She fidgets in her seat, rubbing her thighs together while her eyes roll over each word. In the darkness of the room, I spot the arousal burning in her gaze. It lights up her skin, making her glow.
Keep up your flirting, and I’ll make sure the next time you open your mouth, the only word that will come out of it will be my name.My text does its job. She turns to the front, her eyes on nothing but the flashing screen, until she raises her arms. Then, looking me in the eye, she asks, “Mr. Ellis, may I use the restroom, please?”
I grant her permission, watching her ass sway on her way out the door.
Five minutes go by when my phone whirs in my grip. After dimming the brightness, I open a message and immediately slam my phone down on the desk.
Fuck my life. She’s trying to kill me.
Standing in the middle of the closed-off bathroom on the fourth floor, Scarlett stands in front of the scratch-free mirror, completely bare. Her left leg crosses over her right, covering her little pussy. The phone cuts off the top half of her face, but I can see her teasing smile, the tip of her tongue licking the edge of her lips. Cupping her breast, she torments me with a peek at her pinkish nipple, budded and rosy. It calls out for my famished mouth, pleading to be suckled, nibbled.
Fucked.
Another follows seconds later. In this photo, both her breasts are bare, concealed only by the long, black waves of her thick hair. She twists a bit, giving me a glimpse of her tight, perky ass. There’s a faint tan running along her hips, with a tiny bow printed in the center.
That’s the spot I’m going to sink my teeth into.
Next time I get her alone, that ribbon will be tarnished with every mark of me.
Scarlett Dane
CHAPTER XXI
“Hey, are you going to the match on Friday?”Marie asks, wiping off the metallic blue paint covering her hands.
I hold off on responding until I get the roses on my petals just right. Their shape has been the worst kind of struggle, and for no fucking reason! I’ve drawn roses countless times. There’s no explanation why this should be so hard now.
It’s Mr. Ellis. He’s why this is so hard.
I can’t concentrate on anyone or anything but him. It was hard enough in those first few days when he was grappling with his responsibility, but now that he’s suddenly decided to let go of any guilt holding him back, he’s become the man of my dreams.
All I want is him. To breathe, drink, devour him.
Growling in frustration, I set my paintbrush down and swivel in my chair to face her. “Yeah. I think so.”
Chris sat behind me in history to invite me to his first match of the new season.
“There’s no way I could lose once I see your face in the stands,”he flirted, tilting in so close I could taste the Thin Mint Cookies on his breath.
The fury I felt coming from Mr. Ellis stirred me forward. I leaned closer to Chris, laughed at his jokes a little too easily. Perhaps I led him on, purely for the sake of pissing Theodore off. Maybe that’s why he asked me out right after.
My vibrating phone saved me from answering him. I instantly grew wet when I read his aggressive text. “My mom, sorry.” I used it as an excuse to halt our conversation.
I like Chris. I do. He’s sweet and kind, and had Mr. Ellis not come into my life, I would have said yes to his offer in an instant.
But that’s just not how things are anymore. A boy like Christian isn’t enough.
There’s a darkness to Mr. Ellis that’s freeing. It’s hidden underneath layers of politeness and chivalry. But as I’ve started to burrow my fingers beneath the surface, peeling back the kind and gentle exterior, I can see the beast pacing in his cage. All it’s taken was a bit of pushing to release it. Not much, barely a shove, because he was starving, aching to be seen.
Well, I see him. I see therealTheodore Ellis, not the façade he puts on for his colleagues and wife. And it calls to me, forced me to peel back those same layers and expose the true nature of my soul. It’s wild, wicked, and dirty, ready to risk anything for a man I have no right to claim.
Are you going to the wrestling match on Friday?I text, resolve cementing my thoughts. Picking up my brush again, I let the petals draw themselves, suddenly loving their irregular, imperfect shape. They remind me of us, wrong, but so beautiful in their defiance.
“Very lovely, Miss Scarlett! The texture you’ve captured in these roses, the emotion… this is going to be a stunning piece once finished.” Not only do I swallow up Mr. De Luca’s praise, but I take it as a sign.
I will if you are.
Mr. Ellis will be mine, very, very soon.
