I nod, slowly.
‘Here.’ I run my fingertip down my body, pressing against the zip of my jeans. We’re so close that I can’t do so without brushing against his cock—it’s rock-hard. Power rocks me to my core.
‘And you don’t think it’s inappropriate to dream of your teacher?’
Adrenalin heats my blood and flavours my mouth. ‘Sure it is.’ I bite down on my lower lip. ‘I’m not sure I care, though.’
His groan is so soft that I only hear it because I’m standing right here, pressed against him.
‘Show me.’
I blink.
‘Show me what you dreamed I did to you.’
I nod, slowly, and drop my hand back to my jeans, this time undoing the button and lowering the zip.
And, as I touch myself, his cock is right there, too. My fingers push against my wet, hot clit and he stays close, so that every movement also rubs his dick.
I’m so close. I’ve been dreaming about him for a month, wanting him, needing this, so that now I’m there I have no ability to hold on and stretch this out. I come hard, against my fingers, but when I would cry out with pleasure he lifts a hand to my mouth, pressing his palm against my lips to silence me. I bite down on his flesh—gently.
He laughs, and pushes his dick further forward, so that if it weren’t for the barrier of his clothes he’d be touching me. My body pulses.
Sagging, spent, I withdraw my hand, and he catches me around the wrist.
‘Now let me show you what I’ve been dreaming of doing.’
I hold my breath but, instead of lifting me over his shoulder and taking me somewhere more private, he simply lifts my fingers to his lips. He takes them deep inside his mouth and my knees buckle under the overwhelming sensual awareness. He wraps an arm around my waist, vice-like, and continues to suck my fingers until I’m whimpering.
Then, slowly, he pulls my wrist, removing my finger from his mouth, and he unclamps my waist. He steps back, watching me with glittering eyes. ‘Careful, Miss Amorelli. If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.’
* * *
I had two lectures to get through after Olivia.
Two lectures that I somehow managed to bullshit my way through—I couldn’t tell you, for a million pounds, what the fuck I talked about. I guess I more or less stuck to the course notes, but holy shit.
I see only her face before me.
Her face, scrunched with pleasure, feel her nipples hard against my chest.
I hear only her rushed breathing, her low moans. I hear the exhalation of breath as she tipped over the edge, sucking her lower lip between her teeth and squeezing her eyes closed.
I smell only her.
I taste only her.
Hell, I taste her and it is like taking an addict to a crack den. She tasted so good; how am I meant to leave it at that? How am I meant to stand in front of her without a tent in my pants?
One taste of Olivia is never going to be enough.
I watch the last student file out of my class and then load up the LLS lecturer app on my iPad. I’m only here for the term—and just because I was feeling almost suffocated by my need to get away from Dublin and my firm. I didn’t want all the gadgets that came with this temporary lecturing gig.
I was happy to stand up in front of the class and spitball about law and trial experience, interviewing clients, prepping witnesses, you know, the real stuff these students will need to know to be effective in the real world.
But the university has weird rules about this stuff. All the teaching staff need to have the same equipment—it comes as standard. Something about what the students deserve.
So I have the app and for the first time since taking up this honorary lectureship I open it and flick into my student files.
They’re in alphabetical order by surname, so she’s right near the top. I send a guilty look towards the door—then feel like an A-grade idiot.
I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just checking a student’s schedule.
She’s finished for the day—no hope of seeing her again now. I resist the impulse to scribble down her phone number and address. I’ve already crossed so many lines I’m like a freaking acrobat. I don’t think I need to add another transgression to my list.
She’s got a tutorial tomorrow at ten.
I can wait until then.
Just.
* * *
Olivia doesn’t show.
I wait outside the classroom feeling like a stalker, pretending I’m busy checking something on my phone when every twenty seconds my eyes are obsessively scanning the corridor for the sight of long blonde hair and enormous blue eyes.
Ten minutes after the hour, I accept the fact she isn’t coming.
It’s probably a good thing. I don’t know what the hell I want to say to her, anyway... Hey. I really liked watching you touch yourself. Round two later today?
I wince.
I can’t let it happen again.
I don’t think I can stop it from happening again.
There’s an inevitability that is pulling me to her. And I think I know why.
It’s the Donovan case. I wasn’t expected to win; the press coverage was immense. I’m not comfortable with plaudits in the media. I do what I do not to defend criminals but to defend the law. I have the utmost respect for the law and I do what many won’t.
But I’m tired of it. Dirtied by it. And I need a break. Just a small break, to remember what I love about the simple application of the law. That’s why I’m here. Teaching, talking about the principles of our legal system, about what makes it robust. The passion and energy—the pursuit of importance and goodness—that drew me to this job in the first place.
I could hardly breathe in Dublin. I couldn’t handle the new business the win had attracted. Every crim who has money wants me to defend them—like I’m some kind of magic genie who can wave a wand and keep them out of jail.
I needed a break after Donovan. I needed to unwind. I’ll be better able to practise after I’ve taken some time off.
But, instead of relaxing me, I’m suddenly wound tighter than a spring. Did I actually watch Olivia Amorelli get herself off in the middle of a recently vacated classroom?
What if someone had come in and seen us?
I have to tell her in no uncertain terms that we can’t let that happen again.
We’re both adults. We know what’s at stake. We should be able to negotiate a ceasefire in the war of desire, right?
I FEEL AMAZING in my dress. The Astra Vivien creation is something out of a fantasy, all pale beige silk, beaded heavily on the skirt so that it shimmers in the light. The sleeves fall in bells to below my wrists but at the back it dips low, down my spine, showing off a tan that is always golden but that darkens to mahogany over these glorious summer months.
The dress is classy and discreet and, oh, so beautiful—and all the more so because I found it in a charity shop down Kensington High Street. It was just sitting in the window, glittering and soft, begging me to buy it. So I did, and I feel like I can do anything and, vitally, face anyone with