly liked me, he’d have taken my hands in his, kissed me, and said he’d wait until I was ready. Guess the whole gentleman shtick was nothing more than a ruse.
“No. You brought me out here because you thought I was going to fuck you, and the second I said I wasn’t, you got all pissy about it. So, take me fucking home.”
“What did you think we were going to do, Halston, huh? You and me, alone, out here? You didn’t think it was going to come to this?”
“Shameless.” My arms tighten across my chest. “You’re a real fucking winner.”
“Stop overreacting.”
“I’m not overreacting. I’m over you.” I say, pulling my shirt over my head.
He’s still in the backseat, cozied up in the middle and not so much as moving an inch.
“You going to drive me home or what?” I ask.
“Your aunt and uncle think you’re staying at Emily’s,” he says. “What are you going to tell them?”
His question is rooted in nothing more than concern for his own self. He’s afraid he’ll get in trouble if I tell them the truth.
“Don’t worry,” I huff. “I won’t be telling anybody about this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rolling my eyes, I tug the hem of my shirt down. “That this was a mistake. One I’d like to forget.”
His expression is bathed in genuine shock. I’m sure I’m the only girl he’s ever “hung out” with who has so much as dared to imply that getting hot and heavy in the backseat of Thane Bennett’s BMW is something they’d sooner forget.
Yanking the door handle, I step out of the car, which sends him scrambling to get out of the backseat. Finally.
“Where are you going?” he asks, his athletic body squeezing out from behind the backseat of his coupe.
“Home.” With my bag hanging across my body and my arms folded, I trudge through a muddy cornfield, toward the twinkle of city lights in the distance. My feet sink into the soft earth with each step, and I’ll be trudging down gravel roads and through weedy thickets, but home is just a few miles from here.
I’d rather walk for the next hour than spend another minute next to Thane.
Chapter 25
Ford
I’m half asleep on the sofa Friday night when the faintest knock on my door has me convinced I’m dreaming.
Until I hear it again.
Peeling myself up, I finger comb my hair into place and shuffle to the door. If it’s Melissa fucking Gunderson, I’m going to scream.
But it’s not Melissa.
Quite the contrary.
“Halston.” She’s the last person I expected to see standing at my doorstep at eleven thirty on a Friday night, but there she is, her clothes and hair disheveled, and her shoes covered in mud.
“I need a place to stay.”
“And your principal’s house seemed like the best option?” I lift a brow, pretending that’s the more pressing concern when really I want to know why the fuck she looks worse for the wear.
“Yeah.” She pushes past me, showing herself in. Halston slides her dirty shoes off and leaves them on the rug by the door. “Believe it or not.”
Glancing outside, I make sure no one saw her come inside, and then I lock the door. “What happened? You okay?”
Halston rolls her eyes before taking a seat in my chair. “Don’t want to talk about it.”
“If I’m taking you in, I need to know why,” I say, a million scenarios running through my head. Every part of me knows this is wrong, and if anyone caught us, they’d never believe that my intentions were noble. But every part of me knows I can’t shut her out.
“My aunt and uncle think I’m staying with a friend. I was really going to stay with a guy.” She exhales, running her tongue along her full lips. They’re swollen, like she spent the last several hours making out. Her elbows rest on her knees, her body hunched forward. “Long story short, he thought he was going to fuck me, and I asked him to take me home. When he wouldn’t, I got out of the car and walked … through a muddy cornfield … down a gravel road ... and into town.”
Exhaling, I hide my relief.
“Smart,” I say.
Her emerald gaze flicks to mine. “I don’t need your validation.”
Smirking, I place my palms up. “All right.”
Reaching for a book on my coffee table, she examines the cover. “A Wrinkle in Time. Why would you read this depressing shit?”
“It’s a classic.”
“It’s sad as fuck.” She tosses it aside, reaching for another book, making faces when she doesn’t find one that suits her liking.
“I have more upstairs,” I say. “In my library. But you can’t go up there.”
She arches a brow. “Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Tossing her head back, she laughs. “Nothing about me being here with you right now is appropriate. I think we passed that a long time ago, don’t you?”
“I’m sitting here.” I drag my teeth along my lower lip, watching how she brushes her hair over her shoulder and tilts her head as she checks out my living room. “You’re over there. I’d say we’re being pretty fucking appropriate right now.”
“Then can I see your library?”
“No.”
Her brows meet. “What are you worried about?”
That I’ll get her upstairs, mere feet from my bedroom. That I’ll want to kiss her. That I won’t be able to stop. That I’ll lose all fucking control. That everything I’ve ever worked for will go down in flames because of a young woman named Halston Kessler.
“I’m not worried about anything,” I lie. “But you’re still not going upstairs.”
“You’re really high strung. Explains why you’re such a control freak.”
I shrug, refusing to apologize for my inherent need for power over every situation.
“When was the last time you got laid?” she asks.
“I’m not discussing my sex life with you. Not anymore.”
“I don’t know what the difference is between now and a few weeks ago,” she says. “I’m still Absinthe. You’re still Kerouac. Only this time we’re in the same room, sitting here trying to pretend we’re not ridiculously attracted to each other and that you haven’t wondered what it would feel like to touch me.”
I exhale, refusing to dignify her with a response.
“Admit it. You’ve thought about me.” She drags a fingertip down the front of her twisted lips, fighting a chuckle. “My mouth on your cock. Your fingers in my pussy. I know I’ve thought about it. So much.”
Glancing away, I pull in a tight breath and let it go. “I’m your principal and you’re my student. I would never touch you. I would never cross that line.”
“But what if you could? What if you knew with one-hundred percent certainty that we would never get caught?” She crosses her legs, angling her body toward me. “Would you do it?”
“No.”
“I would.” Her bee stung lips tug up at one side. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m just being honest.”