A crazy surge of protectiveness—for him—buzzes through me. “You could’ve defended yourself. Told them about your relationship. Proved you were living together. At the very least, she would’ve lost her job and you wouldn’t have been charged with forcing her.”
“The rape charges didn’t stick. The stigma did, but I don’t give a shit about that. There are a million things I could’ve done to ruin her job. Things I can still do.”
“But you love her.” Oh God, why does my heart hurt so badly?
His expression darkens with a deep scowl. “And she loves her career.” He pulls his hands away and sits forward on the bench, his profile etched in pain. “She’s Head of School at Shreveport now.”
What a bitch. “I’m sorry, but she sounds awful. How can you possibly love her?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Sometimes you love people you shouldn’t, and in the endless space of that love, nothing else matters.” When he lifts his head, his entire demeanor changes. The man in the waistcoat and tie returns with a fortified jaw and hard eyes as he rises and clasps his hands behind his back. “No more touching and kissing, Miss Westbrook. I’m your teacher, your mentor, and nothing more.”
I jump to my feet. “I would never do that to you. I can’t even fathom ruining your career.”
He laughs, but it sounds more like a snarl. “If we were caught doing something inappropriate, you would have to choose between my career and your education, between a man you’ve known for a week and a dream you’ve chased for three years. What choice would you make?”
Leopold shoves itself into my mind, but I fight it back, refusing to admit it. “We’ll be careful.”
“Exactly. Go home.” He thrusts his finger in the direction of my house.
I glance over my shoulder. If it weren’t for the trees, I’d be able to see my house from here. How does he know where I live? The address in my file?
When I look back, he’s walking away, hands tucked in his front pockets and head down. A bleeding, miserable kind of longing cleaves through my chest. He’s done.
I grab the uneaten sandwich from the bench and trudge along the track toward my house, each step heavier and harder to take. Maybe I don’t have to obey him this time? Maybe this is one of those rules that are meant to be broken?
Spinning around, I race after him. He pauses at the clapping sound of my ballet flats, his broad shoulders tightening the t-shirt. But he doesn’t turn.
I circle the towering pillar of his body, and holy hell, he’s so tall and dark and beautiful. And angry. Deep lines fan from the corners of his icy eyes, his lips a slash of displeasure, and the cords in his neck stretched beneath whiskered skin.
Bolstering my spine, I step up to him and wrap my arms around his waist. Every solid inch I touch flexes with muscle.
He holds his hands in his pockets, his chest lifting with a deep breath. “You’re disobeying me.”
I press my cheek against the ledge of his pecs. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
“I will hurt you.”
“Okay.”
His hands grip my shoulders, forcing me back a step, but he doesn’t let go. He bends his knees, putting his eyes at the same level as mine. “Tell me who hurt you, and I’ll give you anything you want.”
My pulse hammers, and my molars crash together. Did he plan this? Did he touch and kiss me until my head spun, only to take it all back so he could dangle it as an incentive to talk?
I back up, shifting out of arm’s reach and shaking my head.
His face tightens, and my stomach caves in. I hate disappointing him.
With a hand on his hip and the other pointing toward my house, he stares at the ground.
Good, because I hate his eyes. And I adore them, too. Especially when he touches me and tells me I’m beautiful. And now, he’s punishing me by refusing to look at me.
In a fog of shame, I hug the sandwich to my chest and drag my feet home. As I walk, I sneak peeks over my shoulder. He doesn’t move. I can’t see his eyes, but I know they’re following me, watching me, protecting me.
Whatever this is, however inappropriate and risky, he doesn’t want it to end. Spending four private hours a day together for the rest of the year, it’s only going to become more. More punishments, more music, more Mr. Marceaux. I don’t care what he says. This isn’t over.
“It’s over.” I slam the beer bottle down harder than I intended and cringe at the cracking sound on Mom’s glass table. Shit. I rub a finger over the chip and glance at her apologetically. “Sorry, Mom.”
“I don’t care about the damn table. I’m concerned about you.” She corks a wine bottle on the back counter and crosses the kitchen to sit beside me, a glass of red cupped in her hand. Setting it on the table, she twists the stem and gathers her words. “I know you’ve been unhappy for a while, but this is different. You’ve been a hot-tempered, sulky pain-in-the-ass for the past few weeks.”
Five weeks, to be exact.
Five weeks since I kissed Ivory. Since I felt her skin beneath my hands. Since I punished her the way we both need. Five agonizing weeks since I sent her home in the park with regret overrunning my nervous system.