He cocks an eyebrow. “So you’re to blame for her behavior then? Cornering her at a dinner party? If I had a heart, I’d feel compelled to warn her away from you. Lucky for you, I don’t really care.”

  I don’t feel the need to reply, which only feeds into his curiosity.

  “She’s your employee, right? Very taboo…”

  “Nothing has happened.”

  Not counting the incident at Dartmouth.

  He chuckles then, enjoying this far too much. Then he holds up his beer as if in salute of my demise. “It will.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Emelia

  * * *

  I cry a lot on Saturday night after Professor Barclay drops me off back at my apartment. Somehow the tears keep coming, an endless stream born from a river of grief I thought had long since dried up.

  There’s such a twisted cacophony of feelings that it’d be impossible to parse things out into separate, distinct issues. My anger toward Emmett bleeds into mourning the loss of my mother all over again. Twisted anxiety over his words only confuses and upsets me more. Then of course, there’s the sadness over the demise of my fledgling relationship with Alexander. I can imagine how hurt he was by the exchange he witnessed between Emmett and me, and though I can rest assured I didn’t start the fight, I definitely didn’t handle myself well. The truth needed to be said, but it could have been brought to light more delicately than that. I’d imagine the two of them want nothing more to do with me, and where Emmett is concerned, that’s fine by me, but not Alexander. I really wanted to make a friend in him.

  Sunday is one of the loneliest days of my life. I force myself to get up and out of bed. I dress and wash my face and go out into the city. I walk and get coffee, and when I return to my apartment, I go through the ritual of preparing myself a nice late lunch. I eat half of what’s on my plate but can’t force down any more.

  And then I think of Professor Barclay.

  He’s there on my mind through everything. I should feel embarrassed about last night, but I don’t. Whatever weirdness there was between us is eclipsed by reminders of his hands on me in the hallway, his look of longing as we sat together in his car and I pleaded with him to end my misery.

  I can’t, he said.

  There it is.

  The truth.

  Whatever complicated situation lies between us, at least I have that.

  There’s a knock on my apartment door Sunday evening. I sit up in bed and set down my book, curious.

  “Delivery,” says a voice from the hall.

  I’m relieved. For a second, I thought Professor Barclay had come to see me, which, given my current state—comfy pajamas, makeup-free face, tousled hair—would have been less than ideal.

  I hurry to answer the door, and a young woman stands on the other side, overloaded with things. A flower arrangement is nestled in one arm, a bag with takeout from a fancy Italian restaurant in the other. At her feet, grocery bags are so full they threaten to spill.

  She holds out the flowers for me first. The vase is filled with cream-colored dahlias, yellow-orange mums, pink garden roses, berries, and peonies.

  “Oh, thank you.” I hurry to set the arrangement on my dining table before I rush back for everything else. “Do I need to sign or anything?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. All good.”

  “Let me get you a tip.”

  “It’s already been taken care of,” she assures me.

  Right.

  “Do you know who all this is from?”

  She looks down at her phone, scrolling through an app. “Jonathan Barclay. Does that seem right?”

  I nod and thank her again.

  I’m glad I asked because there’s no card with the flowers, no note of any kind. There is dinner enough for four people and groceries that will last me over a week. I’m not sure if he selected it all himself, but I love everything he sent over. It’s all been freshly made. There’s a baguette and a seeded loaf as well as homemade jam and butter. There are chef-prepared meals I can take with me to work and a few treats: chocolate bars and ice cream, as well as cookies that make my apartment smell like a bakery. I eat one of those first before tucking into the Italian food. My hunger has come back with a vengeance.

  I eat and look over at the flowers, turning the vase in a slow circle. They’re the prettiest thing in my apartment, and already I vow to take extremely good care of them so they’ll last as long as possible.

  On Monday and Tuesday, Jonathan isn’t at work.

  I know because I check constantly.

  His office stays dark, and I grow more anxious by the minute.

  Finally, Tuesday afternoon, I overhear chatter in the break room. Professor Barclay and Mr. Banks have been at the Belle Haven Estate the last two days, getting the property surveyed and inspected as well as meeting with representatives from the preservation society.

