Page 8 of Beneath the Beauty (Beauty 2)
She understood then why he kept her bent over for his admission. It was the veil of confession, distance and darkness allowing the words to come out. The fact that he’d admitted it at all cut her to the quick. He’d been willing to accept the sex he didn’t believe he deserved, but he would release her of any further obligation.
She turned, ignoring his damned divide, and framed his face in her hands. Both sides, one chiseled jaw gently bristled with hair, the other wavy and lacking in hair. Surprise flickered in his deep brown eyes.
“Damn you,” she said. “I had sex with you because I wanted to. Because I wanted you, and unless you want an argument on your hands, you damn well better not forget it.”
He blinked, taken aback. Well, she was too. A little shell-shocked, a little desperate. In some ways, they were close, intimate. Certainly the sex was amazing. But in other ways, she couldn’t break through. His scars were just the surface. He still suffered nightmares for what had happened there. He would always be chained by a past she couldn’t unlock.
“Just let me in,” she whispered, a breath away from his lips.
His eyes searched hers. “All of me, Erin. You already have all of me.”
Even while the sweet words sent joy through her heart, sadness weighed her down. This was all he could give her, he meant. And it would have to be enough, for now.
The sound of a friendly shout from down the hall pulled her attention to the present, the physical. She quickly arranged her clothes back into place. A rueful smile curved Blake’s lips as he did the same and tossed the paper towel into the trash.
She raised an eyebrow. “Do you always keep that handy for sex?”
He grinned, which looked charmingly crooked. In reality, it was the scars that tugged one side of his mouth, but that lopsided smile never failed to tighten her chest.
“Just cleaning up,” he said, resting on the edge of his desk. “It’s so stuffy in these old offices.”
“I think it’s all that intellect,” she teased. “Can’t help but get a little full of yourselves.”
“Ah, but you’re the ones with the fresh ideas. We had our chance to change the world. Now it’s your turn.”
“You talk like you’re so old.”
“I am so old.”
She snorted. He had maybe ten years on her and kept in better shape besides. “You keep up pretty well.”
His self-satisfied chuckle placated her. One day he would believe in them as much as she did. Until then…well, until then she would enjoy every second they spent together.
She plucked the roll of paper towels from beside him and replaced it on the bookshelf. While there, she scanned the older texts that she imagined had been here before. One shelf was noticeably brighter than the others—recently cleaned, no doubt—and contained a few books she recognized from his house.
The other half had the composition notebooks he was always scribbling his ideas in, new and stacked up. He would write something brilliant, an off-hand thought that she would consider from every angle before confirming it was correct.
His mind was a treasure-trove, and his body, she was finding, was the map. She could follow the sleek lines, traverse the hard-packed muscles and salty earth and learn him inch by inch, but she’d be no closer to her goal. Great sex would never be enough for her. She wanted him.
CHAPTER THREE
Footsteps came from outside the door, rapidly approaching. Another student to see Blake? She wasn’t sure, but she had taken up enough of his time.
“I’ll get going,” she said with a small smile.
He groaned. “It’s going to kill me being so close to you, knowing you’re on the same campus, maybe even in the same building, but not able to touch you.”
She grinned. “Maybe I can visit you in office hours. Not too often, mind you, but I’m sure you have a few more lessons to teach me.”
He laughed, and she would have laughed with him, except she was too stunned by the sight of him happy with abandon. So distracted that she only barely registered the turning of the office doorknob.
The door slammed open, rattling the bookshelf and sending dust into the air. She coughed, taking in the woman who stood in the doorway. Even if another student had come, Erin would have expected her to wait outside, as she had done, or at least to knock. But now she saw this was no student. The woman was older, dressed in a sleek suit jacket and pencil skirt. Her hair was a coppery red, pale enough to border on strawberry blonde. Her skin had the translucence of a natural redhead peppered with freckles.
And Erin knew her.
“Professor Jenkins,” she said in surprise.
Professor Jenkins turned to her. “Erin. What are you doing here?”
