Page 20 of Hunted By Valentine

“Indeed,” I murmur, my voice a velvet shroud, wrapping around her doubt. “Desire, for example. It drives us, molds us into creatures of ambition, or lust, or power.”

I cup her sex the best I can. She raises her hips, rubbing against me.

“It can be a dangerous thing, unchecked desire,” I rasp, pitching my voice so low only she can hear me.

Ruby rubs herself harder against my hand. Her eyes are dark with desire, and she’s biting into her bottom lip. She swallows, her throat working delicately against the collar of her sweater. “And you?” she asks, her words a whisper of silk against the tension. “What does your desire lead you toward?”

Gripping my knee, she digs her fingers into me as her pace quickens along with her breathing. Her cheeks are flushed, but I don’t think it’s from embarrassment. No, it’s desire. I press my thumb to her clit, helping her stimulate it.

“Darkness,” I confess, my admission a caress of smoke in the charged air. “A depth so vast, Ruby, that some may find it… consuming.”

A small moan falls from her lips, the sound barely audible over the soft jazz serenading the restaurant. She continues to ride my hand as her legs begin to tremble, but she doesn’t orgasm, at least I’m pretty sure she doesn’t.

Ruby shifts beside me, her body language betraying her frustration. Her lips part, a breath away from speaking, but the words die there.

“Valentine,” Nicklas interjects, his tone pulling us from the brink of our private abyss. “We should discuss further details of the charity project later this week.”

“Of course,” I answer, tearing my gaze from Ruby with deliberate slowness. My smile, a predator’s grin, is all charm and hidden daggers. “I look forward to it.”

“Oh, you know, I don’t think I have your number,” Carolina interjects. “Do you mind? It would make it easier if I need to get a hold of you.”

Biting back a smile, I agree and list off the numbers. While I note down Carolina’s number, I encourage Ruby to save mine as well. “You never know if you’ll need it.”

She gives me a bemused smile, but saves it before giving me hers.

When Carolina’s chocolate cake arrives in a fancy box, Nicklas smoothly asks for the meal to be put on his tab. I try to offer to pay for my share, but he won’t hear of it so I quickly let it go.

Together, we head to the coat-checker area, and after we all get our outerwear, farewells are exchanged. I shake Nicklas’ hand, kiss Carolina’s cheek. Then I turn to Ruby, wondering if I’m the only one who sees the hope written all over her face. I lean in, pretending I’m going to kiss her cheek as well, but instead I turn my head and whisper, “Goodnight, Ruby.”

The city hums beneath my feet, its pulse quickening in time with mine. I walk through the night, but my mind is still wrapped around Ruby. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already part of me, woven into this game. And soon, very soon, I’ll pull the strings that make her unravel.

Chapter 8

The Hunter

Ifind her sitting at one of the farthest tables in the campus library, nestled between towering shelves of forgotten literature. The dim lighting and hushed whispers create an atmosphere far more intimate than a classroom ever could. There’s something about this isolation that draws me in, heightening the tension between us.

It’s been a week since our dinner with Nicklas and Carolina, and since then, I’ve deliberately ignored Ruby as much as possible. In class, I’ve only given her attention when it seemed weird to ignore her, and I haven’t called on her if she didn’t raise her hand.

Through the week, one question has kept plaguing my mind; she didn’t orgasm. Why didn’t she? She was so close, that much I know. Her facial expression and body didn’t lie, it spoke of a woman right on the brink. So why didn’t she?

Ruby’s green eyes flicker to the page in front of her, then back to me as I approach. I sense her hesitation—a subtle pull and push in her movements. She’s fighting her instinct to flee, and I relish the fact that she stays rooted to the spot, though her fingers nervously toy with the corner of her book. I immediately recognize it as mine; the one I wrote and lent her.

“You don’t seem like the library type, Mrs. Simmons,” I say as I slideinto the chair opposite her. My voice is low, intimate, the kind that belongs in dark corners rather than wide, open spaces.

She closes her book with an almost imperceptible sigh, her eyes finally meeting mine. “I come here when I need to think,” she replies, her tone guarded, carefully neutral.

“And what are you thinking about?” My question is pointed, a probe into the part of her she tries so hard to keep hidden.

“Class,” she says, but I know it’s a lie. There’s more beneath the surface, a churning that she’s attempting to disguise.

I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice as if we’re exchanging secrets. “Really? Because you don’t strike me as someone who only thinks about class.”

Her gaze flickers, and for a moment, I catch the faintest hint of a smile, gone just as quickly as it appeared. She’s a puzzle, one whose pieces don’t quite fit—at least, not yet.

“You intrigued me the other day,” I continue, my tone soft but loaded with meaning. “Your thoughts on freedom were not what I expected. I’d like to hear more.”

She shifts in her seat, clearly uneasy under my scrutiny, yet there’s a spark in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Something stirs inside her—defiance, maybe. Interest. “I don’t think you really want to hear what I have to say, Professor.”

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