School Ties (29 page)

It's true. Erin has quite the devoted following among the students and they can be extremely protective of her. Especially the ones she's taught or have lived in her dorm. And don't get me started on the faculty. If Erin had let slip anything Will had done, they'd never find the body. These tweed-and-tie types look all civilized, but if you hurt one of theirs, you'd best watch your back.

“Yes, she was there because she wanted to start something. She's been trying to start something since we saw her at the dance. But I sent her away, told her I'm with you. Erin, I—” If there's one thing I learned in my English classes on the Hill, it's that showing is better than telling. I do some quick mental math and make my last-ditch effort. “Fifteen minutes. Give me fifteen minutes and if you're not convinced after that that I love you and I'd never do anything to hurt you, especially not sleep with Lana Davis, then I'll leave. You can stay on the Hill where you belong and I'll find someplace else. You belong here, no matter what else you decide. But I need you to have all the information before you make your choice.”

Erin

I want to believe him. Every particle of my body is longing to be convinced. But there's that stupid, horrible voice that always nags at me.
That's what he's been doing every night we weren't together. Lana probably flew down and spent the week with him in Fort Lauderdale. That's why he's been acting so hopped up and weird for the past month. Her.

But all he's asking for is fifteen minutes. Even if he has been cheating on me, I could give him that. I gave Will years; surely I can spare fifteen minutes for Shep. Fifteen minutes that might get me my life back.

“Fine. But the clock starts now.”

He holds out a hand and that piece of me that so desperately wants to believe him compels me to slip my fingers through his. A distinct expression of relief settles over his features and then he's pulling me off the settee and toward the door. “Then we've got to get a move on.”

Ten minutes later, we're standing in front of the art gallery on Main Street. The doors are closed, the lights are dimmed and an off-kilter sign hangs in the picture window facing the street: “We'll be back at eleven!”

He brought me to a closed gallery why?

But he doesn't look discouraged or disappointed. Instead he draws something out of his pocket and then he's sliding a key into the lock. Why does Shep have a key to the gallery? He doesn't stop for an explanation, but nudges me through the door and through the first darkened room, not bothering to turn up the lights. When we turn the corner into the back room, though, he flicks a switch and the space is illuminated, bathed in bright light.

Like most galleries, this one is usually pretty spare. Pieces hung far apart give you the time and space to consider them, but this—drawings and paintings cover the walls from floor to ceiling, a collage of images that's almost overwhelming. At first I can't process it, there's so many of them, but then something catches my eye.

It's the drawing of my shoes, my heels lifting out of the backs, the constellation of freckles on the back of my calf I'd never paid attention to but now I find a secret pride in it, knowing how Shep loves the scatter of tiny brown dots. When I slow my gaze to wander over each of the pictures, my breath hitches in my throat. They're me. They're all of me. Some I've seen, from his senior art show and from the walls of his apartment, but most I haven't.

The fall of my hair over a pillow, crossed ankles under a table, a hand holding a piece of chalk up to an overflowing chalkboard. In none of them can you see my face but I know in my heart they're all me. He's been so careful to maintain plausible deniability, but here they are, love letters hiding in plain sight again. Dozens upon dozens, and each one chips at my doubt. I spin around, trying to take it all in but there are just so
many
of them.

“Time's up.”

His soft, low words yank my attention from the walls.

“How did you—”

“I took your advice.” The corner of his mouth is curled up in a nervy, hopeful smile. “They've been hanging up here for a week. I've had a few offers on some of the pieces but I don't think I'm going to sell any of them. I . . . I did this for you. You're the one who's always supported me, believed in me, made me believe in myself. Gave me the courage to choose what would make me happy. I wanted to show you that you're the one. You've always been the one. I love you and I don't want to be with anyone else, ever.”

“When did you even . . .”

“What do you think I do on the nights I'm not with you?”

Guilt squeezes my lungs because it sure as heck wasn't this. All this time I've had pangs of suspicion and mistrust, and he's been so devoted that he draws me when I'm not around. Even the particularly stubborn brand of paranoia I've been cursed with can't withstand the prodigious amount of evidence that it's been me in his thoughts, me in his heart since the beginning, and I've never left.

“They're beautiful.”

“How could they not be? They're you.”

“Shep, I—”

He silences me with a shake of his head and reaches for my hands. I give them over, gladly. I want his touch.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Lana. The only reason I didn't want you to know she was here is because I knew how much it would upset you. You've had so much going on, I didn't want to add to your load. I'm sorry, I should've told you. Whenever I try too hard to protect you, it bites me in the ass.”

That makes me laugh but I force my features into sternness. “You should've told me.”

“I know, and I will. In the future. If there's still a chance of a future.”

