Page 334 of The Winslow Brothers

Ineedthis release. More than anything else.

One, two, three more strokes of the tips of my fingers and a quick stroke of my clit and I’m falling over the edge and spiraling into an abyss of orgasmic pleasure I haven’t seen in…well, in years.

Maybe it’s the power of fantasy, or maybe it’s the memory of Ty’s touch from this afternoon, but I haven’t felt that violent of a culmination maybe ever.

I feel almost ragged as I pull my now-shaky legs back into the warm water of the tub and once again sink to a level that only allows breathing. The water is soothing on my tingling, nerve-fired skin, and the noiselessness of underwater is the only way I can calm my racing heart.

Because as much as I thought I would, I don’t feel satisfied. I don’t feel like I’ve had my fillat all.

In fact, when it comes to fantasies of Ty Winslow, I’m even hungrier than before. But I know it has to stop. The teasing, the taunting, the flirting, the touching, all of it.

Ithasto stop here.

Tomorrow, Rachel Rose is going to be on her best behavior. Even if it kills me.

Tuesday, February 12th

Ty

The gentle squeal of hinges sounds from my left, pulling my attention from what I’m doing and bringing it to the door. I’ve been here, in my lecture hall, for half an hour, and the next students aren’t due for another forty-five minutes. Needless to say, the visitor is unexpected, and my stomach jumps at the sight of Rachel as she walks into the empty classroom.

Her head jolts when her eyes meet mine. “Oh. Sorry, Professor Winslow,” she murmurs, clutching her books even tighter than they already were to her turtleneck-covered chest. “I didn’t realize you’d be here yet.”

I’m only halfway through my lecture plans for today, and at the sight of her, I doubt I’m going to get much further. It goes without saying that she is the very last person I need to be left alone in a room with.

It appears we both had the same idea—get here early to get most of our stuff done, so when class is over, all we have to do is leave. No office encounters. No sexy kisses. No situations that include my hand up her skirt. Put simply: neither one of us wants a repeat of yesterday.

She’s also dressed demurely, a change from her normal outfits and a failed attempt at keeping my mind off her body. Her curves are burned into my permanent memory, where I have a bevy of images that won’t be stopped by fabric on her neck.

Still, I can appreciate the effort.

“No problem, Ms. Rose,” I reply, the oddly stilted formalities between us creating a nearly visible cloud of weirdness. But we’re both trying, and I’ll give us credit for that. It’s not easy putting someone else’s wants and needs or rules above your own. It’s not easy pulling back from someone who’s basically become your obsession.

At some point, I’ve risen from my desk chair without noticing, and we both stand in silence for several long moments, our eyes locked while we try desperately not to look at each other.

“I can just take my work to the library if that—”

“That won’t be necessary,” I interrupt with a shake of my head. We’re adults. Surely we can occupy the same space without launching our bodies into a clothesless state of wanton abandonment.

Right?

I’d at least like to think I can.

“Okay,” she says hesitantly, perhaps the first time I’ve ever heard her speak with anything but confidence, and she searches for a spot to plant herself that’s somehow within the walls of this lecture hall but also on another planet at the same time.

I put my head back down to my partially finished lesson plan, just to give her the space to find somewhere to be, but I don’t seeany of the words in front of me. Instead, a film reel of her skin and the catch of her breath in the back of her throat and the way her back arched at my touch plays relentlessly.

Rachel Rose is a core memory kind of woman. Not the one you forget or pass by or ignore pointedly like I’m doing now, that’s for sure.

But she’s also the head of the department’s daughter and, more than that, the daughter of a mentor and a friend. I don’t have many lines I don’t cross, but going behind a friend’s back and sleeping with his daughter is not exactly the man I want people to talk about at my funeral.

Over and over again in my head, I repeat a chant to remind myself of what’s at stake. “Dead pariah, dead pariah, dead pariah.”

Rachel jerks her head up from her spot in one of the stadium seats and asks, “What was that?”

Okay, so maybe I didn’t just say it in my head.

“Nothing.” I wave her off with a chuck of my chin and swat of my hand. “It was nothing.”

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