‘Okay.’ He seems to rally himself with more ease than I could muster for a million quid. ‘Group assignments are due at the end of today. Anyone not able to complete theirs?’ He drags his eyes away—at least I hope he’s having to drag them away. I can’t. I continue to stare at him. He’s wearing a navy blue suit, a pale blue shirt and brown shoes. No tie, and the shirt’s open at the neck. He has a nice neck. Thick and strong. I imagine running my tongue along it and then look at the clock, jerking my eyes away forcibly.
The class is almost over.
I’m almost done.
‘That’s it. Read the two cases and summarise judgements before Thursday.’
There’s a commotion as everyone stands but Connor holds his hands up, silencing us once more. ‘And the Law School Ball on Friday night is not optional. Dean Walters has asked me to remind you to come, dress up and be on your best behaviour.’ He pulls a face that is half mocking, full hot. ‘But seriously, you guys, this is an incredible opportunity to meet real-world professionals and socialise with representatives of some of the top-tier firms in the country. So be prepared to make a good impression and it might lead to an interview for those of you planning to undertake your training contracts.’
I try to imagine Connor Hughes ever going to one of these balls with the intention of sucking up, and fail. Even as a student, I bet he was as arrogant as they came. You don’t learn that kind of attitude; it’s innate.
A hand somewhere to my left shoots up in the air.
‘Yes, Miss Cave?’
‘What if we already know where we want to apply?’
Connor shrugged. ‘So? Apply.’
‘Okay. Can I email you direct?’
Everyone laughs, Connor included. ‘Sure.’
But I don’t laugh.
Something uncomfortable slides through me, twisting my organs. Is Benita Cave flirting with Connor?
Is he flirting back?
More heat spreads through my cheeks. I’m so distracted by this unpleasant notion that I barely notice people are leaving until the class is almost empty and I’m this close to being alone with Connor once more.
Shit.
I pack up quickly, squishing my book into my bag and tossing it over my shoulder. I jam my phone into the back pocket of my jeans as I stand and straighten my simple white singlet top so that it sits properly over my waistband.
‘You know—’ Connor’s voice is soft and even though other students are still milling around I know he’s addressing me ‘—it’s not a great idea to be chatting on your phone during class.’
My ears are hot.
‘I wasn’t on the phone during class,’ I point out, changing trajectory and moving towards the desk.
‘I beg to differ.’
‘With respect, sir, it was before class.’
His eyes narrow, and seem to change colour. ‘I was here, wasn’t I? Thus the class had begun.’
I’m tempted to argue with him—I want to argue with him. But Connor Hughes is obviously used to people doing exactly what he wants, when he wants. Plus, he’s my lecturer and I know I can’t say what I’m thinking. Because I’m a good girl.
I press my fingertips into the edge of his desk. Breath is burning through me and my chest heaves with the effort. We stare at each other for a long time. Or maybe it’s just seconds. I don’t know. Time seems to stand still. It’s heavy around me, like wading through just-poured concrete.
‘Shut the door, Miss Amorelli.’
Oh, God. Here we are again. The tension stretches between us, pulling so hard, so tight, that I think it might actually snap me in half.
But a thrill of adrenalin is surging in my veins simultaneously. I want this. I need it. To be alone with him, even for a few stolen minutes, even knowing nothing can happen. I storm towards the door as though I’m pissed off and not excited. I push it shut and whip around to face him.
He’s sitting at the desk, a bemused expression on his handsome-as-sin face.
‘Yes?’ I press back against the door, all but willing him to come and hold his body to mine.
He stands slowly, unfurling his frame and prowling across the room. He comes close, but not close enough.
His smile is sardonic and utterly sexy. ‘I meant with you on the other side of it.’
I ignore the flash of embarrassment, pushing it deep down inside myself. ‘Am I supposed to be a mind-reader?’
‘I don’t know what you’re supposed to be.’ There is resignation in that sentence.
His eyes drop to my breasts, heating me up, making me tingle all over. My nipples thrust forward of their own volition and his lips twist in a smile that is both mocking and approving, all at once.
This is so wrong.
And still I don’t move. Suddenly, I’m desperate for him to touch me, or for me to touch him. Everything seems to come screeching to a halt—I am angry with my parents for their machinations, for the way they want to control my personal life. I’m angry at Pietro for being a pawn in their games. And, most of all, I’m angry at Connor Hughes for being sexy AF even when I hate the work he does—defending criminals who should be locked up with the keys thrown away.
‘You should go, Olivia.’ He steps back as though he can put an end to this. As though he can walk away from this insane gravitational pull.
But I’m sick of being told what to do. I’m sick of being a good girl. Just once, I want to do something for myself, something completely wrong.
‘And what if I don’t go?’
There’s a look of desperation in his expression, as though we’re sinking in quicksand, and his voice is gravel when he speaks. ‘You should.’
It’s four o’clock. Thoughts of the birthday lunch fragment my mood, but it annoys me. I’m impatient at the expectation that I’ll simply do what my mother asks.
I take a step forward and he squares his shoulders but doesn’t retreat.
‘I had a dream about you last night,’ I murmur, the words slipping from between my lips, unbidden.
His eyes blink closed for a moment and he draws in a breath. ‘Did you?’
‘Uh huh.’ I step close enough that my breasts are pressing against his chest.
‘Careful.’ His words whisper against my hair and a frisson of awareness dances all the way down my back.
I lift my face, angling my eyes to meet his. ‘Of what?’
‘Of playing with fire.’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’
His Adam’s apple jerks as he swallows. ‘Yes.’
I am; he’s right. And it feels so good. I am not a good girl—at least, not just a good girl.
‘Don’t you want to know what my dream was about?’
His eyes are lightly mocking. ‘I think I can guess.’
My lips twist into a small smile. ‘I dreamed,’ I say huskily, ‘that you touched me here.’ I lift a hand to my breast, running my fingertips over nipples that are taut. He makes a groaning noise but keeps watching, his eyes glued to the progress of my fingertips.
‘And here.’ I run my