Page 85 of Broken Dream
I kiss her again, hard and needy, knowing full well I’m probably bruising her beautiful lips.
And I don’t care.
I don’t care that this is wrong. That she’s my student. That the guilt is eating me alive.
Our lips are smashed together, our teeth clashing, our tongues tangling.
I can’t get enough of her. I don’t ever want to get enough of her.
My mind whirls, but I tamp down the thoughts—the knowledge that this is wrong, that I should walk away.
God only knows I have enough of my own baggage.
Why drag an innocent woman into it?
Except that she’s awakened feelings in me I thought were long dead and buried.
I deepen the kiss, devouring her, until she grips my shoulders, pushing me away from her. The kiss breaks with a loud smack.
“Jason…”
“What? You want to tell me you didn’t want that, Angie? Because I know damned well you did.” I rake my gaze over her body. “Your nipples are hard. I can see them through your shirt.” I inhale. “And you’re wet. I can smell you. Like an animal stalking his mate. I smell you, Angie. I smell how much you want this. How much you want me.”
She gulps audibly. Her lips are trembling—swollen from my kiss and trembling.
“Jason…” she ekes out.
“God, the way you say my name…” I’m as hard as I’ve ever been. I’m uncomfortable in these damned clothes.
She drops her gaze to my crotch.
“That’s right,” I say. “See that? See what you do to me? I want you just as much as you want me. I don’t fucking care that it’s wrong. I don’t care. I’m not sorry. You understand that, Angie? I’m not fucking sorry.”
She gulps again. “Jason… I’m…not sorry either.”
I grab her then, crush our mouths together once more.
We’re in the lab.
The anatomy lab.
The cadavers watch us, judging us, their bodies splayed out like grisly spectators, and although covered, their lifeless eyes still seem to hold an eerie presence as witnesses to our passion.
The air is thick with odd smells and unspoken desires. The quiet hum of the refrigerator units is drowned by the frantic pounding of our hearts.
“Jason,” Angie gasps, digging her fingers into my back as I trail hungry kisses down her neck.
Her voice echoes in the room, bouncing off the cold tiled walls.
My breathing grows ragged at her touch, my senses heightened to a frustrating level. I don’t care about the consequences anymore. My need for Angie overpowers every shred of guilt and fear.
I press her body against one of the empty tables, feeling her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer.
“Stop,” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper.
But she doesn’t want to stop what we’re doing. It’s not a plea.
It’s a command—one filled with the same relentless need that has our hearts racing and our bodies trembling. She wants control. She wants me as much as I want her.
