Eternally Seduced(119)

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.