I opened my mouth but shut it again. “In some areas, yes, though in my experience, too much control could be a bad thing.”
“Yeah.” A shadow crossed her face. “It really can.”
I knew I’d touched on her past, knew it by the lost and guilty look on her face.
“More grapes?” I held up the plate like I had the social skills of a seven year old and didn’t possess a doctorate degree.
“No.” She placed her hands on her stomach. “I think I’ve had enough food and drama for the night. Maybe I should just go to bed.”
Bed.
Satin sheets.
Red sheets.
Hell, no sheets, just the floor next to the bed, the wall, the stairs, anywhere I could take her — I wanted her writhing, shaking, moaning, licking? Too many verbs, too many actions I was unable to fulfill as my body grew hotter and tighter with the need to peel the dress from her body and touch her skin. My body leapt to attention at the mental image — any minute, and I was going to start panting.
I was probably going to go to hell for all the images flashing through my brain, images of me doing things to her that no professor — teacher, instructor — should ever want to do to his student. Yet, there we were on my desk naked. In my shower? Naked. On my yacht? Naked.
Groaning, I abruptly turned away from her and tried to calm my body down. She probably thought I was pissed — far from it, just so damn tired of being the perfect son, of doing the right thing. I wanted her. It wasn’t right; it was wrong, and for the first time in my life, I wanted the wrong. I wanted the bad. I wanted it more than truth. Give me the lie. Just give me her.
I was going to have to take a cold shower, maybe three. I was her professor. Her teacher. An instructor. At least for the semester. Sharing a bed? Not happening. And even if I wasn’t? She’d hate me for it. I’d hate me for it. And I could only imagine what my father would say if he ever discovered what I was truly doing back in Seattle.
I cleared my throat and turned back around. I grabbed the containers and shoved them back into the fridge before offering my hand. “Sounds like a plan. Let me just show you to your room.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Did everyone see?” I smirked as Mel leaned forward, her face pale with worry.
“Yeah.” Her lips were even white. “It got the most hits out of all of our posts on the website. The guy was completely horrified. He even called the police. His parents freaked, and…” She shivered. “Why? Why him?”
“His life needed more excitement.” I felt satisfied that I’d ruined another life, satisfied that I’d used Mel to do it, though she didn’t seem happy about it like she used to. That’s how bad choices start, though. Do you truly think a homicidal maniac wakes up and goes, hmm… think I’ll kill someone today? Hell no. It’s the tiny choices. The small things you think don’t matter. Stealing candy from a store, lying to your parents, stealing money, doing drugs, kicking a dog, drowning a turtle… what–the-hell-ever. It’s the small insignificant choices that lead to life-altering decisions. She had no idea when she said yes to that one dance with me that I was going to alter her — and now, she had no way out. —The Journal of Taylor B.
Lisa
IT WAS AWKWARD and tense, walking up the stairs to the second floor. Each click of my heels was another reminder that we were alone, just me and Tristan, or Mr. Blake. I wasn’t even sure what to call him, how to address him. On one hand, I was fiercely attracted to him; the other part of me was horrified that I’d just done something so stupid that he’d rejected me, yet offered me protection, something I’d shamelessly taken without arguing. That’s what fear does. It leads you up the stairway into the unknown with a sexy man following your every move.
When we reached the top of the stairs, I stopped, unsure of which way to turn. Two rooms spread out in front of me. To the right was the edge of a balcony overlooking the kitchen, and a few chairs pointed toward the large bay windows. A fireplace sat square in the middle. I wanted to be as far away from that balcony as possible.
I’d hated heights ever since that night.
They made me want to puke. As it was, my hands were shaking.
“Left,” Tristan whispered, and his hand grazed my lower back, just enough to let me know he was still there. My knees knocked together as I turned and walked in the direction he’d instructed. I tried to keep my head high. A few more steps and I could lock myself in the room and pretend that his touch didn’t affect me, that his kiss wasn’t still buzzing across my swollen lips.
“Here we are.” He stepped out from behind me and walked to a door then pushed it open.
The guest room was huge. A large king-sized bed dominated the middle. The wall facing the water wasn’t solid but made of glass from floor to ceiling. The windows allowed the moonlight to shimmer inside the room, casting a comforting glow on the white fluffy bed and matching white leather chairs. Clearly, the guy had a thing for the modern look.
Black-and-white pictures lined the walls, and a few candles were scattered around in organized chaos; either he had a heck of a decorator or had an eye for style.
I turned around the room then faced him.
Tristan was busy turning on the switch to the fireplace that appeared to also be visible on both sides, leading into the bathroom. When he turned to face me, his face had become indifferent once again, impossible to read. It made me nervous because I’d known a face like that, one that was emotionless.