I lean over her, palms on the oak, forcing her to bend at the waist. “You’re not fooling anyone, Scholarship. Not them, not the Board, not me.”
“Fuck off,” she says. Brave, but the words clatter on the way out.
I grab her nape, thumb and fingers pressing the knot of her spine. She jerks against me but I keep her still.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” I murmur, running my other hand down her vertebrae.
She tries to push up, but I pin her with my weight. Her ass is round, tight, soft where it should be, grinding against my crotch as she writhes. I let her fight for a second. Then I press down harder, flattening her.
She freezes, pulse thudding at the side of her neck. Her breath fogs the lacquered wood.
“Let me go,” she hisses.
“Don’t think so,” I say, and I slide my hand up her thigh, feeling the heat beneath the fabric.
She claws at the table, nails scratching, but I catch her wrist and pin it. Her skin is cold and slick with sweat.
I lower my voice. “You don’t get to leave until I say so.”
She screams—rage, frustration, something primal. It echoes, bright and harsh, but no one comes. No one even looks our way.
I shift my hips, let her feel the erection pressed against her through the thin barrier of fabric. She gasps, not quite fear, not quite anything else.
“Feel what you do to me?” I ask, grinding into her.
She jerks again, but her efforts get smaller. I release her wrist, reach for the scattered notes on the table, crumple them in one fist. She gasps and tries to grab at them before releasing a stream of hair in a huff.
“You want these? Beg.”
She says nothing, but I hear her teeth grind.
“Come on,” I murmur, lips at her ear. “Beg me.”
“No,” she spits, voice hoarse.
I pull her up by the hair, so her neck arches and her eyes roll back. “That’s not what I want to hear.”
She’s panting now, mouth parted, but I can see the tears building. She blinks them away, furious at her weakness.
“I have it in my mind to fuck you right here,” I say. “On this table. With everyone watching. That’s what you’re good for, isn’t it?”
She glares at me, eyes glassy. “Fuck. You.”
I smile, and let go. She slumps to the table, arms limp, breathing ragged.
I lower myself so my mouth is right at her ear, lips brushing her hair. “The only way you survive here is under my protection. Do you understand that?”
She says nothing, but her pulse gives her away.
I smooth her hair, almost gentle, then deliver a hard smack to her ass. The sound is loud and pure, echoing in the cathedral silence. “So, I suggest thinking about that the next time you refuse me.”
She jerks upright, but doesn’t move away. Just stands there, hands on the table, head bowed.
I drop her notes on the floor and leave.
My hands are steady as I walk back to the stairwell, the taste of her fear and fury still on my tongue.
I don’t have to look back to know she’s watching me go.
