Chapter 8
My outlook is good come Monday morning. After spending the remainder of the weekend catching up on homework and wallowing in self-pity, I am resolved to start fresh. Nothing of the past week will affect my time moving forward, and anytime my thoughts attempt to stray toward the past, I shove it into a little black box in the back of my mind.
That plan goes to shit the moment I enter the classroom and see Ransom sitting at his desk. He’s dressed casually in tan slacks, a light blue button-down shirt with a navy sweater-vest overtop. His head is bent over, one hand delved deep into his tousled black hair, the other writing something in red pen.
Annie is absent today, and I want to kill her for leaving me to my fate, but I’m also grateful, because it allows me to escape. With hurried strides, I bypass my usual seat in the front row and claim one at the back of the room.
I try my best to remain invisible throughout the next hour. I slump in my seat, keep my head down, and volunteer for nothing. When Ransom hands down our final assignment for the semester, I groan inwardly. We have to find a way to inspire art. I don’t know what that means exactly, but he assured us that as the class progresses, it will become clearer. Of course, if we have any questions, he is always available after class.
I’d rather Google it.
The bad thing about being in the back of the room is that it prevents an easy escape. I do my best to blend in with my classmates, and as the door draws nearer, I think I have succeeded, until I hear my name.
“Miss Hart, can I see you for a moment?”
Those nine words chill me to the bone. My head droops on my shoulders. Why me? Taking a deep breath, I turn and make my way back into the room, stopping several feet from Ransom’s desk.
He is busily tucking papers into his leather briefcase when I approach and it takes a moment for him to acknowledge me. “I noticed you hiding in the back today. Any particular reason for that?”
“I prefer the back of the room.”
He nods, seeming to understand. “Does this have anything to do with Saturday night?”
My arms clench tighter around my books. “I’m afraid I had a few too many drinks with my friends Saturday night. My memory is a little foggy.” A lie, but when cornered like prey, sometimes it’s the only chance of escape.
Snapping the case closed, Ransom lays it flat on the desk, and then presses his palms into the soft material. “I understand if you feel uncomfortable around me, but I want you to know that I have zero interest in complicating matters any further than they already are. My job is on the line, so if it’s okay with you, I’d like to put this weekend behind us and move forward.”
“As if nothing happened?” My lip curls at the idea. It’s what I wanted, but hearing those words come from his mouth somehow makes them more real. His willingness to walk away from me makes my stomach lurch.
Those midnight orbs lift, and I swear I see the same pain and confliction in them that I feel inside of me. Could it be that he doesn’t want this any more than I do? That he, too, longs for our time together. “Nothing happened, and that’s the way it needs to stay.”
I hear the growl in his voice and even though I know it’s wrong, my body responds. I feel the flames of desire licking between my legs, making my nipples grow tight. Does he have any idea what he does to me?
I’m not sure how to take his words. Is he just saying that because it’s the right thing, the only way to cover his ass, or is it because he really believes that what we have shared together amounts to nothing?
Both possibilities are difficult to face, because there can be no good outcome either way, but I still want it, even if he doesn’t. “So where does this leave us?” I ask, using my books as a shield against my feelings for him. Ransom is the only man who has ever affected me this way—he can strip me bare with a single look. He can reduce me from a strong, intelligent, educated woman into a puddle of wanton desire with the stroke of a finger.
Pushing his hands into his pockets as he comes to stand before me, I realize, with a mix of horror and intrigue, that this man is the only one that has ever held the power to hurt me.
He holds my gaze as he stares down at me, and I see the muscle in his jaw tick in time with my heartbeat. We’re connected in a way that neither of us fully realizes, and I feel the draw to him growing stronger. “This leaves us right where we stand, with me as your professor and you as my student.”
The deep rasp of his voice triggers something deep inside of me, and I feel myself lean closer. The allure of those full lips is nearly impossible to deny. You can tell so much from a simple kiss. I want his on me—on the most intimate parts of my body—and I want him to know that.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I need to kiss him. If this is it between us, then I need this last connection, this final goodbye.
“Miss Hart.” My name is a low warning as it whispers past his lips, but I ignore it.
“Please, call me Josephine,” I whisper just before my mouth closes over his. I don’t know who moans first. If Ransom meant for us to go our separate ways, then I probably shouldn’t have kissed him, because the way he is kissing me back definitely isn’t a goodbye.
His mouth is hesitant at first, as if he is unsure what to do. I understand his confliction. This is the worst case scenario, a student falling for her professor. Movies have been made about this sort of thing, but neither of us heeds the warning.
It doesn’t take long for him to throw himself into the deep end, though, and then we’re both drowning, surrendering to the torrent of emotion rushing between us. I’ve never felt a man surrender, much less this man, who is normally so aggressive, but he is definitely giving in to me now.
I am still clutching my books to my breasts, which have grown swollen and heavy, and his hands are still shoved deeply into his pockets. The only part of us that is touching is our mouths, but Ransom’s wet tongue probing the inside of my mouth is like a full body caress. It takes me back to our hotel room, and I start imagining what it would be like to have him bend me over his desk, pull down my pants, and take me right now.
That fantasy is shattered when I hear voices approaching. I break the kiss first. Ransom stares at me with some emotion I can’t name. His breathing is labored, his lids heavy, eyes dilated, and the bulge in his pants is unmistakable. He looks like how I feel—hot, raw, and aching, the need to touch and be touched almost too powerful to ignore.
But I can ignore it, because we’re no longer alone, and I won’t risk him losing his job. I would never do anything to hurt him, just as I instinctively know he would never do anything to hurt me. For as complicated as our relationship may be, we have a mutual respect for each other that runs deep. We give each other pleasure, and in return, we respect and protect each other’s privacy.
“You should go,” he says, his voice a guttural rasp so thick, he has to clear his throat.
I love that I can affect him this way. It gives me a rare sense of power that I typically only experience on-stage. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Scott.” I back away, smiling. The last image I have of him is his dark scowl, but it doesn’t concern me, because as much as Professor Ransom Scott might say we’re done, I know the truth.
We’re just getting started.
Work Wednesday night is a bitch. The first thing I hear upon entering Mirage is, “Tamera called in sick. You’re headlining tonight.”
My head whips up in shock, seeing Kota standing there in his open leather vest, showing off a toned physique and a dusting of dark, curly hair. His expression is grim but expectant.
“Headlining?” Thrown by his announcement, my hands pause in the task of latching my bra. That spot is reserved for the most popular dancer. It took Tamera years to work up to that position. “Why not one of the other girls? Someone who’s been here longer?”
“Because no one holds a candle to you, Pussycat,” he says with a smirk. “You’re on in ten.”
I’m left standing alone in the middle of the dressing room in nothing but a bra and thong, my mouth gaping open. As the seconds tick by, a slow smile creeps into place. Headlining is the highest form of praise here. I could make rent with the tips from one dance alone. It is in that moment I like to think my parents are looking down at me from above, giving me that little boost I so desperately needed.
With tears in my eyes, I whisper, “Thank you,” then I suit up for the hottest performance of my life.