She look'd at me as she did love
And made sweet moan---
Oh, oh God – he shouldn't be looking at her like he was offering her all the riches in the world if she would give him her body. Mary could feel the heat suffusing her cheeks. Professor Byron was speaking furiously to her also. She knew she should pay more attention to him, but she just couldn't stop staring at Rathe.
The message underneath the flowery lines, issued both as an invitation and a command, was patently clear to everyone.
Be mine, Mary. And everything in the world shall be yours.
Mary gripped the edge of the table instinctively, just to be sure she wouldn't accidentally melt into the ground if Rathe kept looking at her like that.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sidelong would she bend and sing
A faery's song---
Someone from the crowd actually moaned out loud.
"Shit, I'm horny," another girl muttered, her voice breaking the silence of the infatuated crowd.
Mary couldn't fault any of them. She felt the same way, and she was torn between hiding under the table and throwing herself at Rathe. What was he doing here and why was he doing this to her? she wondered, desperately confused. Why was he wooing her so blatantly and how in the world was he able to inject so much sexual innuendo in his words with just his voice?
Steed … bend … sing …
Those were such innocent words but to her they were now beautifully depraved, her mind filled with thoughts of her soft body and his strong one entwined with each other, of her riding him with complete abandon, of her bending down closer to him so he could taste the succulence of her breasts, of her chanting his name as he thrust and thrust and thrust---
A whimper of distress escaped her.
Rathe heard it and he knew he had won.
He looked at the crowd. "I won't finish the poem," he said in a low silky voice. "I'm sure all of you know how I'm going to make it end." He went down in one graceful leap and then the duke was walking straight towards Mary, the look on his face making it explicit to everyone who he wanted to end the poem with.
Chapter Four
"A duke, eh?" Professor Byron's voice was frosty with contempt, making it sound like dukedoms were extremely archaic and not worth a damn in today's modern society. He wished there was something else to say, but there was none. The man had been polite and charming when he invited himself to the professor's table, explaining that he was an old friend of Mary. It was impossible to refuse, not with all of his other students looking at them.
And now, they sat in a triangle facing each other, and although Mary was seated more closely to him, Professor Byron could feel his hold on her slipping and slipping.
"Yes, I'm a duke." The man managed to sound courteously apologetic and arrogant at the same time, making the professor look churlish. It was as if the other man was saying, you can harp about my dukedom as often as you want. It won't change the fact that my blood is blue and yours is as red as all the peasants in the world.
The professor wanted to kill him. Oh, if only he was not officially on duty today. He would plant a good one on this pretty boy's face and show him that he, the professor, was the real man and not him.
He glanced at Mary. "May I ask how the two of you met? You make a very … unique pair."
Mary blinked at the unexpected question. It was not like the professor to ask such personal questions.
When Rathe saw Mary's lovely lips start to part, he went for the kill, placing his hand on her knee under the table. He knew that the people who cared to look might see what he was doing just as he was sure Professor Byron would never stoop to looking under the table even if he eventually guessed what was happening.
Rathe was fine with both.
He wanted everyone to know that he had staked a claim on Mary Ashton, and from this moment no one was allowed to make a move on her.
The heat of his hand on her knee made her tremble, stopping her throat from working. She was voiceless and thoughtless, all of her being centered on that one place where their bodies came in contact.
Professor Byron frowned. "Mary?"
She swallowed and felt at the same time his hand move up, slowly, caressingly, inside her dress. She quickly covered her mouth to keep herself from gasping out loud as his fingers caressed the tender skin of her legs.
Looking back at the professor, she forced herself to concentrate. "I … met him a week ago. He is a friend of Saffi March's husband."
His lip curled. "The rocker?"
"The rocker, yes," Rathe added smoothly, at the same time boldly moving his fingers up to caress the silky texture of her inner thighs, "Also known as Sweden's #1 Sex God."
Envy flashed in the professor's eyes, just as Rathe expected. Men like him were the type to be in constant and furious competition with other males, driven to senseless posturing to hide their insecurities. Rathe used the professor's momentary distraction to press his suit further, exerting pressure with his fingers so that Mary would open her legs more widely.
She resisted for a few seconds, the muscles in her legs tensing. But he was a patient and determined man, caressing and stroking her thighs until, with a look of dismay on her face, Mary's legs finally parted, granting Rathe access.
Satisfaction coursed through him, a sweet and dark emotion that had him aching with arousal. He had the strongest urge to take Mary away then and there and be damned with what people said. This was the kind of crowd that was unlikely to care about reporting him to the tabloids, and even if they did, he had enough hold of the media to prevent the wrong photos or articles from being published. As long as he was not seen by any of his peers, then Rathe was safe, Mary was safe, and their secret would still be theirs to enjoy.
A choking sound escaped Mary as she almost doubled over on the table at the feel of Rathe's sure fingers caressing her flesh through the lace of her panties. She threw a look of despair at him. What do you think you're doing? She dared not look anywhere else. The table did not have any kind of linen to cover what was happening underneath. Although poetry night was over and the open space in the middle of the club had turned into a dance floor, anyone who still cared to look would see what was happening.
They would know that the duke was bent on seducing her, and she was letting him.
Professor Byron frowned. "Are you all right?" He reached out to touch her forehead for Mary suddenly appeared flushed.
Rathe's face became cold when he saw the other man about to touch Mary. He swiftly deflected the other man's hand by cupping Mary's chin, his arm presenting a physical barrier. He made Mary look at her, and he pretended not to notice the stormy emotions in her gaze. It was clear that she desired him, hated him, and wanted to kill him at the same time.
"You do look a bit feverish, Mary," he drawled.
She glared at him, getting ready to give him a piece of her mind. But before she could do so, Mary felt Rathe's fingers moving again, this time pushing her lace panties to the side so he could touch her actual flesh. The slickness of his touch, the wetness of her folds, and oh God, the beauty and heat of that simple contact shocked her into silence.
"Are you sick, Mary?" he pressed.
Mary bit her lip hard. The darn man wanted her to speak now? Conscious of how the professor was still frowning, she choked out, "No. Just … "
"Overly hot?" Rathe inquired innocently as he played with her folds while moving his thumb up so he could reach her tiny nub of pleasure.
She answered with a gasp, "Yes."
Looking at her flushed face, there was only one way to describe the expression on it and Professor Byron finally understood why she looked like she was looking now. He had the strongest desire to look under the table and see with his own eyes that what he suspected was happening. But he could not because he was the damn professor, and he would not because it would mean that he knew he had been defeated.
"You do look unwell," he said tightly. "I believe I must take you back to the dorm---"
"No need," Rathe interrupted coolly. If the man thought Rathe was going to allow Mary to be in his company at this point, the man was bloody insane. "I can take her home." He slowly withdrew his fingers and her panties moved back in place, its gartered edges making a loud snap.
The professor stiffened. Mary bit back a whimper. Rathe didn't move or say anything, but the gleam in his eyes spoke volumes.
He took his time wiping his fingers dry with his handkerchief, Mary wanting to cry in embarrassment and need as he did while the professor could not take his gaze away from the sight even though his whole being was filled with absolute rage.
His lamb was being led away from the slaughter – the slaughter he, Professor Byron, had intended to lovingly and magnanimously instruct Mary Ashton about – but it wasn't into safety she was being taken to. Rather, it was worse, a move that was the same as leaping from the frying pan and into the fire.