Crossing my arms, I look away. A coffee stain catches my attention, dried up on the dark green ombre rug under our feet. I trace the outline with my eyes until it starts to blend in with the fabric below, eventually turning into a memory.
One filled with the scent of sweat-soaked flesh. The sound of distant screams echoing through the forest. Eyes I can’t unsee, ever, no matter how much time passes.
Fear scales higher along my body, sparks licking their way up my spine and limbs in a path toward destruction.
A different memory, this one tainted with sin, snowballing out of control. The need for attention—distraction—clawing at my brain, propelling me into strong arms, the scent of apricots and cologne invading my senses, making me dizzy.
And then…nothing.
Nothing at all.
He waits for an answer. A confession.
“I’ve never intentionally started a fire in my life,” I tell him.
“I don’t know aboutthat,” he mutters, and I have to wonder if he means a different kind of fire.
If he too feels thisheatpulsing between us, beckoning and pleading.
Instead of elaborating, he redirects the conversation. “Are you aware that arson is a very serious crime?”
“I’m not an idiot.” I slink forward a step. “But as I said—I’venever started a fire. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“So far, you’ve instilled very little confidence in that being the case. Your preparedness skills leave much to be desired.”
“A momentary lapse in judgment.”
“That also seems like a pattern with you.”
“It’s cute that you’re so concerned.”
“I am. For both our sanities.”
Fluttering my eyelashes, I edge even closer, clutching my hands behind my back and pushing my breasts forward. One of the buttons on my blouse came undone earlier while I was waiting, so my cleavage peeks through a slit in the top, tantalizing. “Do you worry about all your students like this?”
He swallows. “Yes.”
“Really?” I slip into the gap between his thighs but don’t actually make any contact. He smells just like he did in the car that night—some mix between crisp apricot and a touch of woodsy cologne—and I try not to inhale too deeply.
“Agoodprofessor shows compassion for those he’s trying to teach.”
“Compassion.” I reach for his chest and start to drag my finger down the center. “Is that what you feel for me?”
His arm lashes out, and he catches my wrist, halting my movements. His fingers are as cold as I remember.
“I don’t feel anything for you except contempt, Ms. Anderson. You’re proving to be little more than a nuisance.”
“That’s no way to talk to a student.”
“Nor should you be touching your professor.” His green eyes blaze, rage bubbling in the irises. “I suppose we’re both at fault here,temptress.”
The nickname he gave me the night we met. Heat sizzles against the surface of my skin. “Would you like to touch me?”
“No.”
“Liar.” I pout and try to pull away, but he holds me tight.
In place.
