Page 11 of Broken Beauty (Beauty 3)
She loved what happened with him. Every time, every way. On the outside he was a somber man, dark and serious. Brooding. All he needed was a fire-charred manor or windy cliffs to complete the picture. But the man within was so very different…so much lighter. He played with her, he laughed. He teased her to the brink of endurance and then gave her more than she’d imagined.
Even now he found a way to make this new. His tongue against her clit—as if it could ever get old. But this wasn’t like the time before or the one before that. He nipped at the inside of her thighs and then soothed her with a luscious lick to her reddened skin. He swiped at the slick lips of her sex—so quickly she’d think he hadn’t done it at all, until the shock and pleasure ran up her spine.
“No more teasing,” she gasped.
“Are you sure? I think you like the teasing.”
“I can’t. I can’t.”
Two fingers inside her, homed directly on the spot, and it was too much. Far too much, so she arched herself up, crying out, “Wait. Stop.”
“Well, which is it? Should I stop or make you come?”
“Please, Blake.”
She heard his breath catch. When he spoke, his voice had fallen two octaves. “Yes. Again.”
“Blake.” Her mind was a blur, at the center of a tornado and watching the storm swirl around her. She couldn’t have moved, and God, she didn’t want to. He was the calm and the storm all at once, both peaceful and tragic, both beautiful in their own way. “Please.”
“Say it again,” he said, and she couldn’t remember what he wanted.
“More. Yes,” she babbled. “Blake.”
He pushed her knees up and back with both hands. “Say Please, Blake.”
She was unable to move like this, with her bent legs tucked against her chest, bound by the tight constraints of her own body and his unyielding hands on her knees.
“Please.” She swallowed. “Blake.”
“Again.”
She sobbed softly. “Please, Blake.”
Without removing his hands from her legs, he lined up his cock. The head felt impossibly broad and she so exposed. In a smooth thrust, he pushed inside. He gave her exactly what she wanted, as he always would. Whether in bed or in life, whether her body or her heart, she could always trust in him to fulfill her. It poured into her, his love and admiration, leaving only a little room for doubts. A very small pla
ce where she hoped she was doing the same good for him.
* * *
Blake looked over his lecture notes. Again. He already knew the outline forwards and backwards. He could theorize and expound for hours on every point listed—and had done so, in email exchanges and phone calls with old friends and a few new ones in his seclusion since the explosion. He knew the nuances of the material, he felt passionately about the real-life impact. In Erin’s slang, he had this on lock.
But he couldn’t shake the disquiet. That fear he was making a mistake. The fear that it would all blow up in his face, though that had already happened—literally. What could be worse than the pain of first-degree burns and losing his teammates in a single blast? Of having his fiancée break things off when he returned home and losing the ability to follow in his father’s footsteps as a senator?
All he had to do now was stand in front of thirty grad students and ignore the way their gazes would nervously dart away from his face. The small classroom had a single large table with chairs gathered around and cluttered into the corners. A desk was at the front, but the whole effect was intimate. Perfect for the discussions that were common in advanced graduate classes. A little too close for comfort, considering.
Maybe his nerves had more to do with a certain student in particular.
God, Erin. He was crazy about her. She needed this class and he needed this job—this chance to re-enter society on a temporary, part-time basis. He’d looked up the university bylaws to be certain, and surprisingly there was no specific language forbidding it. Still, he assumed the clause on professional behavior would preclude everything he did to her sweet body each night. And again, the next morning.
Fuck.
He should quit. Confess a conflict of interest to the dean and walk out. And leave them hanging with no one to teach this course… It was professional suicide. He’d get blacklisted from every university in the country. Not to mention all the students whose schedules and graduation plans would go haywire if this class fell through. Including Erin. But if something went wrong…
He stood. He’d quit and deal with things how he always did—head-on. Anything was better than jeopardizing his relationship with her.
The papers slid haphazardly onto the chipped rosewood desk as he stood. Determined now, he stuffed the whole bundle into his briefcase. His loafers whispered on the scuffed hardwood floors. He swung open the ancient heavy door and almost ran directly into Melinda.
Melinda, the woman he’d once loved. The fiancée who had dumped him when she saw his face and realized he’d never live up to the promise of public service. The person who’d gone into his house that night and made herself at home. He did not have time for this shit, and he almost brushed past her and kept walking. But then he remembered Erin’s face when she’d seen Melinda at his house. Erin had been hurt by her asshole boyfriend before, but anyone would be concerned about the situation. Melinda had been his fiancée, for God’s sake, and she was suddenly showing up in his home? He had to nip this in the bud.