  I have no idea if he’ll be back in the office on Wednesday, but I can’t keep waiting around, so I decide to find another way to see him.

  It’s stupid, really, and half-baked. Worse, it’s borderline stalking. On top of all of that, I have to take a sick day from work, but it’ll be worth it, I think.

  In the years since I graduated from Dartmouth, Professor Barclay accepted a position teaching at MIT. Because I admittedly have no life and might be slightly obsessed, I know he teaches a course on Wednesday mornings, which means I know he’ll be on campus, and I can’t resist the temptation to see him in this role again.

  Just like at Dartmouth, his class is huge, housed in a lecture hall that’s filled with eager undergraduates and likely a few people like me who are sneaking in to observe the class. I blend in easily enough. It wasn’t so long ago that I was an undergraduate myself, and when the doors to the auditorium open, I slide in among the crowd and claim a seat in the back row, nestled in the far corner.

  A few minutes before the class is due to start, Professor Barclay enters and unpacks his things on the small table up front. There’s no podium on the stage, only a large screen he’ll project his lecture onto. He’s dressed slightly more casually than he usually is at the office. No suit jacket, just a light blue shirt rolled up to his elbows and navy slacks. The silver face of his Patek Philippe catches the light for a moment, and a thrill ripples through me.

  I know what the girls in the class must be thinking. No doubt their thoughts are as filthy as mine. I’m jealous knowing they get to sit here every week and look at him the way I used to back at Dartmouth. Well…for those few weeks before he kicked me out.

  I smile down at my notebook, brought along to help me blend in.

  His lecture is about engineering in ancient structures, a subject I covered extensively in graduate school. I like to think I would ace the material if given an impromptu quiz, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to take the class, merely to observe. I’d forgotten how good he is at this, how captive he keeps his audience as he stands on stage, working through slides.

  I’m sad when the hour is up. I know I won’t be able to come again, not if I want to keep my position at Banks and Barclay, so to make the most of today, rather than hurry out of the room, I linger. The class starts to filter out, but just like always, a few students hang back so they can speak with Professor Barclay. I imagine what they’re talking to him about, whether they’re asking him to be their thesis adviser or inquiring about one-on-one meetings, career advice, anything to gain a morsel of his attention. A pretty girl in a red dress smiles up at him like he’s the second coming of Christ, and rather than feel jealousy, there’s only pity. I am her.

  Students stay close as he starts to gather his things. He’s polite, entertaining their questions as he grabs his leather case and starts to make his way up the aisle closest to me, and suddenly I feel like a sitting duck.

  I assumed he’d leave through the side door, just as he entered.

  If I stand and leave now, he’ll see me, so I hunch over and look down at my phone, waiting for him to walk past, until I realize he’s stopped at the end of my row, blocking my exit.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jonathan

  * * *

  Other than sending her that delivery on Sunday night, I’ve been keeping my distance from Emelia the last few days, giving her time to recover from the events of the weekend. I didn’t anticipate this, her coming to me.

  I’ve brought her back to my office on campus, but I don’t invite her to take a seat. This isn’t about getting comfortable. While I’m not exactly sure why she’s come here, I do know if she wanted a simple conversation, she could have found me at Banks and Barclay. This feels more like a game, and as such, I assess my opponent.

  Her attire is stylish but prudish. Her short button-down dress and ballet flats are the picture of sweetness and youth. Her makeup highlights her prominent cheekbones and round eyes—doe eyes—and of course her lips are painted, just like always. Today it’s sinner’s red, but lips aside, nothing about the way she’s dressed hints at her plan. Still, I know she’s up to something. She came here with intent, and now here she stands, almost like she’s convincing herself to go through with something.

  She steps forward and circles around my desk slowly, tracing her finger along the edge, studying a paperweight I was given by the AIA—an achievement award—before she lifts it up so the sunlight fractures through it, casting a rainbow across my body. She peers up at me, a heady look in her eyes.

