“Use spit.”
My internal ick-meter swivels toward Eww, but I’m already up to my tits in trouble, so I lick my thumb and resume scrubbing. “What’s my punishment?”
“Is it coming off?”
“Yeah. I’m really sorry, Mr. Marceaux.” I wipe away the final traces and drop my arms. “It’s gone.”
“Put your hands back where they were.”
Why would he want my hands in his hair? On his face? It feels so…foreign. Improper. But he asked. No, he ordered. Dammit, why is it so hard to disobey him?
I return my hands exactly where they were, and for some reason, it’s easier this time, less awkward. He stares up at me, and the multi-shades of blues in his eyes glimmer beneath the fluorescents. His mouth is kind of pouty, not in a displeasing way. His full lips make him appear softer somehow. I think they’re my favorite attribute.
The fact that I have a favorite attribute on any man gives me pause, but I don’t remember ever seeing someone as attractive as Mr. Marceaux. Not on TV or in magazines or in person. Certainly, not this close up. I’m acutely aware of the press of his thighs against the outsides of my legs, the crotch of his slacks brushing my knees, and the warmth of his breath whispering across my collarbone. But it’s his head in my hands that makes me want to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.
I’ve never touched a man in this way. The tickle of his hair between my fingers, the brawny lines of his face beneath my palm, the scratch of his barely-there stubble, every sensation beneath my fingertips fills me with fear and excitement and all the chaos in between.
I wonder again about the rumor, about why he left Shreveport. Can the same thing happen here, with me? My fingers clench against his head.
He licks his lips. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I want to yank my hands away, but I don’t dare. “I overheard a couple girls whispering about you in first hour.”
“Go on.”
“They said your first name is Emeric.”
“Hardly enough to whisper about.” His wrists rest on his thighs, his fingers dangling behind me, and the proximity causes them to graze my legs. “What else?”
“Shreveport.”
“Ah.” His fingers brush the backs of my knees, and this time I’m certain he’s doing it deliberately. “Miss Westbrook, don’t make me drag every detail from you.”
“They said you were fired.” My palm feels too clammy against his cheek, so I drop my hands to the crisp collar of his shirt. “Because someone walked into a classroom and found you with a woman.”
He arches a brow. “Is that all?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “Supposedly, her mouth was gagged with your tie.”
“And?”
“Her wrists were bound by your belt.” I rush forward with the rest. “Her body was bent over the desk while you had sex with her from behind. That’s the extent of what I’ve heard.”
His hands close around the backs of my knees. “Wow.”
Wow is right. The crazy things people say…
A smirk slithers across his lips. “That is surprisingly accurate.”
“What?” My chest heaves as I push against his shoulders.
But he anticipates me, his arms hooking around my legs then shifting upward to circle my waist as he stands. He kicks the bench out of the way and spins us toward the closest wall.
My back presses against the bricks with his chest flush with mine, pinning me there. “Deep breaths, Ivory.”
Ivory. The most intimate word I’ve heard from his mouth. My skin shivers with bizarre delight.
He touches his lips to my neck. “You’re not breathing.”
I fill my lungs, but it doesn’t help. I feel so small and insubstantial in his strong arms, fastened against his huge body. His chest, biceps, stomach, thighs…my God, he’s hard everywhere I’m soft. And hot. Too hot. I think I’m running a fever. I’m definitely going to puke if he removes his tie and belt.
With my hands clenched on his shoulders, I try to shove at the unmovable muscle. “Please don’t do those things to me.”
He sighs, stroking his nose along my jaw. “It was consensual. Do you know what that means?”
I shake my head, not sure, but maybe I do know. “Like an agreement?”
“Yes. Only she didn’t just agree. She begged.”
“Why? Why would she want that?”
“Joanne is…” He looks away and stretches his neck to rub his chin against his shoulder. His brows pull in, and his entire demeanor seems suddenly and strangely subdued. When his gaze returns, so does his intensity, and his arms tighten around my waist. “She’s like you.”
“Me?” I squirm against him. “I don’t want those things. You don’t even know me.”
“Tell me what you feel right now.”
“Scared. You’re scaring me.”
His lips hover a kiss away, the hint of cinnamon gum scenting his breath. “Yes, but there’s something else. Describe it.”
“My heart’s pounding. I’m burning up, and my stomach feels like an ice block.”