I take my position behind the keys and let my mood decide the melody. Inhaling deeply, I finger through the slow-building intro of “Toxicity” by System Of A Down. As the metal song changes tempo, growing heavier, more aggressive, every muscle in my body engages. My fingers grab at the notes, my torso sways, and my head rocks in time with the staccato beats, my entire being captured and controlled by the acoustics.
The majestic projection propels me to the top note as I bang my hands along the keys, wrestling every molecule of power the piano offers. The crystalline clarity enchants me, consumes me, and I fall in love with this instrument all over again. I depend on this experience. I’ve dedicated my entire life to mastering it, and I need it now to carry me through the days and months without Joanne.
Maybe I’ve reached the pinnacle of my success in the music world. Maybe I’m destined to be a lonely, bitter old man.
Or maybe I haven’t found my place yet, my part in it all, and maybe—as Ivory so passionately put it—I’ll be there when the music begins.
It’s universally known that the more forbidden something is, the more desirable it becomes. I feel this truth like a fist around my balls as I enter my classroom after lunch and find the forbidden object of my desire waiting for me.
Ivory stands beside my desk, alone and watching me with huge dark eyes. With her arms crossed beneath her breasts and her raised chin radiating attitude, she has no idea how badly I want to restrain her, whip her, and fuck her.
Her black dress hangs like a tarp on her small frame, which only glorifies my memory of her bare body, giving power to the secret we share. Is she thinking about yesterday, when I memorized all the skin she’s hiding? The mole on the rib just under her right breast, the delicate patch of freckles on her toned thigh, the decorative ink scrolling across her back—all of it belongs to me now. I crave another peek, more skin, more Ivory.
She straightens her spine, inadvertently pushing out her ample chest, and glares at me as if she’s reading my mind and deems it appalling.
I could no more stop my heart from being ripped from my chest—thank you for that, Joanne—than I can control the primal way my body reacts to Ivory Westbrook.
Heat floods my muscles as I erase the space between us. My mouth dries as her eyes track my movements around the desk. Gnawing pressure builds behind my abs as I take in the sensual shape of her lips, the vein bulging in her throat, and the wariness in her gaze.
I clasp my hands behind my back, stifling the urge to yank at the strangling tie around my neck.
“Miss Westbrook.” I force my attention above her mouth. “You’re here early.”
She stabs a finger at textbooks stacked on the desk between us. “I found these in my locker.”
I glance at the supplies I purchased from the school bookstore this morning. “You’re welcome.”
“So it was you.” She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and her glare returns. “I won’t take—”
“You will.”
“This?” She snatches the unopened tablet from the stack of books and holds it out to me. “I can’t accept this.”
“You can.” I turn away and begin writing next period’s discussion topics on the whiteboard.
Her footsteps approach, pausing beside me. I don’t look at her, but I feel her proximity like an electric hum. A cacophony of emotions pulse from her quickening breaths and grinding teeth. She may as well just tell me she’s an anxious mess.
Instead, she says, “I don’t take handouts, Mr. Marceaux.”
Damn her pride. I prefer to not belabor this simple thing, but nothing is easy when it comes to this girl.
I move the marker over the board, the felt tip squeaking through the silence. “You presume too much, Miss Westbrook. You will pay me back.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She mumbles it so quietly I’m not sure I hear her correctly.
I cap the marker and glower down at her. “Repeat that.”
“I’m…” She holds her arms at her sides, as if forcing herself not to fidget. “What kind of payment?”
My pulse takes off as alarms blare in my head. She has a wealth of assets most warm-blooded men would value more than money. Whether or not she’s aware of her seductive beauty, her question isn’t birthed from naivety. Experience has shown her what men want from her, and the thought boils my blood.
“Cash. Personal check.” My voice whips through the room, brash and angry. “Something along those lines.” I soften my tone. “What kind of payment were you expecting I’d want?”
“Oh, I…” She swallows and stares toward the doorway. “I don’t know.”
The distant din of voices trickle in from the hall, a reminder class will resume in a few minutes.
“The truth, Miss Westbrook.”
Her eyes dip to my groin and dart away.
Fuck. I won’t make her say it out loud. At this point, I can’t bear to hear it.
She’s aware of my inappropriate interest in her, and now she knows I know she’s aware. But she’s misjudged the way I operate. I would never coerce a woman into sex, let alone a student. While that infuriates me to a level that has my hands shaking, the ease at which she jumped to sex as a method of payment makes me want to kill someone.