The room is alive with my colleagues and friends.
I step into the party, feeling great about the night ahead.
Feeling great in general.
Until I see him—and I see him instantly, despite the fact he’s in the middle of the press of guests. My blood hitches up a gear, rushing through me, loud and impatient, fast and desperate. He’s talking to Dean Walters and, heaven help me, he looks so good. Not Dean Walters.
Connor Hughes.
He’s wearing a tuxedo, of course, like every other man here. Except not like every other man here because he looks, on the one hand, as though the suit was bespoke, stitched to his body, and on the other as though he could burst out of it at any moment. There is a latent savagery to him that emanates in waves. It fascinates me.
I want him to savage me.
The thought comes out of nowhere and a little tremble of warning runs down my spine. The last time I had thoughts like that I acted on them. And I wouldn’t have stopped, if he hadn’t regained his sanity.
If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.
His hair is close-cropped, almost shaved, and it’s a dark brown. I imagine what it would feel like to run my hands through it and my fingers itch by my sides.
A waiter passes with a tray of drinks and I swipe a flute of champagne with a tight smile, turning my attention away from Connor for only a moment. It’s a prop. I don’t drink at university functions. It’s a personal policy developed after seeing a few too many of my colleagues get wasted and make tits of themselves in front of the faculty. I don’t want to mix business—or study—with pleasure.
‘Well, this isn’t fair.’ Louise Patel smiles as she approaches, wearing a black cocktail dress that falls to her knees. She’s got a blinging necklace on—though I’d say the ‘diamonds’ are more high street than high cost—and her shining black hair has been braided around her head like a crown.
She chinks her champagne flute to mine once she’s close enough.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s not enough to wipe the floor with us academically—now you’ve got to steal the show with that bloody dress as well?’
I grin. ‘It’s actually from a charity shop.’
She nods. ‘Obviously. Student budget, right?’
I nod. Between rent, utilities and groceries, money’s always tight. I’m just lucky my mum and dad are so supportive—even though it’s a stretch for them, they’ve always prioritised our education and I love them dearly for that. I intend to more than pay them back, one day.
‘Everyone here is going to want to talk to you, you know.’
We scan the room together, surveying the hundred-strong crowd. The pianist changes songs, moving to another jazz number, and it’s at that moment Connor looks up, his eyes—so like the ocean, so like the sun—piercing me with an ease that makes me wonder if he knew exactly where I was standing. Or does he have the same skill I possess, of being able to locate him with radar-like precision?
‘I’m not interested in mingling, really,’ I say with a shrug.
Louise shoots me a look of frustration. ‘Working for the CPS is all very noble but these guests are serious big-hitters. Why not at least talk to them? Earn yourself a tidy fortune and then go save the world?’
I smile across at her. ‘Because it would kill my soul, and you know it.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘I think the money Bernstein Brown pays would revive it.’
‘Not for years, though.’
‘No one pays anyone anything for years, really.’
‘It’s not about the money.’ I sip my champagne, my eyes flicking to Connor once more.
He’s staring at me.
As if no one else is here.
As if Dean Walters isn’t talking to him.
He’s staring at me and then, when I return his look, his eyes drop purposefully lower, just for a moment, but it’s all it takes. My body catches fire. I am spontaneously combusting, burning from the soles of my feet to the ends of my hair. I’m back in the lecture room, body pressed to his, touching myself, brushing my fingers against his arousal.
God.
He swivels his head so that I have a moment to admire his autocratic profile before he smiles, a proper smile that shows his even white teeth. Curious, I chase the direction of his reaction and my gut throbs when I see a woman cutting through the room.
I felt so good in my Astra dress. Until I saw her.
She is...stunning.
In bright red silk that is more negligee than gown, she is sex on a stick and somehow incredibly elegant at the same time. Her chestnut-brown hair is pulled into a messy chignon and her make-up is flawless—particularly her lips, which match the dress to a T.
He kisses her on the cheek but keeps a hand around her waist as he introduces her to Dean Walters.
‘He’s fascinating, isn’t he?’
Shit. How long have I been drooling over Connor, staring at him as though willing him to come and talk to me? It’s not like he and I are a thing—at all—but guilt flames in my cheeks. I need to do better. I have to pretend he’s nothing to me but a law professor I don’t particularly like.
‘Do you think?’ I turn to Louise, intentionally shifting my shoulder to Connor so that he’s no longer in my line of sight.
‘Everyone thinks. He’s incredible.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I’m going to apply to his firm.’
‘Seriously?’ My brows furrow closer together.
‘Yeah, of course. Unlike you—’ Louise grins ‘—I don’t disdain criminal law. In fact, I love it. The cases are so interesting.’
‘Yeah, and confronting...’
‘You’re going to have to deal with that in the CPS, you know.’
I lift my shoulders. ‘In the pursuit of truth, justice...’
‘Liberty.’ She laughs, and shakes her head. ‘You should apply, too.’
‘No.’ The word is firmer than I intended and I soften it with a smile. ‘I’m not interested in Hughes Brophy. And I don’t want to move to Dublin.’
‘You’re crazy! When I heard he was coming to teach this term it was the first thing that occurred to me. Along with everyone else in our year.’
‘Not me,’ I say emphatically.
‘I wonder why he decided to spend a term here?’ Louise ponders aloud and I desperately wish we could push the conversation to safer ground. To anything but Connor.
‘Not sure,’ I say, expressing my disinterest with the small rebuff.
Louise isn’t rebuffed. ‘I mean, after the Donovan verdict, it seems kind of weird to take his foot off the accelerator. He could have had his pick of cases.’
I can’t help it. I look over my shoulder, searching for his head. Dean Walters has left—it is now just the two of them, locked in a conversation that looks kind of serious.
The frisson of darkness I feel whispering across my spine is unmistakable.
I am jealous. Absurd, given that I can’t stand the man. But sexually, oh, sexually, yes. I want him. And I want him to want me.
And