Cruel Mercy (Dark Mafia)

I felt as if I could catch on fire. My body burned where we touched. I pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against my chest.

I wanted to be inside her. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to be as close as I could possibly be.

Forever.

I loved this girl with every fiber of my being. I wanted to be the man for her. I wanted to be good enough for her.

I was on the verge of telling her when I finally lifted my head. But the words never left my mouth. I stared down at the outrageously beautiful woman who was looking up at me with some undefinable emotion blazing in her gorgeous eyes.

And then she slapped me.

“Never touch me again.”

I stared at her, rubbing my cheek. I didn’t step away. I couldn’t. The magnetic force between us was still that strong.

“I cannot and will not promise that,” I said, without any trace of compassion. If she wanted me to be the villain, I would. I would not stop until she gave into me.

I would never stop.

“You…”

“What? Bastard?” I said, finally smiling. “I can assure you that my parents were married at my conception.”

She let out a sound of pure frustration. It only made me smile wider. I didn’t budge as she pushed her way around me. I groaned at the feeling of her body so close to mine.

I could not resist reaching out to brush her cheek and whisper in her ear.

“Sleep well, sweetheart.”

Chapter Sixteen

Theresa

My lips tingled as I stared into space, remembering every little second of that kiss. I pressed my knees together under my knee length pencil skirt, hating the feelings of arousal that the thought of that night always caused. My skin was covered in goosebumps. My nipples hardened, pressing through the lace bra and soft cashmere sweater I wore.

Focus, Terri! This is why you moved to America!

I was in class. It was only my second week. I was riveted by the reading I had done in advance, when I could focus on it. I had read all about the professor ahead of time and was impressed, to say the least. I had handed in my first paper only a few days ago, after spending the entire weekend glued to my laptop to complete it. I was beyond excited to be here. Brimming with excitement to be learning.

But it was hopeless. He had infected me somehow. No matter where I was, or what I was doing, I could not stop thinking about him.

Michael Margarelli.

My captor. My tormentor. My teacher.

And he was teaching me. More than I had ever wanted to know about longing and unfilled desire. The art of war, for starters. The art of seduction, absolutely.

Every single day, he did something to tempt and provoke me. He seemed determined to break down my defenses. And it was working.

Day by day, minute by minute, I was losing my resolve.

He had kept his word. He hadn’t kissed me again since that night two weeks ago. But he had touched me. Nearly every day he found a reason to be close to me. To touch me.

To make me shiver with anticipation, wondering what he might do next.

Damn him!

“Miss Benedicto, I would like to see you after class,” the professor said. I blinked and sat up straighter, giving him a perfunctory nod. Class over over already? I glanced down at my laptop. I’d barely taken any notes.

Oops.

Clearly, I really did need to get my head on straight. Particularly because I was on the verge of making a fool of myself. A man like that… he probably kissed dozens of women. Hundreds, even! He had more experience than anyone.

To him, I was most likely a silly little girl.

I gathered my things along with everyone else. But when they went to the exits, I walked down the steps to the podium at the front of the room where Professor Wainwright was sliding a note pad into a leather briefcase. His sandy hair was messy, his tweed jacket had elbow patches, and his eyes were blue behind his wire framed glasses. He was the quintessential college professor.

“You wanted to see me?” I asked quietly, feeling very nervous about getting in trouble already. Nervous and disappointed in myself.

“Yes,” he said, pulling off his glassed and rubbing his eyes before sliding them back into place again. “It’s about your paper.”

“Yes?”

“I haven’t finished grading the yet, but I was particularly excited to read yours.”

“You were?”

“It’s exceptional. Your perspective is truly unique. It must be your…. Upbringing,” he said, tilting his head to look at me. “Have you ever considered being a teacher’s assistant?”

“I thought that was reserved for second and third years…” I stammered.

“Usually, but at this University, it is at the professors discretion,” he said, leaning back on his desk and crossing his arms. “And you seem like the ideal candidate.”