Dance for Me(19)

I’m not sure how to take his words. Is he just saying that because it’s the right thing, the only way to cover his ass, or is it because he really believes that what we have shared together amounts to nothing?

Both possibilities are difficult to face, because there can be no good outcome either way, but I still want it, even if he doesn’t. “So where does this leave us?” I ask, using my books as a shield against my feelings for him. Ransom is the only man who has ever affected me this way—he can strip me bare with a single look. He can reduce me from a strong, intelligent, educated woman into a puddle of wanton desire with the stroke of a finger.

Pushing his hands into his pockets as he comes to stand before me, I realize, with a mix of horror and intrigue, that this man is the only one that has ever held the power to hurt me.

He holds my gaze as he stares down at me, and I see the muscle in his jaw tick in time with my heartbeat. We’re connected in a way that neither of us fully realizes, and I feel the draw to him growing stronger. “This leaves us right where we stand, with me as your professor and you as my student.”

The deep rasp of his voice triggers something deep inside of me, and I feel myself lean closer. The allure of those full lips is nearly impossible to deny. You can tell so much from a simple kiss. I want his on me—on the most intimate parts of my body—and I want him to know that.

His gaze drops to my mouth, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I need to kiss him. If this is it between us, then I need this last connection, this final goodbye.

“Miss Hart.” My name is a low warning as it whispers past his lips, but I ignore it.

“Please, call me Josephine,” I whisper just before my mouth closes over his. I don’t know who moans first. If Ransom meant for us to go our separate ways, then I probably shouldn’t have kissed him, because the way he is kissing me back definitely isn’t a goodbye.

His mouth is hesitant at first, as if he is unsure what to do. I understand his confliction. This is the worst case scenario, a student falling for her professor. Movies have been made about this sort of thing, but neither of us heeds the warning.

It doesn’t take long for him to throw himself into the deep end, though, and then we’re both drowning, surrendering to the torrent of emotion rushing between us. I’ve never felt a man surrender, much less this man, who is normally so aggressive, but he is definitely giving in to me now.

I am still clutching my books to my breasts, which have grown swollen and heavy, and his hands are still shoved deeply into his pockets. The only part of us that is touching is our mouths, but Ransom’s wet tongue probing the inside of my mouth is like a full body caress. It takes me back to our hotel room, and I start imagining what it would be like to have him bend me over his desk, pull down my pants, and take me right now.

That fantasy is shattered when I hear voices approaching. I break the kiss first. Ransom stares at me with some emotion I can’t name. His breathing is labored, his lids heavy, eyes dilated, and the bulge in his pants is unmistakable. He looks like how I feel—hot, raw, and aching, the need to touch and be touched almost too powerful to ignore.

But I can ignore it, because we’re no longer alone, and I won’t risk him losing his job. I would never do anything to hurt him, just as I instinctively know he would never do anything to hurt me. For as complicated as our relationship may be, we have a mutual respect for each other that runs deep. We give each other pleasure, and in return, we respect and protect each other’s privacy.

“You should go,” he says, his voice a guttural rasp so thick, he has to clear his throat.

I love that I can affect him this way. It gives me a rare sense of power that I typically only experience on-stage. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Scott.” I back away, smiling. The last image I have of him is his dark scowl, but it doesn’t concern me, because as much as Professor Ransom Scott might say we’re done, I know the truth.

We’re just getting started.



***



Work Wednesday night is a bitch. The first thing I hear upon entering Mirage is, “Tamera called in sick. You’re headlining tonight.”

My head whips up in shock, seeing Kota standing there in his open leather vest, showing off a toned physique and a dusting of dark, curly hair. His expression is grim but expectant.

“Headlining?” Thrown by his announcement, my hands pause in the task of latching my bra. That spot is reserved for the most popular dancer. It took Tamera years to work up to that position. “Why not one of the other girls? Someone who’s been here longer?”

“Because no one holds a candle to you, Pussycat,” he says with a smirk. “You’re on in ten.”