Page 62 of Switching Graves

Sighing, I gaze into the ceiling and try to picture something that will help me along—cursing myself when a particular dark-haired, older man pops into my mind.

No one has to know.

I could be imagining anything. Ishouldbe imagining the man who is currently in the fight of his life to bring me to climax, but I won’t allow myself to be ashamed. Not when this held so much promise, only to be so spectacularly horrible.

Visualizing his dark, infuriating eyes gazing up at me from between my legs, those adept fingers working inside of me, I settle further into the desk.

When the shift to my left happens again, I twist my neck to peer into Dr. Whitlock’s office—through the blinds that have now been opened the smallest amount—and lock gazes with the very person I’m envisioning with his face between my legs. With a gasp, I squirm against the slick wood to alert Hayes that we’ve been caught, but he only takes the movement as a signal that I like whatever he’s just done with his teeth. Instead of stopping, he grinds his nose and chin into me further.

Panicked, I look back into the office, hoping my drunken imagination just went a little too far. But there he is, those near-black eyes boring straight into mine. When I go to sit up, he slowly shakes his head, lifting one finger to his lips in a silent command.

What the fuck?

Dr. Whitlock takes that same finger and points downward, instructing me to lie back down and relax.

And for some reason beyond my comprehension, I obey.

Slowly reclining, I don’t dare take my eyes off the professor, choosing to lean into this wild fantasy rather than fight against it. Hayes continues working feverishly against me, completelyoblivious to our company. I have no idea how much time has even passed at this point, but it can’t be long.

Dr. Whitlock leans one arm against the edge of the window and shifts his weight into it, his sleeves rolled up to expose perfectly toned, fully tattooed forearms.

My hand reluctantly snakes around my side, leaving a blazing trail in its wake as I slowly begin to knead my breasts, circling my hips against the desk again. With him this close, his heated gaze practically burning through my soul, it’s much easier to imagine the twisted scenario where he steps outside of that office, walks up to me, and takes over.

I can practically feel it touch against my skin at the thought.

Instead, he stands there, eyes wild and body deathly still. The only indication that this is affecting him in any way is the abuse his bottom lip is taking from his hungry gnawing. It’s enough to get heat gathering in my core, an orgasm finally within reach.

So, I continue. I knead and grind, completely ignoring the man who has his hand wrapped around my thighs, his tongue lapping against my center in all the wrong places. I can faintly hear the sound of metal clanking against metal as he unfastens his belt, then unzips his pants before the rhythmical beat of skin on skin fills the quiet air, and I know he’s searching for his own release.

What would he do if he realized our professor is witnessing this?

Our professor is witnessing this. And it’s the only way I’m even close to an orgasm.

God, the thrill of it has my entire core pulsating.

Hayes’s hand rhythm picks up as hefinallyfinds a spot that is even remotely pleasurable. Or maybe I’m so turned on thatanytouch is pleasurable at this point. Either way, I reach between my legs and grab onto his hair, begging him not to stop. Just as the tension in my body builds and I can feel my releasecoming, I turn my face back toward Dr. Whitlock and let him watch me explode into a million tiny little pieces.

Hayes pulls away and stumbles back to his feet before I can form a coherent thought. I sneak a peek back toward the office, relieved to see the blinds closed again. Hayes will never know what we’ve just done.

He trips around the desk and falls into his chair, seeming to struggle to focus on anything for a long period. His glossy eyes glide around without ever fully stopping on anything. I wonder what else he took tonight. The high I felt from a few shots of tequila and champagne has already begun to dwindle down to nothing more than an uneasy stomach and a faint headache.

Then, I remember the glass Hayes handed to me before I switched it with his . . .

Did this asshat really try to slip something into my drink?

“We should probably get you back to your room,” I suggest with a bite in my tone that wasn’t there before.

I’d love to lay into him for what he’s done, but I’m fully aware that we have an audience and he likely won’t remember any of this tomorrow. I’d rather confront him when he’s fully sober and watch him try to slither his way out of this.

Sliding off the desk with my arm across my chest, I begin the search for my clothes. He had thrown them everywhere in his haste to get me undressed.

Hayes makes no move to stand. Once I have my bra fastened and go to step back into my gown, I twist my neck to gaze over my shoulder and am startled at the resentful glare he’s leveling me with.

I can’t help the rage that takes over.

“What’s your problem?” I snarl, unable to keep my face from twisting into a scowl.

“I see how you are now. Once you’ve had your fun, you aren’t into returning the favor.”

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