“Yes, I think so.” That's the understatement of the year. There's nothing I want more than that. “And I— I owe you an apology. I'm sorry I doubted you. I should've talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions. It's just that Will . . .”

I close my eyes and sigh. Will poisoned me and I let him for so long, he made my mind suspicious and wary. Even though Shep's earned my trust, given me the antidote of steady, true and earnest love, it's hard to silence that nagging voice in the back of my brain. But maybe someday I'll be able to do it. I want to do it, so I open my eyes and let Shep see the depths of my vulnerability.

What I see in his expression isn't a mirror of my anxiety. It's rock-solid, unadulterated promise. “I know, lamb, I know. I'll try to remind myself you're stronger than you look. But I want, so badly, for you to not have to be. I'll always be there for you. I'll be your backstop when things get to be too much. I love you, and I want to take care of you. Forever.”

The bubble that's been inflating in my chest bursts because it can't contain that much happiness. He knows just what assurances to make. “I love you, too.”

“Then maybe, even though I've fucked this up, you'll still say yes to marrying me?”

He reaches into his pocket again—how is it that men seem to have bottomless pockets?—and pulls out a black velvet box as he drops to one knee. It's the sort of box that makes a certain kind of woman's heart beat fast and hard. Mine is. When I crack open the box with trembling fingers, there's a simple ring nestled in its place. A small round diamond on a thin gold band. I couldn't be happier. I don't need anything fancy; I don't even need this.

“What do you say, Erin? We haven't been together long, but I can't imagine being with anyone else. You're better than any fantasy I ever had and I want to make your dreams come true. Say you'll let me try. Say you'll be my wife.”

Strangely, there's a flutter of pages through my head, as if they've been blown off the walls by a sudden gust of wind though we're inside. Pencil sketches and torn-out sheets of notebook paper, the academic detritus of teaching assignments and love notes in plain sight. To weigh them all down with a simple gold ring, nothing would make me happier. So here in this room with his love for me plastered all over the walls, I say it.

“I will.”

He takes the ring from the box. It looks tiny in his hands as he slips it on my finger. When it's on, I sigh. It looks better there than in the box. I love it, I love him. We're going to be so happy together, our own little family on the Hill.
I can be your family. I can be yours.

Epilogue

Shep

Three Months Later

“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Brewster. Miss Brewster to you, please, and we'll be spending first period together this year.”

I shift in the hard, slick plastic of the desk chair. She's wearing a close-fitting pencil skirt and it rides up her thigh as she reaches for the class list on her desk. She does roll call and when she gets to my name, her face flushes an incredible shade of red that makes me half hard. I raise my hand from my seat in the back and barely contain my laugh when her eyelashes flutter and she fans herself with the attendance sheet.

“Right. Well. Let's get started.”

She turns to the board and starts to write, drawing the graph of a simple parabola to illustrate the concepts of domain and range. It's a lesson I could give in my sleep but I hold my tongue as she talks through it, hanging on her every word. I love to hear her teach, always have.

While I listen, my gaze skates over those damn purple flats, up the curve of her calf to where her legs disappear into that skirt that might as well be made of flirtation. From there, my study continues, over the curve of her breast visible through her prim cardigan, skimming the drip of pearls around her neck. Wisps of her hair have escaped her bun and curl around her nape and her ears, and she brushes a tendril off her pink face, getting a smudge of chalk on her cheek in the process. That's when I can't take it anymore.

I slide out of the chair and come up behind her, stilling her hand and taking the chalk from between her fingers before I press the length of my body along the back of hers until she's trapped between me and the board.

“Shep, you're going to get chalk all over my sweater.”

“That's going to be the least of your problems if you forget your own name tomorrow.”

She giggles and turns her head, rests her cheek against the green surface. “You caught that, did you?”

“I did. Maybe you should try it again.”

She closes her eyes and rolls her lips between her teeth, pressing her hips against me. The pressure against my cock that's no longer half hard but full-on ready for her makes me groan. I wedge a knee between her thighs and urge her legs apart. Her back arches and I press into her harder.

“Again. Do it now.”

“Yes, Zach.” She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes while her fingertips graze the white writing on the board, smudging her perfect penmanship. That's what I'd like to do to her. Muss her all up. “Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Shepherd. Mrs. Shepherd to you, please, and we'll be spending first period together this year.”

Hearing her say the words, the words I've longed for, makes me want her even more. Not to mention the gold band that rests snug underneath her engagement ring, the one that tells the whole world she belongs to me, forever. “Fuck, Erin.”

The blinds of the classroom are drawn and it's pitch black outside. The door to Erin's classroom is closed and locked and the building is eerily silent, not like how it'll be tomorrow morning when classes start. The guys are back on campus but they're occupied with all the welcome-back bluster. No one's going to step foot in an academic building a second before they have to. Except us.

