Page 27 of Come Here and Kiss Me

“What are you doing, Brook?”

“I’ve always had a professor kink,” she says, taking a hesitant step forward as her fingers play with the hem of her dangerously short plaid skirt. “And I’ve been a bad girl.” Her pouty lips beg me to kiss her, but I stand exactly where I am.

“What did you do?” I ask her, ignoring the throbbing ache in my cock.

She smirks at me so fucking devilishly. She’s sin in black heels with fuck-me eyes, and I can barely contain myself.

“You don’t want to know how much I spent,” she murmurs, and that little vixen look comes over her. “You should make sure you’re getting your money’s worth.”

Her last comment breaks me out of my spell, and I force myself to avert my eyes as I remove my jacket and drape it neatly across the back of the wingback chair.

I smooth over it as I ask her, “Are you ready for class?”

“Why, yes, I am—” She uses that same playful teasing tone, and I cut her off.

“No, your classes.Your real classes,” I stress, knowing damn well I don’t trust this, and I don’t trust her.

I’m only half concerned with how much she spent and more concerned with what else she’ll change without telling me.

She shrugs it off, then parts her lips as if she’ll give me some excuse.

“You need to attend your classes,” I stress.

Her lips straighten to a thin line before she says, “I don’t see why I should go. I was only doing it because of my father, and I blocked him today, so…”

“You blocked him?” My forehead is tight with the crease from my scrunched brow.

“Yes. I hit the button on the phone that says—” she responds as if I can’t fucking comprehend how to block someone.

“I know what blocked means,” I grit out, barely holding back my irritation. My heart pounds. I hate that she’s one of them. “What are you doing, Brooklyn?”

“What does it look like?” she says once again, playing dumb. She’s anything but, and she damn well knows that I know that.

For a moment, her eyes reflect the shock and grief she’s been holding back.

There she is… the version of her I met in the bar that night. The raw, vulnerable woman who wanted to escape, and I found myself there, wanting the same.

“You’re smarter than this,” I say as I take another step toward her.

She stares at me, her eyes wide as if she knows I can really see her for who she is. The real her. She steps back, her knees hitting the other chair and preventing her from moving. I know she’s hurt, and for a moment, a moment, I think she may walk away.

Not just from this moment but from all of it.

Me included.

I can’t fucking risk that. I need her. More than she knows.

“Get on your knees.” My hands land on my belt buckle, and I wait for her to move.

She swallows hard, meeting my eyes as a smirk spreads across her lips.

“Come on, my little whore, get on your knees for me like my good girl you are.”

She doesn’t move, not one step. She wants me to come to her instead. This is a battle, an all-out war of who controls the other more.

Hours, minutes, seconds could have rolled by, and I give her what she wants in the end because I can’t resist her. As much as I crave to, as much as I pray to, as much as I hope to.

I just can’t let her go.

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