Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
But then I would be alone with him again. How is it possible that I feel both possessive and terrified of him?
He ends her embarrassing shuffle with a firm, “Good night, Ms. Augustin.”
As she vanishes into the hallway, I replay their conversation with subtext. “She just asked you out, didn’t she?”
He turns toward me with an irritated frown on his face. “That’s none of your business.”
Probably so, but I feel wonderfully dizzy about the whole exchange. I mean, he told her no. Not tonight or any night. Because he would be with me, helping me.
Maybe I didn’t screw things up as badly as I thought. “We’re doing piano lessons tonight?”
Cords twang in his neck. “No.”
“But you just said—”
“Here’s tonight’s lesson.” He erases the distance between us and leans into my space. “Don’t question me. Don’t lie to me. And never look away from me.” He straightens. “Sit down.”
Those are ridiculous demands, but I find myself falling into the chair and locking my eyes on his.
He scratches a finger down his whiskered throat and yanks on the collar behind his tie. Giving up on his attempt to loosen it, he crouches before me. “When did you get the ink?”
There’s no way I can answer his questions about it without lying, but I can give him this. “I was thirteen.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Comprehension? He knows how old I was when I lost Daddy— My dad. My father. God, even in my thoughts, I’m trying to please Mr. Marceaux. But maybe he’s right about my immaturity. If my dad were alive today, would I still be calling him Daddy?
Instead of asking questions about the tattoo, Mr. Marceaux reaches under my chair and drags my shoes toward his feet. His bend puts his face inches from my lap, but he keeps his eyes on mine as his arms move around my calves.
With his knees on either side of my legs, I don’t feel trapped, but my stomach squirms all the same. I don’t understand why he’s holding my beaten up ballet flat, why he’s examining the inside, or what he has planned for me next.
With my shoe in one hand, he reaches for my foot. The moment his fingers graze the back of my ankle, I jump in the seat.
He pins me with a flinty glare, his scowl at odds with the tender stroke of his hand. Unhurried, he caresses along my ankle, traces the bony knobs on the sides, and cups the heel of my foot, lifting it.
I’m tongue-tied, confused by the gentleness, lost in the sensation. The entire world narrows to the warmth of his palm, the careful way he slides my toes into the shoe, and the absolute concentration he gives the task.
He lowers my foot to the floor, and I exhale a chestful of air. Then he shifts toward my other leg.
Why is he doing this? What does he get out of it? Will he expect me to show him my boobs? Give him a blow job? Sex?
I jerk my foot out of his reach. “I can do this.”
He fists his hands on his legs and imprisons me with those frigid cobalt eyes. “What’s tonight’s lesson?”
“Don’t question you?”
Maybe this is a small thing to him, but it’s not to me. Men don’t touch me unless they want something, and his touch is freaking me out. It’s too nice. Too intimate. Way too intimate for a student and teacher.
He holds his palm out, waiting. I want to ask him what he wants from me, but that would be failing the lesson.
I move my foot toward his hand, and he gives it the same attention as before. Fragile strokes. Fingers like velvet wrapping around my breakable bones. Taking? Giving? I don’t know what this is. Every brush of his fingertips shoots tingles up my legs, making my heart flutter and my whole body hyper-aware. It scares me. He scares me.
When he slides the other shoe on, I tuck my feet beneath the chair, knees pinched together, dreading what he’ll demand next.
He rises, his expression dark beneath black brows and his breathing noisier than it should be. I know that needful look, that hungry sound. My blood runs cold.
Now is the time to run, but my feet aren’t moving. Why? I need his permission, I think.
I want his permission.
Turning toward the desk, he presses his hands against the surface. “Go home, Miss Westbrook.”
Relief shimmies down my spine, but it gets cut off by my next thought.
I can take any one of the exits out of Crescent Hall, race through the parking lot or the park, zigzag along the streets to the bus stop. Doesn’t matter which way I go. Prescott will catch up. He’ll find me. He always does.
Then home. Where Lorenzo might be waiting. Where Shane might be fucking on my bed.