Tomorrow I'll have to endure the torture of hearing her say the words through the horsehair plaster and struggle not to get a hard-on while I teach my own class, knowing she's right on the other side of the wall thinking the same filthy thoughts I am. But for now, we get to indulge.

I lean back far enough to yank the tie from around my neck, keeping her pinned with my hips. Slipping it around her eyes, I don't fail to notice the hard swallow that ripples her throat. Though I've had her blindfolded dozens of times, it still unnerves her. I love the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip in uncertainty before she releases it and takes a deep breath, her shoulders dropping and relaxing into the wall because she trusts me not to hurt her. I won't. I never will.

Stroking her arm, I lean down and tell her what a good girl she is and she practically purrs. When I tell her to stay, and step back, she stiffens but doesn't move. Not even when I pull my belt from its loops. She must be able to hear the whisper of leather through cotton but she doesn't budge, doesn't protest. And goddamn does that make me want her.

I have half a mind to take the belt to her ass and make it that perfect shade of red, but I want to draw this out, make it last, because this is something we've both been waiting for, craving. I could hardly believe it when she'd handed me the box last week.

We'd just finished moving into John's old apartment. Though we were both dusty and tired, she'd smiled at me in that shy, sneaky way she has and told me to wait on the couch, where we'd collapsed after the last bag had been carried up. She'd handed me this innocuous-looking shoebox, but when I'd opened it I nearly died. One of my Hawthorn ties, a leather belt, an old-school wooden ruler, her pearl necklace and a box of chalk. She'd knelt in front of me, wringing her hands in her lap. “I thought maybe we could—”

“Yes.” I hadn't even known exactly what she was going to ask for but I'd been so proud of her for asking, I hadn't cared. And when she'd mustered up the courage to spell out the details, offering up the handwritten pages from her pocket while she was tomato-red and nervous as hell, I'd been even more on board. Now that it's happening . . . Perfection. That's what she is.

I steer her arms until she's holding them elbow-to-wrist behind her back and then I use my belt to cinch them together. This is amateur-hour bondage—I've had her in much more serious restraints over the summer but it's just another layer to add to this deliciously filthy cake. And now that she's bound up and helpless for me, the real fun can start.

The ruler she'd put in the box is sitting alone on the otherwise clear desk and I take it up to run along her cheek.

“Know what this is, lamb?”

“Yes, Zach.”

“Know what I'm going to do with it?”

Since I can't see her eyes, my gaze is glued to her lips. I swear half the time she doesn't need to talk because her mouth is so expressive. But goddamn, do I like to make her say things out loud.

“Yes, Zach.”

I grunt at her tease of an answer. “So that's how we're going to play today, huh?”

Her mouth purses up like she's so pleased with herself but trying not to laugh and I have to smile and shake my head. She's adorable. And is totally earning what's coming to her. “Yes, Zach.”

“Tell me, then,” I say, drawing the ruler down her neck, slipping it between her skin and her necklace, twisting once so the strand presses into her flesh. She swallows again, the pearls bobbing against her throat.

“You're going to . . .” She's gotten better at saying things out loud but I kind of don't want her to ever get used to it entirely. I like how it makes her squirm and blush, how she's all prim and respectable until I've driven her out of her mind and then all bets are off. I twist the ruler a little more. Not near enough to cut off her air but enough to make her feel it, and she makes a strangled little noise of horny surprise. “You're going to spank me with it, Zach.”

“Yes, I am. And won't you enjoy that, you filthy girl?”

Her fingers curl against her elbows and she presses harder into the board. “Yes, Zach.”

I brace my wrist holding the ruler against her shoulder so I don't accidently twist it farther while I work her skirt up around her waist. She wriggles while I tug the fabric over her hips, and I don't know if she's trying to help or hinder. I don't care. It's a good excuse to slap the cheek I've exposed.

“Be still.”

She whimpers but stills the movement of her hips. I'm finally able to wrestle the skirt to where I want it and when it's there, I'm glad for the struggle. It's not going to go anywhere while I have my way with her sweet, round ass. I warm her up with a hand spanking, turning the skin I can see around those damn blue lace panties a sweet shade of pink. When I've got her all ready, I peel the stretchy lace over the curve of her ass and slide the ruler out of her necklace.

She takes a deep breath and I can see the faint indent of the pearls in her delicate skin. Those marks won't last long but they're here for now, whispering
Mine
over and over, all around her throat. I know what I'll be drawing tonight, in a sketchbook only the two of us will ever see.

