His hand catches my wrist, pulling my arm back to my side. “Stop fidgeting and straighten your back.”
I do as he says, even as I’m about to implode with anxiety over the position of our bodies and his silence on the marker incident. “Are you going to report me to the dean?”
“I administer my own punishments.” He gestures at his forehead. “Fix this.”
“Fix it?” A swallow sticks in my throat. “Like rub it off?”
He glares up at me like I’m the dumbest girl in the world. Yes, well, only a dumb girl puts herself in this situation.
With a trembling hand, I press the pad of my thumb against the ink above his eyebrow. I don’t know what I expected—cold, reptilian scales?—but his skin is smooth and warm and human. As I press harder, my free hand catches the back of his head, and my fingers slide through soft black strands. It feels so…personal, affectionate, abnormal.
His face hovers inches beneath mine, the muscles in his cheeks relaxed, lips slightly parted and thick lashes fanning downward. He really is handsome, even if everything about him is potently male. From the woodsy scent of his shampoo and the boxy shape of his jaw to his tapered waist and the way his muscular legs stretch the lean cut of his black slacks, it’s all there to remind me my future hinges on the whims of a man.
A man with ink on his forehead.
I rub harder. “It’s not coming off.”
“Use spit.”
My internal ick-meter swivels toward Eww, but I’m already up to my tits in trouble, so I lick my thumb and resume scrubbing. “What’s my punishment?”
“Is it coming off?”
“Yeah. I’m really sorry, Mr. Marceaux.” I wipe away the final traces and drop my arms. “It’s gone.”
“Put your hands back where they were.”
Why would he want my hands in his hair? On his face? It feels so…foreign. Improper. But he asked. No, he ordered. Dammit, why is it so hard to disobey him?
I return my hands exactly where they were, and for some reason, it’s easier this time, less awkward. He stares up at me, and the multi-shades of blues in his eyes glimmer beneath the fluorescents. His mouth is kind of pouty, not in a displeasing way. His full lips make him appear softer somehow. I think they’re my favorite attribute.
The fact that I have a favorite attribute on any man gives me pause, but I don’t remember ever seeing someone as attractive as Mr. Marceaux. Not on TV or in magazines or in person. Certainly, not this close up. I’m acutely aware of the press of his thighs against the outsides of my legs, the crotch of his slacks brushing my knees, and the warmth of his breath whispering across my collarbone. But it’s his head in my hands that makes me want to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.
I’ve never touched a man in this way. The tickle of his hair between my fingers, the brawny lines of his face beneath my palm, the scratch of his barely-there stubble, every sensation beneath my fingertips fills me with fear and excitement and all the chaos in between.
I wonder again about the rumor, about why he left Shreveport. Can the same thing happen here, with me? My fingers clench against his head.
He licks his lips. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I want to yank my hands away, but I don’t dare. “I overheard a couple girls whispering about you in first hour.”
“Go on.”
“They said your first name is Emeric.”
“Hardly enough to whisper about.” His wrists rest on his thighs, his fingers dangling behind me, and the proximity causes them to graze my legs. “What else?”
“Shreveport.”
“Ah.” His fingers brush the backs of my knees, and this time I’m certain he’s doing it deliberately. “Miss Westbrook, don’t make me drag every detail from you.”
“They said you were fired.” My palm feels too clammy against his cheek, so I drop my hands to the crisp collar of his shirt. “Because someone walked into a classroom and found you with a woman.”
He arches a brow. “Is that all?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “Supposedly, her mouth was gagged with your tie.”
“And?”
“Her wrists were bound by your belt.” I rush forward with the rest. “Her body was bent over the desk while you had sex with her from behind. That’s the extent of what I’ve heard.”
His hands close around the backs of my knees. “Wow.”
Wow is right. The crazy things people say…
A smirk slithers across his lips. “That is surprisingly accurate.”
“What?” My chest heaves as I push against his shoulders.
But he anticipates me, his arms hooking around my legs then shifting upward to circle my waist as he stands. He kicks the bench out of the way and spins us toward the closest wall.
My back presses against the bricks with his chest flush with mine, pinning me there. “Deep breaths, Ivory.”
Ivory. The most intimate word I’ve heard from his mouth. My skin shivers with bizarre delight.