Page 11 of Lessons in Touch

Her answer makes sense, and I nod, encouraging her to continue.

“That’s a mature perspective, Rose. The Devereaux wielded power to build empires, but also to protect their own. You’ll need to balance both.”

I get up and move to a bookshelf to retrieve a volume on corporate governance. I’m using the moment to steady myself. Her presence—her intelligence, her softness—unsettles me in ways I didn’t anticipate.

I’m still hard, and I know she can see it. I move slowly, waiting for her to take in the sight. Then I look at her.

Her face is bright red, and her fingers are clutched tightly in her lap. She saw me. And I love it.

When I return, I shift the conversation to something lighter, testing her, testing our connection.

“When you’re not studying empires, what do you enjoy, Rose? Books, perhaps? You mentioned literature in your admission essay,” I lean against the desk, closer to her now, the space between us charged with possibility.

She smiles—a small, genuine curve of her lips. I know that she’s trying not to look.

“Yes, but I also love art, paintings in particular, and history, especially if we’re talking about Ancient Greece.”

Her laugh is soft, almost self-conscious, and it stirs something warm in me. I feel a longing to know her beyond these lessons.

“Ancient Greece,” I repeat, crossing my arms. “The ancient Greeks had an impressive culture. Any dreams beyond Wolfswood? What does Rose Devereaux aspire to?”

“I want to build something of my own—maybe a foundation, something to help people who don’t have the chances I’ve been given. It’s ambitious, I know.”

“It’s admirable,” I say, and I mean it.

Her passion, her desire to create rather than merely inherit, makes her more than an heiress. She’s a woman with vision. I want to be part of that vision, to guide her, perhaps even stand beside her.

The thought is dangerous, but I can’t dismiss it.

To test her confidence, I set a new challenge.

“Stand, Rose. Recite the key Devereaux acquisitions from 1900 to 1950. Slowly, clearly.”

I step away from the desk and circle her chair at a measured pace. The exercise is meant to sharpen her poise. But I’m acutely aware of the tension it creates, the way her body shifts under my scrutiny.

She rises and smoothes her skirt again, just for me. Then she begins.

“1902, the Atlantic Shipping Company. 1915, the Manchester docks.” Her words are steady, but when she reaches 1937, she falters. “The… Westmore estate?”

I pause behind her, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume. Roses, of course, what else? We’re so close nowthat I can see every curve of her neck, every strand of hair that gathers at her nape, every fiber of her creamy sweater. She can feel me, I know it. Her breathing grows heavier, and she shifts a little from one leg to the other. Can her pussy feel me as well? Perhaps, yes.

“Try again. For me,” I say, and my words are soft but firm. It’s a gentle command, but it carries more weight than I intended.

She inhales, then corrects herself.

“The Westerly estate, 1937.” Her success sparks a surge of pride in me, and I nod, returning to face her.

“Well done. You’re learning quickly.”

“Thank you, Professor, I…”

Before she can continue, the door swings open, and Elliot walks in.

“Gabriel, oh… I didn’t know you had company. And what a company it is!”

His smirk is infuriating. I hate the way his eyes flick to Rose with a knowing glint.

“Elliot, your timing is impeccable, as always. We’re in the middle of a lesson.” He raises his hands in mock surrender.