His lips crook up in a territorial grin, his complexion rosier than usual. His skin is damp beneath my fingers, his hair dark and drippy against his forehead.
“You already showered?” I drag my focus from his face, down his wet t-shirt, and pause on the gym shorts. “Oh. You worked out. What time is it?”
I shift to my side and find the clock on the nightstand. 5:15 AM. School doesn’t start for two hours.
He straightens, rolling his shoulders. “How long do you need to get ready?”
I sit up, the room wobbling around me as I recall the conversation we didn’t finish last night. “Depends. You haven’t told me how you know Lorenzo.”
“He’s no longer your concern.” He turns toward the bathroom.
“You can’t just go beat him up.” I slide off the bed and adjust the shirt over my thighs. “He’s an ex-Marine, a thug, maybe even a criminal. And you’re a—”
He shoots me a scalding glare that shrivels the rest of my words in my throat. His fist opens and closes at his side, his lacerated knuckles glowing red. Okay, maybe he could get a few punches in, but…
“It’s too risky.” I slump on the edge of the mattress, trembling against the idea of him fighting another one of my monsters.
Lorenzo rarely comes to my house without Shane, so it would be them against my teacher. Nothing good would come from that.
I meet his eyes. “The cops might get called. You could go to jail. Or worse, if you keep hitting stuff, you could break your hands and lose your ability to play piano.”
He strides back to me, his expression marbleized with shadowy lines of intensity. “Despite what you’ve seen, I usually don’t confront problems with my fists.” He raises one of those fists and strokes it across my jaw. “I prefer subtle and deceptive planning. Lorenzo Gandara won’t see me coming.”
Okaaay. So he’s going to…what? Go ninja on his ass?
He returns to the bathroom, his voice rumbling over his shoulder. “I’m taking a shower. Then the bathroom is yours.”
The door shuts behind him, followed by the hollow click of the lock.
I flop back on the bed, the shirt lifting to my waist and exposing me to the cool air. I don’t know what he did with my panties. I don’t even care. He’s seen me naked and put his fingers inside me. Yet all he’s let me see is his bare chest.
Why did he lock the door? What is he hiding? My pulse elevates as ridiculous theories fill my head. Is his dick malformed? Or maybe he doesn’t want me near it until the doctor checks me for diseases?
My emotions overflow, but the sharpest feeling is the one deep in my core. Just thinking about him naked sends a quiver up my thighs and a jolt between my legs.
Sensations that have never been there before surge like a fever. I feel so damn hot and needy. For my teacher.
It’s wrong. Being here is wrong. Sliding my hand over my * feels wrong, too, but I do it anyway, stroking the way he stroked, dipping and circling exactly how he did it. My fingers are his fingers, caressing, giving, and building that wonderful energy inside me.
Soon, my body takes over, my hand moving the way I want it to move, coaxing shivers across my skin and producing an unimaginable amount of wet heat beneath my touch.
My legs fall open, and my head tips back, my neck stretching as I rub my clit and sink two fingers inside, out and up, down and back in.
He’s right behind that door, lathering soap along his shaft, stroking it, caring for it. God bless it, I want to do that. I bet his nude body is a legendary sight to behold.
The pressure inside me snaps, cutting my air as pleasure rolls over me in warm electric waves. I shudder and jerk, gasping with throaty groans. Holy hell, maybe I can do that again. After I catch my breath. How many of those can I have back-to-back?
I glide my fingers into my slick opening. Maybe just one more before he—
It’s too quiet. Is the shower off?
The bathroom door swings open, and he steps out in a fog of steam.
I yank my hand away and shove the shirt down.
He grips the towel at his waist as his arctic eyes lock on mine.
Neither of us breathes. Or moves.
He knows.
“You touched yourself.”
My face heats to nuclear levels.
He clutches the door frame, squeezing so hard the wood creaks. His eyes cloud with pain, harden with resolve, then he jerks backward and slams the door between us.
I groan, embarrassed beyond belief.
A thump hits the wood on the other side. The lock clicks, followed by the sound of the shower turning back on.
What the hell just happened? What should I do? As soon as he comes out, I’ll have to face him.
Dammit, I refuse to be ashamed about this.
Darting across the room, I knock on the door. “Emeric?”
“Five minutes!” His muffled shout sounds too close to be in the shower.
“Are you mad?”
“No, Ivory,” he grunts.
“Then what?”
He makes a deep growly noise. “Fuck, you’re killing me here.”