When I've disentangled myself, I slant a forearm across her shoulder blades and lean into her, trapping her against the wall. The breath flushes out of her lungs and she makes one of those little sex noises that never fail to make every drop of blood in my body make a break for my dick. But first . . .

“Ah!” If she thought I was going to take it easy on her, she was sadly mistaken. I hit her again, and again, turning her skin from pink to red in the process. She only struggles a little, a twist of her shoulders here, a turn of her hips there. Just enough to let me scold her for it and take her transgressions out on her butt.

When it's bright red and hot to the touch, I stop and let myself touch her, loving her pleading noises as I caress and pinch her. And when I've had my fill of the soft, warm flesh under my fingertips, I turn her around and direct her to her knees. Her lips are sweetly parted and her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip.

“And what does my naughty girl want now?”

“Your—your cock. Please.”

“Where do you want it?”

“Wherever you'd like, Zach.” My fly feels like it's about to give out under the strain and I have to close my eyes and grit my teeth. Fuck all, is she sexy.

“Open your mouth.”

I get to watch her, lips parted and wet, waiting for me while I fumble with the button and the zipper, and then I'm inside her. The heat of her mouth and the slick of her tongue surrounding me. I let her play for a little while before I cradle the back of her head in my hand and urge her forward. Her arms are bound, so I won't go too far because she wouldn't be able to tell me to stop if she needs me to, but I enter her throat a few times, and that's all it takes. I give her a warning but then I'm spilling into her mouth and down her throat, bracing a hand against the chalkboard and smudging her neat writing even more because that's what she does to me, too—makes me a full-on mess, shatters my control.

She licks at me until I tell her to stop, and then I tuck my dick back in my pants where it'll no doubt get hard again in minutes because we're not done yet. Not even close.

I help her to her feet and lead her, skirt still around her waist and her panties just below her butt cheeks, over to her desk, where I lift her up and settle her on the edge. Her feet dangle a few inches off the floor so I take the opportunity to take off her shoes. Then I lie her back against the cleared surface of the desk and strip off her panties before having her prop her feet up against the edge.

Her chest is rising high with each breath and her legs are trembling but I'm pretty confident it's not from strain. I've put her through far more than this and she takes everything I can dish out. She's stronger than I've ever given her credit for but that doesn't mean I can't knock her off-balance with the unexpected.

“This is not part of the script!”

I have to laugh at her squeaky protest but I silence her by pressing the heel of one hand over her mound and stroking her clit with the fingers of the other. “I'm improvising. Is that a problem?”

“No, Zach.”

“Didn't think so.”

Dropping to my own knees, I spread her open and dip my head to taste her. She bucks her hips up to meet my mouth and I tsk at her. “You'll take what I give you, nothing more, nothing less. Now relax.”

“Yes, Zach.”

I don't think there are many women who would sound quite so miserable when faced with the prospect of their husband going down on them, but this is one of my favorite ways to torture Erin and she knows it. I could edge her like this for hours. Have, in fact, because it doesn't take a whole lot to get her completely desperate and less to keep her there. Not today, though.

After I work at her for a few minutes, tasting her, licking her and sucking her clit until her back is arched high off the desk, I stop. I'm hard as hell from the taste and smell and feel of her. Now that we've completed our little detour, it's time to get back on track. This is her fantasy, after all, not mine, though there's a hell of a lot of overlap. But she's asked me for these things and I'll give them to her. I always want to be the man she trusts to give her what she needs.

Helping her sit up, I kiss her neck and brush some hair off her face before reaching for the belt and untying her. I rub her wrists and forearms before I slide her off the desk, turn her around and bend her over.

She rests her hands alongside her head and sighs, content but still willing. I can't stand it anymore. I need to be inside her. So I unbutton and unzip my pants and kick her feet out until she's wide open for me and then . . . then I ease inside of her and I have to stop because otherwise I'm going to lose it. Even though I just came, because this girl—goddamn. I knead her ass while I wait and try not to listen too hard to the breathy sounds of protest because that would set me off just as well. But within a minute, I've managed to get myself under control so I start to move.

It's not like I have anyone else to compare her to, but I can't imagine anyone would feel better than Erin. Not just her pussy—although that feels a hundred different kinds of amazing—but just her. Everything feels better now that we're together. The diamond on her finger glints at me and I start to fuck her harder.
Mine
. Mine to do with what I wish, to please and control. Mine to take care of. Mine to love.

“Come on, Erin,” I urge, and wedge my hand between her thighs and the edge of the desk so I can finger her clit while I thrust into her. That's what she needs, just a few beats of contact. Then she's pulsing around me, crying out her pleasure while I fuck her on the desk she'll teach behind tomorrow, the desk that had stood between us while she was my teacher, but not anymore.