Excitement brightens her face. Then her eyebrows dig in. “H—how?
“Show me how wet you are. Go ahead. No one will see.”
Her expression contorts as uncertainty battles desire. I know which will win, but she drags out the silence, working herself into a heaving, flushed jumble of anxiety.
Finally, her breathing quiets, and her hands fumble with the folds of her skirt.
“Spread your legs, Andrea.”
She does, eyes on the door as she feels around the satin crotch. “How do I—”
“Under the panties. There you go.”
She tosses her head and makes some noise.
I’m not really paying attention, but I let her rub around in there for a while. “Now hold up your hand.”
She lifts her arm and smiles at her fingers. I don’t give a shit if they’re wet or not. I have what I need.
I hit a key on the laptop and question the wisdom in telling her what I did.
It’s better to be proactive than reactive.
Gripping the screen, I flip the laptop toward her and back up the silent video to the juicy part.
Shock comes first, paling her complexion and paralyzing her body. Then outrage.
“Wha—” She shoves her skirt into place, fists her hands at her sides, and rushes toward me. “What are you—? Oh my God, you recorded that!”
With the camera on the back of the laptop, I caught it all while remaining out of the frame during the incriminating segment.
I snap the lid shut. “Don’t fuck with me, Ms. Augustin.”
She jerks back, arms wrapping around her mid-section, and stares at me in horror. “Why would you—?” Deep red inflames her cheeks. “Oh God, what are you going to do with it? Is this about Ivory?” She covers her face with her hands, and a sob garbles her words. “I need…job. I can’t lose…you can’t do this.”
“I’ve done nothing with Ivory. But you just masturbated in my classroom.” I store the laptop and tie in my bag then turn toward her, wearing an expression that matches my most intimidating tone. “Stay out of my classroom, out of my business, and no one will see this video.”
She stares back at me, defeated. Betrayed. Yeah, I know the feeling too well. Only I’m not trying to steal Andrea’s job. I simply want to keep the one I have.
Hatred soaks her eyes. “What they say about you is true then.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” I shoulder the bag, flash her a charming smile, and stride into the hall. “Good night, Ms. Augustin.”
Prescott tangles his hand in my hair, holding my face against his lap.
His penis stabs the back of my throat, and I gag.
Yellow-flowered tie. Cinnamon gum.
The buckle of his belt clanks with his thrusts. The console between the front seats digs into my chest.
Chilling blue eyes. The heat of his palm on my backside.
A bass-heavy song thumps from the car radio, and I can’t find my safe place. I’m not numb enough, not far enough away. I’m trying, trying… I can’t gather the notes for Scriabin’s Sonata No.9.
The tick of a mechanical watch. The gentle stroke of his breaths.
Tears well in my eyes and cling to my lashes. I can’t focus. Can’t escape.
All I can think about is the spanking and how I wouldn’t mind another if it ends with an almost-kiss from Mr. Marceaux.
Wedged between Hook ‘Em Up deli and a vintage jewelry shop called Pawn of the Dead resides the only music store in Treme. At least, I think this is a music store. Standing on the broken sidewalk, I hang my sunglasses on the collar of my t-shirt and squint against the glare of the sun.
Security bars crisscross the glass front. There’s no open sign or any kind of advertisement, and the grime on the windows obscures my view of the dark interior. Since it’s Saturday, the store might not be open. Finding Ivory inside is even less likely.
But I’m not here for her. I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about where she gets her money and who put those unsettling shadows in her eyes. This Stogie guy might be an avenue to answers, and hopefully, this visit will soothe my nagging need to meet the man she spends her time with.
I check my phone, confirm the address, and try the door.
The jingling bell overhead announces me as I step into a cluttered room of instruments. Voices whisper from the back, guiding my feet through the maze of shelves, drum sets, and miscellaneous junk.
“You need to eat more.”
I can’t see her around the rows of display racks, but her sexy lilt speeds my strides and buzzes my body with excitement.
Coming here to meet a man named after a cigar, I expected to walk into a stale cloud of leather and smoke, but instead, the air is remarkably fresh, especially for such an old building.
“Stop nagging,” a deep voice says, “and let an old man nap.”