Page 130 of Shadows in Bloom

I shake my head. “Not big on breakfast.”

Even if I want to eat, I can’t. My stomach spins like a tumble dryer.

“I’m not the only twenty-year-old with a fake ID.” His deep voice thickens my throat.

Tapping a finger on the tablecloth, I flick my eyes to his face. “You’re gay?”

The knife scrapes on the plate, the sound loud in the ensuing silence. He shrugs and stabs the pancake. “I don’t define my sexuality. What about you, Professor Kirk?”

“Don’t call me that. I’m Marshall to you.”

Something stirs in me when he looks at me like he is now, with a hint of amusement twinkling in his brown eyes.

A smirk graces his lips, there and gone in a split second. “So, how about you? Are you bisexual? Gay?”

“Neither.”

Shaking his head, he chuckles low in his chest. “It certainly looked that way last night.”

My teeth grind together so hard that I worry they might pulverize. “Look, about last night?—”

His chair scrapes as he rises to his feet, silencing whatever excuse I was about to invent. One step is all it takes him to cross the small distance between us. His naked chest rises and falls like the waves of a calm ocean as he hovers over me. I’m old enough to be his father, but when he stares down at me like he wants to devour me, the dynamics shift and morph. He holds the power.

Last night was a mistake. I need to tell him to leave, but the words stay glued to my tongue, refusing to disturb the electric silence. My eyes fall down his chest to the tattoo on the inside of his arm.

A nightshade.

A poisonous plant. One taste could be deadly.

He fists his hand at his side, drawing my attention to the subtle movement, and I watch as he slowly uncurls his fingers, surrounded by blurred shadows. What’s happening? Why am I caught in the eye of the storm, transfixed by the thick outline of his cock inside his jeans? It’s trapped against his thigh, held hostage and begging for release.

“I’ll see you in class, Professor Kirk.”

My eyes snap up to his face just in time to catch him smirking as a muscle twitches in his cheek, accentuating his sharp jawline. He walks out, leaving me in the aftermath of whatever blend of fucked up that was.

Oxygen rushes back into my lungs, and I inhale greedily as I loosen my tie. I’m trembling. What’s worse? I’m rock hard.

Outside, dark clouds roll in over the sky as thunder rumbles in the distance. Seated on the desk, I clear my throat. “Who here can tell me why the Revolution of 1917 succeeded?”

Melanie, an attractive young lady in the front row, eagerly waves her hand. I struggle to focus while she prattles off a response.

For the last hour, Cruz has balanced a pen between his long fingers, and the insistent tapping against the desk is all I can focus on. Well, that and his relaxed pose, with his elbow on the armrest and his chin resting on his palm. I’m acutely aware every time he shifts, however slightly.

When he tracks me with his dark eyes, I feel as if I’m being hunted.

I’m startled by the bell. Students rise from their seats and collect their bags.

“Thank you, Melanie. That’s it for today. We’ll pick up where we left off next time. Don’t forget to read through the next two chapters, everyone,” I call out. No one listens as half the class sidles through the doorway. I rise to my feet and collect my laptop off the desk. “Cruz, I need a word.”

Placing my bag on the desk, I shove my laptop inside, sensing his approach from behind. His presence raises the hairs on the back of my neck, a sensation that isn’t entirely unpleasant, but it’s ultimately one I don’t know how to handle. This is uncharted territory.

Shark-infested waters.

I need to put an end to it before we both drown.

“You wanted to see me, Professor Kirk?”

“Just Marshall.” Grinding my teeth, I zip the bag. “What happened last night must never happen again,” I say firmly and turn around.

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