  “Emelia.”

  It’s a warning.

  “Professor,” she answers, almost tauntingly.

  Ah, so that’s the game…

  I reach out and wrap my hand around her wrist until she lets the paperweight drop back onto my desk. It doesn’t break on impact, though I can see from her wide eyes that she was worried it might.

  I let go of her and nod toward my office door. “Go lock it.”

  There’s not even a flicker of hesitation before she does as she’s told. She’s showing me how dutiful she can be, the perfect pupil.

  The lock slides into place, and Emelia turns to look back at me. She’s waiting for a command. I know she wants the opportunity to please me. It’s why she and I work so well together.

  “You look just like you did when I stood in your office at Dartmouth the day you suggested I drop your class. Handsome. Powerful.” She tips her head to the side. “Perhaps slightly cruel.”

  I could tell her I’m just a man, flesh and bone, but why ruin her fun? She’s convinced herself I’m something of a monster; I might as well act like one.

  “I know you’re not here for a conversation,” I tell her, sounding as if I’m less than impressed with the direction she’s taken things. “Are you nervous? Is that why you’re bringing up the past and trying to stall?”

  She frowns. Maybe I’ve gone one step too far, but I don’t care to backtrack.

  She takes her bottom lip in her mouth and then, realizing what she’s done, quickly releases it.

  The phone rings on my desk, and for a fleeting second, I contemplate letting it go to voicemail, but it’s such a convenient opportunity to make her squirm. My actions tell her my time is valuable.

  “Professor Barclay,” I answer.

  It’s my assistant.

  “I couldn’t reach you by cell,” Candace says.

  I keep my phone on Do Not Disturb during my lectures, and I’ve since forgotten all about it. A first, I think.

  “I just want to make sure you’re aware that your three PM meeting with CBN Construction has moved to four. Don has an inspection with the city, a last-minute change. If that’s an issue, I can—”

  “It’s fine.”

  My stern voice startles both Candace and Emelia.

  As if a trance has lifted, Emelia pushes away from the door and starts to walk over to me.

  Candace stammers over her next sentence. I shouldn’t have been so brusque with my reply, but Emelia has me wound tight.

  “A-and since you’re meeting with Don at four now, I thought I should also change your 5:30 meeting to—”

  At this point, I’ve stopped listening to Candace. Emelia is rounding the corner of my desk again. While my assistant drones on about how she bumped my dinner meeting to six, Emelia takes the arms of my chair and turns me until I’m facing her, perpendicular to my desk. Then, with her gaze locked on mine, she puts her hands on my knees, parts them, and very slowly and very deliberately starts to bend down until she’s kneeling before me.

  I keep Candace on the phone and agree to whatever she says, knowing full well I can just check my schedule later to see all the updates. The point is to have her there as a witness to this. That’s what we both want. This is all part of the game. When I ask Candace if she can check with Callum to see if we’ve heard back from the city about the permit application for our Boston Harbor project, I already know the answer.

  And all the while, Emelia’s palms slide up my thighs. She’s playing the role of the seductress, but her hands are trembling. Her lips are slightly parted. Her brown eyes are filled with a thousand warring thoughts.

  I set the phone down on my desk, and Candace keeps talking, completely fucking oblivious.

  “Should I be a good man and yank you to your feet?” I ask Emelia, not caring if Candace can hear. “Cast you away?”

  Emelia’s eyes spark.

  Just as I suspected. The power dynamic at play—while wrong—is as enticing to her as it is to me. Our age difference, her role at my firm, our history…it’s why she’s here.

  “Should I force you?”

  She shivers, and unable to resist another second, I reach out and trace her full bottom lip, failing to stop myself before I press my thumb into her mouth to make her suck. Cherry red lips close around my knuckle, and her tongue laps at the underside of my thumb like she’s starved for more.

  She’s not answering my question, which isn’t surprising. I want her honesty, but I understand we aren’t there yet.

  “Mr. Barclay?” Candace asks, sounding a thousand miles away. “Are you there? I can’t really hear you.”

