It is wrong.
I shove the shirt down and turn to collect my belongings. His hand catches my upper arm, fingers digging in as he swings me back into position. “Show me or I’ll report the injury.”
His voice ricochets through my skull, sharp and uncompromising. If he reports me, I could lose my home, my education, and my cat. And Shane… God, my brother would strike back with a wrath of pain.
My stomach quivers as I lift the shirt. He releases my arm as I hold the fabric beneath the weight of my breasts and meet his eyes.
All I see is blue ice, an endless arctic landscape, like I’m staring into an unknown world.
His nostrils flare, and the muscles in his face harden with emotions I don’t understand. I’m not hiding anything. Nothing under my shirt anyway. Other than the cut on my lip, Shane hasn’t left a scratch on me since the night I walked in on him fucking some poor girl on the couch—on my bed. Failing to knock on my own front door earned me a nasty bruise on my stomach. But Mr. Marceaux won’t find that. The discoloration faded last week.
He lowers into a squat, his glacial gaze traveling over my torso, the low waistband of my skirt, then dropping to the knee-length hem. “Now raise your skirt.”
I snap my attention toward the doorway and the empty hall beyond. His bent position puts him eye-level with my pelvis, his body no longer shielding me from hallway traffic. The final bell rang an hour ago, but lots of kids stay after for private lessons. Even now, the legato of a clarinet sings down the hall.
Anyone can walk by and assume the worst. Here I am, the resident slut, flashing my body for the teacher.
The cold floor beneath my bare feet makes me feel even more naked. I wish I hadn’t slipped my shoes off during our meeting. “There’s no privacy. Someone might see me.”
“That’s for me to worry about.” His arms drape over his bent knees, his strong hands flexing in the V of his thighs. “I won’t give the order again.”
I shove the blouse down and cover my stomach. Now the skirt? Holy smokes, what should I do? Physically, he’s in an unusual position for a man, lower than me, his face below my waist. More vulnerable, right? Yet he’s still trying to take in a way. I could knee him in the nose and run. But I’m not sure I need to. Or want to.
Shit. I curl my fingers around the front of the skirt, bunching and lifting until my legs are exposed to mid-thigh.
“Higher.”
I raise the hem another inch. Surely he can see my legs shaking? How high does he want me to go?
“Higher.”
His voice whispers roughly into the foot of space separating his face and my thighs. His hands are right there, too, dangling between us, close enough to grab me between the legs if that’s his plan. A slight tremble twitches through his fingers, and my muscles tighten.
But he’s a teacher. He’s not allowed to touch me.
As his student, I’m supposed to trust him and do what he tells me.
I wad the loose material of the skirt against the crotch of my panties and cup my hand there, giving him a full view of my legs without revealing too much. “What are you looking for?”
“Widen your stance.”
I slide my feet out, wobbling with the effort.
“Just like that,” he breathes. “Good girl.”
His praise wraps around me like a warm hug. I can’t remember the last time someone embraced me without hurting me, but if Mr. Marceaux spends the next nine months calling me a good girl, I might never need a hug again.
He dips his head, angling closer. “I’m looking for marks on your inner thighs.”
Lorenzo has left marks there, along with numerous other guys. The mean ones always do, grinding and bucking and lasting too long. But Mr. Marceaux doesn’t know about those other guys.
“My brother would never—”
“I’m not suggesting he would.”
My throat closes up. Has he already heard about my reputation? Is he checking for evidence of my behavior?
“You have a fairly dark complexion.” He looks up, studying my expression, too steadily, too deeply. “Easier to hide bruises.”
I choke on a nervous laugh. “My mom tells me I’m too pale. Hell, she complains she’s too pale, and she’s half-Black.”
“Lower your skirt.” He stands, hands anchored on his hips. “Tell me about your mother.”
I straighten the fabric around my legs. “Everyone says she looks like Halle Berry but—”
“I don’t care what she looks like. What does she do?”
Drugs. Men. When she doesn’t have both of those, she sits in her room and cries.
If I share that with him, he’ll probably smile at my misfortune. “She’s between jobs.”
“What was her position on your father selling his business for you?”
She hates me for it, so much so her lip curls whenever she looks at me.