While I’ve gotten used to the rumors whispered around me and the lingering stares I sometimes get, hearing the suspicion and accusation in Jackson’s voice tips me over an edge I didn’t even realize I was close to.
“You want to know what I did to Dylan?” I ask, keeping my voice low as I slowly move away from the door.
He swallows hard, his eyes wide. He shakes his head as though he’s changed his mind after seeing how his question affected me.
“Are you sure?”
As I stalk across my office toward him, there’s fear in his eyes, and thatshouldbe a deterrent. For me, it’s not. Instead, itpushes my feet forward until he’s taking steps backward. When his back hits the wall, I stop in front of him.
“Maybe,” I start, placing the tip of my finger against his chest before trailing it slowly down, “I cut him open. Dissected him.”
His chest starts to heave beneath my touch, and his gaze hasn’t faltered from mine for a second. I tower over him by only a couple of inches, but right now it feels like more as he presses himself tighter against the wall, making himself smaller.
“Or maybe I strangled him with my bare hands and buried him in my backyard. Maybe I drowned him out in the lake and left him to swim with the fishes. Maybe I cut him into teeny tiny pieces and stored him in the freezer in my basement.”
Should I be purposefully scaring the boy? Should I be steering into those damn rumors?
Should I be touching him?
Definitely not to all of the above.
However, I’m so tired of being trapped by it all, of being the bad guy. Of wondering if I really am the bad guy in the end.
I might also be enjoying the feel of Jackson’s chest moving beneath my finger, the sight of his green eyes somehow glowing even brighter. He says nothing, just stares at me with all that fear and confusion swimming in his gaze. His body is trembling the slightest bit, and I decide to have mercy on him before he has a fucking panic attack.
I smirk, wondering how he’ll translate it. Were one of those the truth or was it all a fucked up joke?
Dropping my hand and stepping back, I tell him, “Get the fuck out of my office.”
I turn my back on him to return to my desk, but his recent habit of being a smartass and talking back must beat out whatever fear he was feeling a moment ago.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather force me to my knees again?”
I can’t explain what happens next or why. Rage flares hot in my veins. Maybe because after everything I just said…thatis closer to being the truth?
Spinning back around, I close the distance between us and make yet another mistake, wrapping my hand around his throat before I can stop myself. Before the voice of reason in my brain has time to wake up and scream some sense at me.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
His eyes flash with something other than terror, which shocks me considering I just told him I might have strangled a man with my bare hands.
“You were hard,” he says breathlessly, his warm breath fanning across my face.
I flex my fingers around his throat but barely resist the urge to squeeze. “Is that what you think?”
“Iknowyou were.” His brows dip down like he’s second-guessing himself, but his next question still comes out snarky as hell. “Or was it Professor Grant you were hard for?”
Considering I’m hard right now, I could easily prove it wasn’t. But I find myself at a crossroads. I shouldn’t have taunted him. I shouldn’t have touched him. My hand should definitelynotbe around his throat. After all of that, I’m hard as a fucking rock, and I want nothing more than to grind against him so he can feel that it’shimI’m hard for.
When I say nothing, he swallows, and I can feel his Adam’s apple bob beneath my palm. His voice comes out more uncertain than before. “Sir?”
It’s chemistry. Or biology or psychology or some shit. Whatever it is, I can’t stop it. At that word on his lips and the feel of his throat in my hand, my cock jerks, and a groan rips up from deep in my chest.
He knows he has me.
He knows exactly what’s going to make me snap. I can see the knowledge in his eyes just before his gaze dips down to my mouth and gets stuck there. The tip of his tongue darts out to lick across his bottom lip, and I know what he’s thinking. I can see that too.
“You don’t want to do that,” I tell him, my voice coming out even deeper.