  Emelia’s gaze flits to the phone, a worried expression marring her features.

  It’s a punishment when I slide my thumb out of her mouth, a reminder that she should be focused only on me.

  “Are we playing with fire?” Emelia whispers.

  Of course we are, but that’s not the question she really wants to ask. She’s wondering if we should stop, and that thought’s eviscerated when her fingers skate over the top of my zipper. I nearly hiss when I feel the weight of her hand press down against me. It takes everything in me to sit still and be patient. If I was sure she wouldn’t cower in fear, I’d take over and strike like a viper. I’d jerk her forward by her neck and color those cheeks pink with shock, grasp her jaw until her full lips parted for me.

  The noise.

  She’d whimper like a scared animal, but deep down, in that dark hidden part of her soul, she’d come alive.

  Her hand still hasn’t moved from my zipper.

  I brush my knuckle across her jaw. “Are you scared, pet?”

  Her gaze rises to meet mine, and there’s approval there, need practically dripping from her.

  So you want to be my pet?

  I caress her cheek, and she delights in the touch, leaning into it.

  I take her in, a perfect offering laid at my feet. She’s on her knees, her legs squeezed together, probably to relieve that ache she feels between her thighs. Poor Emelia. Her dress has a row of buttons that goes down the center, all the way from her collarbone to her navel. She looks demure until I undo the top three and part the silk fabric. The V-neckline of her bra angles across her breasts, a hair’s breadth away from exposing everything. The pale nude lace has no excess padding and barely any support, but Emelia needs neither. I’m staring, enraptured, when she starts to unzip my trousers. The sound slices through the air like the wail of a freight train. My concentration shatters and my gaze shifts to where her small hands work to tug me free. It’s at this moment that I take my hands completely off of her. This has to be done of her own volition. Motives, power play, shifting consent be damned. I won’t force her out of this room or up off her knees, but I’ll give her this one small thing: the choice to proceed or not to proceed, to back away at any time.

  On the surface, I convince myself those are my real motives, but a sick twisted part of me loves the feeling of reclining in my chair, looking perfectly blasé about the fact that Emelia’s hands are now firmly wrapped around my length. It’s fucking with her, I know it is, this holier-than-thou attitude. I swipe my finger back and forth along my lips, but otherwise, I sit perfectly still. Bored, even. She’s doubting herself and second-guessing every decision, I’m sure, but still she proceeds.

  She slides her hands down to the base of my length then back up to the head. A shiver of delight racks down my spine. Her grasp is tight and warm and inviting—fucking fantastic and still only a shadow of what it will feel like when I’m finally inside her for the first time. More, harder, tighter, I want to tell her. She’s treating me like I’m delicate, like she’s scared she’ll hurt me. I nearly laugh at the thought, but that feeling of mirth is short-lived as Emelia leans forward, presses her lips to the very tip of my length, and then starts to suck me into her mouth.

  I can’t help but moan.

  She’s such a juxtaposition: innocence wrapped in sex appeal. Her full red lips look like they’re made for doing bad deeds, but she uses them as if she’s a virgin, like she’s never held a man this way, taken him into her soft mouth purely for enjoyment.

  Jealousy spears me at the idea of her on her knees for someone else. Never again.

  Soft and slowly, her pace is maddening.

  I know Candace hung up a long time ago. I confirmed, but I don’t tell Emelia. She doesn’t need to know; she just needs to trust me.

  She takes me deeper and moans softly. I hold still, making her lean in more, come in closer. Her hands squeeze my upper thighs, wrinkling the fabric of my trousers as I hit the back of her throat. I feel her shudder as she tries to gasp for breath and then she quickly pulls back, gulps in air, only pausing for a moment before her lips tighten around me again. Her head bobs up and down, and I’m steel in her mouth. I feel like I might combust from staving off from my orgasm, but I hover, hover, hover on the edge for as long as possible. I want to prolong this. I want to reverse course, cup her hair, hold her steady, and fill her mouth. I want to take over and regain control, set the pace, and make it so she can only take what I give her.