“It is, actually.” His tone remained composed, in perfect contrast to mine. “Unfortunately, for you, it’s my opinion that matters.”
God, the calmer he was the more worked up I got. He was goading me on purpose. I should leave. I knew I should leave.
I started for my coat then stopped. “Why are you doing this?”
“It’s sad, really.” Donovan shut his laptop and pushed it aside. Then he clapped his hands together silently as if praying and pointed them at me. “You showed such promise at the beginning of the term, Sabrina. But this last month you’ve become a different person. You’ve arrived late to class. You’re disengaged. You’re disruptive. The work you’re turning in—this paper—is less than acceptable. It’s a shame you’re letting the events of one night stain the rest of your life.”
His last sentence was heavy and weighted with subtext.
“Are you—?” I was incredulous. Was he really blaming this on what happened with Theo? “Oh, and you’re a perfect example of how not to let a tragedy stain the rest of your life.”
His brows furrowed. “What did you say?”
Besides, I hadn’t changed because of Theo. I’d changed because of him. Not that I was telling him that. “My changes in behavior have not translated into a change in the standard of my work.”
“As your teacher, that’s for me to decide, and I’ve decided that it has.” His subtext said case closed. Especially when he leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on the desk, crossed at the ankles.
Weeks of bottled up emotion rattled through me. Every cell in my body vibrated with rage and want and horror and shame.
“Fuck you,” I said in as clear and as controlled a tone as I could manage. I’d leave. I’d talk to Velasquez. I’d report the fuck out of Donovan. I had a solid case. This wasn’t even anything to worry about. I’d get it worked out.
I grabbed my coat off the chair and spun once again to leave.
“Don’t you mean fuckwaffle?”
I’d had the door open, was this close to walking out, but I shut it again because I had to know. “Is that why you’re doing this? Because of Weston?” Was he jealous?
For half a second, I thought I’d hit onto something. His expression tightened and a strange prick of heat blossomed in my belly at the idea of Donovan jealous. Because of me.
But then he laughed, coldly. “No. I was just teasing you. Can’t take being on the other side of the joke?”
Is that what this was to him? A joke?
“This is serious!” I was so mad I dropped my coat and pushed his fucking feet off the desk. “This is my scholarship!”
In an instant he was up and around the desk in front of me. “I told you before how you could fix your grades if you’re that concerned about it.”
He was referring to his come-on in his room. When he’d suggested he could help me with my virginity. It was another way he could trivialize my situation, but it was also a chance to play with my emotions. I hated how it felt like a carrot dangling. How he played that card as if he knew that somewhere deep down I wanted him.
It pissed me off to a new level. I slapped him so hard my palm burned.
Donovan rubbed his cheek, and his eyes sparked. “Is this how you fought off Theo?” he asked, evenly.
“No,” I said tentatively.
Something shifted between us.
“Fight me like you fought him.”
I could have said no. It was such a strange, twisted request, but I was mad and ready to fight. And after weeks of the thoughts I’d had, weeks of pent-up desire and need, I didn’t want to say no.
And was it really a strange, twisted request if somewhere on a gut level I understood the impetus behind it?
Without further urging, I shoved both arms against Donovan’s chest as forcefully as I could. He pushed my hands away, but it felt good. Both to shove and be shoved. Like being able to pick up a heavy weight and the relief after you put it down.
Donovan nodded, encouraging me to come at him again.
I shoved him once more, but he grabbed my arm and wrapped it around my back. He tried for my other arm. I kneed him in his side then pushed against his face while he was bent over. He was too strong for me, and he captured my wrist easily.
He held me like this for a second as we caught our breath, all the while his eyes glued to mine. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked carefully.
Why wasn’t I frightened? I was trapped by a man I didn’t have any reason to trust, and I’d been in a similar situation and been violated. I should have been scared out of my mind.
But instead of feeling scared, I felt empowered.
And turned on.
Just like in all those fantasies I’d had.
“No,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
I wriggled against his hold to reinforce my request, using my entire body to fight him. Before I’d been keeping back. Now, I struggled with all I had.
Donovan fought harder too, but only with enough strength to just overcome me. He wrapped his arm around my waist, sliding my shirt up so he touched bare skin. I elbowed him in the ribs. His knee grazed against my inner thigh. Could he tell how wet I was through my leggings?
When he had me captured again, one arm behind me, one across my chest, he suddenly pushed me back until I was pinned against a bookshelf.
I gazed down to where his lower body met mine. Pressed hard at my belly was the firm bulge of his erection.
I’d long forgotten why I’d come here.
When I looked up again, his eyes were waiting. “I could smell you on his fingers.”
I barely had time to wish his mouth was on mine before it was.
There was nothing tentative or easy about the way that Donovan Kincaid kissed. The pressure of his lips was firm and intent. His tongue was thick as it dipped inside, tasting me in long licks. He dropped my arms and with one hand held my face at my chin, sort of cradling it, and it felt sweet, but also like it was meant to hold me in place. So he could kiss me how he wanted. So he could suck my top lip until it was fat. So he could nip along my neck while I wriggled against him.
My knees could barely hold me. I couldn’t breathe because I wanted him so much. I threw one arm around his neck, needing to hold on to something. Needing to hold on to him. His kiss got deeper as if he liked the way I clutched on to him. Then meaner—pulling roughly at my lip with his teeth while pinching my nipple with his fingers—as if he wished he didn’t like it like he did.
His lips never left mine, but I was very aware as his hand slid down my side and under the band of my leggings, under my panties, past the hood of skin to find my clit.
My breath hitched, and he slipped deeper, through the soft curls, burrowing inside me.
“Was this how he did it?” he said, pulling away. I don’t know if he wanted to watch the reaction to his question or to what he was doing.
“Yes.” It was mechanically the same. Two fingers stroking my sensitive inner walls.
But it was also nothing at all the same. I was so wet. And it felt so good. So fucking good. Like kindling catching on fire, spreading heat, growing hotter. Burning. Blazing. “Donovan,” I moaned.