My Professor(66)

Jonathan understands it, and more than that, his own needs mimic mine in such a perfectly depraved way.

His finger slides into me again, and this time I arch my back, trying to take more of him inside me. He gives me up to the second knuckle, and I spasm and tighten around him for a second. He hooks his finger slightly, hitting a new sweet spot that has me rising up onto my toes.

Laughter trickles in from the hall, and my desire mingles with fear. I don’t want to be found like this, and yet—I want to toe the edge, live in this anxious moment of will they, won’t they as Jonathan pulls his finger out and finally, finally, sinks it all the way back inside me.

I don’t wait; I start to roll my hips, taking matters into my own hands. I’m so scared he’s going to work me up and get me to the brink then back off, just like he did in his office. That can’t happen. I’ll scream.

His hand on my neck tightens ever so slightly, not to cut off my airway, but to ensure I understand who’s calling the shots.

“This is all you get, so be a good girl and come.”

His dirty words are one thing too many, the tipping point of an orgasm that tears through me with so much ferocity I lose sight of everything.

I’m vaguely aware of his hand moving to cover my mouth, but I’m too ensnared by my rising and falling peaks of pleasure. It lasts and it lasts. At one point, I tighten around his finger so much I could cry. The last shudders rack through me in fits and spasms, but Jonathan keeps me pressed tightly to him. He’s a brick wall behind me.

It’s his scent that finds me first, the smell of his hand covering my mouth.

Then his lips press kisses to my hair, and he slowly moves his hand from my mouth and wraps it around my waist. Holding me steady, he starts to right my panties and dress, preparing me for the world again. I hate it. I want to remain here, in the afterglow of bliss. I’m not done. This doesn’t feel like enough.

He pries the empty wineglass out of my death grip, and after he sets it on the rack beside us, he asks, “So how will you disappear now?”

I frown.

“Where will you go?” he continues. “What excuse are you concocting in that head of yours?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do, Emelia,” he scolds with a sharp glare. “We just discussed this. We’re not pretending anymore.”

I turn to face him fully as a way to prove I’m not fleeing just yet.

He slides his hand into his pockets. “Come home with me for the night.”

My mouth opens, another excuse on the tip of my tongue.

Going home with him is not a good idea. Familiarity, routine, his home, my home—all of it is too personal and too deep. My only hope of surviving this is to keep things as shallow as possible, to swim near the shore and keep sight of who I am outside of us. But I know if I say no to him right now, it could be the final push. He said he was at a crossroads, and I don’t want to find out just how serious he is about ending this. Whatever this is.

“All right.”

He nods and takes my arm, just above my elbow.

“There’s a bathroom down the hall. I’ll give you a moment to freshen up if you’d like, and then we’ll collect your purse.”





Chapter Twenty-Six





Emelia



* * *



I expected Professor Barclay to live in a building similar to Alexander: a high-rise with a doorman, every amenity at his fingertips. It was an oversight on my part. In my effort to keep things shallow, I forgot how similar he and I are, how deeply our passions overlap. He pulls up in front of a Federal-style red brick townhouse on Park Street across from Boston Common, and I’m awestruck by the piece of history he gets to call home.

I climb out of the car and stand at the base of the stoop, looking up in wonder.

“Did you restore this?”

“Yes, after some idiot nearly destroyed it trying to turn it into modern lofts.”

I gasp in horror, and it’s not the least bit sarcastic. That’s horrific. Disgusting. Sacrilegious!

“How old is it?” I ask, though I have a guess. “I know it’s early 1800s.”

My eyes rove over the exterior: the first floor—which in these old structures is load-bearing—is made of thick limestone to support the three stories of red brick above it. At the top, the townhouse is capped by a French-inspired mansard roof. There’s thoughtful, symmetrical ornamentation around each window and the front door, a requirement for old Federalist architecture.

“It was built in 1810, which is saying something considering Park Street was only officially laid out in 1804, initially as Park Place.”

Amazing.

“Who designed it?”

“Charles Bulfinch.”

My eyes widen, and for the first time, I’m able to drag my gaze away from the house to look at Professor Barclay. He’s standing just off to the side, giving me space to admire his home. “He did the Massachusetts State House.”

He nods, trying to conceal a gloating smile. “Among other prominent buildings. Would you like a tour?”

“Would I like a tour…” I mutter teasingly under my breath.

He hides a chuckle with a shake of his head then waves me up the front stoop.

It’s evident from the moment we walk in that Professor Barclay’s attention to detail is unparalleled. No one wants to live inside a home built in 1810 with every single original speck of dust intact. Leave that to the museums. Professor Barclay’s goal was to curate an artful combination of old and new, paying homage to the past while bringing the home into current times, and he’s mastered it.