Page 167 of Forbidden Lessons

I keep staring straight ahead, watching the other Bastian as he sweeps her hair away from her neck with both hands, drawingit up. The silky strands fight to be free, slipping through his fingers, but he tightens it into a fist.

Slowly, so as not to startle her. He doesn’t want her to run.

Doesn’t want her to scream. Not now. Not in public.

“You should wear it up,” he says.

Haven turns her head from side to side. “You think so?—”

He twists and she cuts off with a gasp, instantly grabbing his wrist, immediately on full alert.

And his cock responds in a very inappropriate way.

Jesus, that guy is so fucked.

Chapter 49

Haven

The moment I step out of the fitting room and Bastian’s eyes lock with mine, I know I’m willing to do whatever it takes to attend the Rain Dance tonight.

I’ll work double shifts the entire summer.

I’ll give Danielle half my tips.

I’ll…I’ll clean the fucking grease trap.

Even thinking about it makes me want to dry heave.

Because I’ve just had my first hit of lust, and I’m already chasing the dragon. The look on Bastian’s face is savage. Primal.

I’m only just figuring out what it means when he snaps himself out of it and demands I switch dresses. And even then, I’m sure I imagined it.

He can’t want me. Not likethat.

Bastian Rooke can have any woman he wants. He’s rich, handsome, charming, and intelligent.

So why the hell is he looking at me like that?

I overheard conversations back in high school when I passed groups of girls. They used to talk about boys, and how all they ever wanted all the time was sex.

Maybe that doesn’t change as a guy gets older. Maybe men are just wired that way. So even though I’m so far beneath him, I’m basically dirt, he can’t help but think about it. Imagine it.

So what’s my excuse then?

The amount of times my mind has returned unbidden to the sight of Bastian in nothing but a towel? I play that scene over and over in my head, trying to find something wrong with it, to make it dirty or shameful, so I won’t feel so compelled to dwell on it.

But he thought I was asleep. And then he sees me crying and tries to comfort me. And what do I do?

I fucking slap him.

I’m such a damn mess.

Like, car-hitting-a-fruit-cart-in-a-high-speed-chase kind of mess.

But Professor Rooke doesn’t know that. If he’s expecting me to draw the line for both of us, we’re not making it out of this with our dignity intact.

Then he scoops up my hair, grabs it, knots it, and I see it.

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