A smile played on her lips, and I leaned back in my chair, taking her in.
“You look beautiful,” I told her. “How’s school?”
She leaned forward, placing her palms on my desk and pinning me with a smirk. “Wouldn’t you rather have your present, Mr. Marek?”
My pants instantly got tighter.
Jesus.
I cleared my throat and played the game with her. Looking her up and down, I simply shrugged. “I’m not seeing it. Where is it?”
She stood upright and held my eyes, the blue hue of her gaze turning sensual and dark. She slowly began unbuttoning her coat, and my cock immediately stiffened with need for her.
She pulled the coat off, letting it slide down her arms, and then she dropped it on a nearby chair.
My lungs emptied, and I suddenly felt starved.
She wore black stockings with lace trim, a black necktie around her neck, and absolutely nothing else.
I groaned as I took her in. The beautiful olive skin of her hips and upper thighs looked soft and smooth, and I wanted my mouth on her flat stomach and full breasts. Her nipples were hard, and her hair floated across her chest, making me want to bury my hands in it.
“Just my size,” I said in a low voice.
One corner of her mouth turned up. “Oh, this isn’t your present,” she admitted, turning around to take something out of the coat pocket.
My eyes landed on her ass, and I saw the little bruise she still had from the pool table.
Looking up, I saw her tear off a piece of duct tape from a roll and meet my eyes. “This is.” She gestured to the tape. “No backtalk.”
And she placed the strip over her closed lips and batted her eyelashes at me.
I started laughing, loving her ingenuity. If only she knew how much I really loved her mouth.
She rounded the desk, stepped out of her heels, and straddled me, slowly lowering her body down and resting her arms over my shoulders.
I reached out and ran both hands up her sides, kneading her skin, unable to help myself.
She moaned behind the tape, and I threaded my hand in her hair, grabbing a fistful of it and burying my lips in her neck.
But then I stopped. I let my forehead fall to her chest, wondering what the hell I thought I was doing.
Christian.
He came first. He had to come first.
And this would hurt him.
I was thirty-six. What was I doing with a twenty-three-year-old teacher who taught my son?
I couldn’t have this no matter how much I wanted it. Brynne was right. I was a mess.
Looking up at her, I saw the question in her eyes. She was wondering why I’d stopped, and then she ran her fingers across my forehead, pushing away the hair that had fallen forward, and I knew that I was in too deep with her.
I would hurt her, disappoint her, and throw away any chance with my son along the way.
I dropped my hands to her hips and gripped them hard, my resolve ready to cave, because I didn’t want to choose.
Sitting back, I raised my weary eyes and slowly peeled the tape from her mouth.
“I’m sorry. I have a meeting,” I told her. “I don’t have time.”
She sat still for a few moments, probably trying to figure out if I was really kicking her out when she knew I just wanted to keep her here.
I’d never not had time for her.
And that was the problem. I’d put her before everything else.
She rose off me, looking everywhere but at me, and walked around the desk, slipping on her coat as fast as she could.
I tightened my hands into fists, feeling like everything inside of me was hollowing out.
She turned to leave but then spun back around. “If you’re pushing me away, just say it. Don’t leave me guessing.”
I clenched my teeth together as I stood up and forced a glare. “I said I have a meeting,” I bit out. “I don’t show up in the middle of your workday, do I?”
Her eyes widened, looking surprised. “Tyler” – she held up her hands – “when a naked woman sits on your lap, offering herself up, you take it. And if you can’t – for whatever reason – you at least say sweet things to her. I can’t believe I —”
“You want to know why I’m aggravated today?” I grabbed my phone and brought up Twitter. “Look at the negative comments on the tweets you’ve been telling me to post,” I shot out. “And this morning someone wrote a blog post calling me ‘immature’ and ‘unprofessional.’ ”
I tossed my phone down on my desk, feeling like the walls were closing in. She blinked several times, and I could tell she was caught off guard and hurt.
“You’ve also gained just over five thousand new followers in the past couple of weeks.” Her voice cracked. “The more you put yourself out there, the more negativity you’ll see. That comes with the territory. I was trying to help.”
I planted my hands on the desk and steeled myself, forcing my eyes to stay on her despite the hurt I could see in her eyes. “I didn’t want your help. I just wanted you in bed.”
She pulled back, instantly straightening her posture.
The pain on her face disappeared, her expression turning to stone. “I see.”
She looked just like the Easton at the open house. The one who was cold and distant and far away from me.
“I guess I’ll see you, then,” she said, sounding cordial.
But this was goodbye.
I nodded, forcing myself to meet her eyes. “Yeah.”
She turned and walked out, and I immediately shot out from behind the desk, ready to go after her. But I stopped myself, planting my hands on the desk and bowing my head, trying to calm myself.
Fuck.
I wanted her.
I needed her!
I slammed my fists down. “Goddamn it,” I growled under my breath.
“She really is gorgeous,” I heard behind me, and I recognized Jay’s voice. “Just don’t do it at the office, okay? Be more careful.”
I brought my head up, scowling at him. He must’ve seen her leaving.
“Relax,” I snapped. “It’s over.”
“Why?” he challenged, actually looking concerned. “You were definitely happy. I don’t see anything wrong with it as long as you’re both discreet.”
He slipped some file folders onto my desk, and I shook my head, unable to admit to my brother what I could barely admit to myself.
I looked forward to her. More than anything else.
And I couldn’t put her first anymore.
TWENTY-TWO
EASTON
The cool breeze blew down St. Ann, and I closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying its caress in my hair.
Laurel’s “To the Hills” drifted like a heartbeat through my earbuds, and I soaked in the sun and the wind blowing my off-the-shoulder blouse against my skin.
I’d been strolling all day, playing tourist and enjoying the atmosphere that I rarely took the time to experience even though I’d lived here for more than five years.
It was funny. I’d woken up this morning with a list and a plan. Clean the inside of the stove, work out, and then research field trips for my classes, since we’d been discussing so much war history, and New Orleans had some wonderful sites to visit.
But when I’d gotten dressed, I’d realized I wasn’t in the mood.
I’d crumpled up the list, tossed it in the trash, and grabbed my little bag, which now hung at my hip with the strap across my chest, and walked out of the house.
I took a streetcar to Canal and hopped off, disappearing into the Quarter.
Around the corner from St. Louis Cathedral, with its madness of artists, musicians, and palm readers, I traipsed a block or two to Maskarade, a little shop I’d discovered last Mardi Gras when I was searching for my first mask.
I wasn’t interested in the gaudy souvenirs sold in the French Market or tourist shops. I’d wanted handmade work by real mask makers, and I’d always intended to come back, perhaps to start building a collection for my wall.