style="font-size:15px;"> Connor shrugged. ‘So? Apply.’
‘Okay. Can I email you direct?’
Everyone laughs, Connor included. ‘Sure.’
But I don’t laugh.
Something uncomfortable slides through me, twisting my organs. Is Benita Cave flirting with Connor?
Is he flirting back?
More heat spreads through my cheeks. I’m so distracted by this unpleasant notion that I barely notice people are leaving until the class is almost empty and I’m this close to being alone with Connor once more.
Shit.
I pack up quickly, squishing my book into my bag and tossing it over my shoulder. I jam my phone into the back pocket of my jeans as I stand and straighten my simple white singlet top so that it sits properly over my waistband.
‘You know—’ Connor’s voice is soft and even though other students are still milling around I know he’s addressing me ‘—it’s not a great idea to be chatting on your phone during class.’
My ears are hot.
‘I wasn’t on the phone during class,’ I point out, changing trajectory and moving towards the desk.
‘I beg to differ.’
‘With respect, sir, it was before class.’
His eyes narrow, and seem to change colour. ‘I was here, wasn’t I? Thus the class had begun.’
I’m tempted to argue with him—I want to argue with him. But Connor Hughes is obviously used to people doing exactly what he wants, when he wants. Plus, he’s my lecturer and I know I can’t say what I’m thinking. Because I’m a good girl.
I press my fingertips into the edge of his desk. Breath is burning through me and my chest heaves with the effort. We stare at each other for a long time. Or maybe it’s just seconds. I don’t know. Time seems to stand still. It’s heavy around me, like wading through just-poured concrete.
‘Shut the door, Miss Amorelli.’
Oh, God. Here we are again. The tension stretches between us, pulling so hard, so tight, that I think it might actually snap me in half.
But a thrill of adrenalin is surging in my veins simultaneously. I want this. I need it. To be alone with him, even for a few stolen minutes, even knowing nothing can happen. I storm towards the door as though I’m pissed off and not excited. I push it shut and whip around to face him.
He’s sitting at the desk, a bemused expression on his handsome-as-sin face.
‘Yes?’ I press back against the door, all but willing him to come and hold his body to mine.
He stands slowly, unfurling his frame and prowling across the room. He comes close, but not close enough.
His smile is sardonic and utterly sexy. ‘I meant with you on the other side of it.’
I ignore the flash of embarrassment, pushing it deep down inside myself. ‘Am I supposed to be a mind-reader?’
‘I don’t know what you’re supposed to be.’ There is resignation in that sentence.
His eyes drop to my breasts, heating me up, making me tingle all over. My nipples thrust forward of their own volition and his lips twist in a smile that is both mocking and approving, all at once.
This is so wrong.
And still I don’t move. Suddenly, I’m desperate for him to touch me, or for me to touch him. Everything seems to come screeching to a halt—I am angry with my parents for their machinations, for the way they want to control my personal life. I’m angry at Pietro for being a pawn in their games. And, most of all, I’m angry at Connor Hughes for being sexy AF even when I hate the work he does—defending criminals who should be locked up with the keys thrown away.
‘You should go, Olivia.’ He steps back as though he can put an end to this. As though he can walk away from this insane gravitational pull.
But I’m sick of being told what to do. I’m sick of being a good girl. Just once, I want to do something for myself, something completely wrong.
‘And what if I don’t go?’
There’s a look of desperation in his expression, as though we’re sinking in quicksand, and his voice is gravel when he speaks. ‘You should.’
It’s four o’clock. Thoughts of the birthday lunch fragment my mood, but it annoys me. I’m impatient at the expectation that I’ll simply do what my mother asks.
I take a step forward and he squares his shoulders but doesn’t retreat.
‘I had a dream about you last night,’ I murmur, the words slipping from between my lips, unbidden.
His eyes blink closed for a moment and he draws in a breath. ‘Did you?’
‘Uh huh.’ I step close enough that my breasts are pressing against his chest.
‘Careful.’ His words whisper against my hair and a frisson of awareness dances all the way down my back.
I lift my face, angling my eyes to meet his. ‘Of what?’
‘Of playing with fire.’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’
His Adam’s apple jerks as he swallows. ‘Yes.’
I am; he’s right. And it feels so good. I am not a good girl—at least, not just a good girl.
‘Don’t you want to know what my dream was about?’
His eyes are lightly mocking. ‘I think I can guess.’
My lips twist into a small smile. ‘I dreamed,’ I say huskily, ‘that you touched me here.’ I lift a hand to my breast, running my fingertips over nipples that are taut. He makes a groaning noise but keeps watching, his eyes glued to the progress of my fingertips.
‘And here.’ I run my fingers higher, to the pulse point at the base of my throat. ‘And here.’ I touch my lips.
‘Anywhere else?’ The words are gruff, strained.
I nod, slowly.
‘Here.’ I run my fingertip down my body, pressing against the zip of my jeans. We’re so close that I can’t do so without brushing against his cock—it’s rock-hard. Power rocks me to my core.
‘And you don’t think it’s inappropriate to dream of your teacher?’
Adrenalin heats my blood and flavours my mouth. ‘Sure it is.’ I bite down on my lower lip. ‘I’m not sure I care, though.’
His groan is so soft that I only hear it because I’m standing right here, pressed
