Dark Notes

Christ almighty, she’s innocence wrapped in sin.

The innocent part rattles me the most. Not only have I crossed the line as her teacher, there’s a ten-year age difference between us. Add to that her abusive past and the ruthless dominating way I fuck, and we’re navigating a land mine. If I move too fast or make the wrong step, the consequences will be devastating.

I run my fingers over hers, brushing the dark curls on her cunt. “Don’t shave this.”

She glances at our hands and returns to my face. “Why not?”

“I don’t want to feel like I’m—” Touching a little girl. “You’re young, Ivory. I don’t need any more reminders.”

“I’ve been with a lot of guys older than you.” Her cheeks bloom with heat, and she pulls her hand away. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

The impulse to demand she never mention other men burns in my throat, but I bite it back. “If you need to talk about it, about them, I want to be the person you turn to.” I kiss her lips and trail my finger over her pussy. “Okay?”

“Okay.” She grips my wrist and squeezes. “Thank you.”

I slip off the bed and swat her thigh. “Up.”

Ten minutes later, steam drenches the bathroom, fogging my reflection in the mirror as well as the shower door behind me. The splash of water against tiles broadcasts her movements as the woodsy scent of my shampoo infuses my inhales. There’s something deeply satisfying about her using my things, smelling like me, and making herself at home in my space.

While she showers, I wash my dick at the sink, both appalled and riveted by the fact that I jizzed in my briefs. I haven’t done that since high school. But it shouldn’t surprise me. I’ve been jacking off like a fucking fiend for weeks.

It takes every ounce of restraint I have left to not join her in the shower. I want to fuck her thoroughly, completely, and in every way imaginable, but I have to prove to her I’m not like the others. Every step with her is a risk, and there are still so many unanswered questions.

I clean my knuckles and lather them in antibiotic cream from the supplies beneath the sink. “Are you on birth control?”

Her misty silhouette freezes behind the shower door. “No.”

I turn to face her, straining to make out the shape of her body in the curl of steam. “Do you use condoms?”

She presses a palm against the glass door, as if to steady herself. “When I can.”

My fist clenches, but the next thing I punch should be my own stupid mouth. Could I be anymore heartless? Of course, she doesn’t always use condoms. If a man doesn’t stop at no, he’s certainly not pausing to wrap up.

I manage to hold my temper in, but the rapid-fire of my pulse and the rage scorching up my spine propels me out of the bathroom.

“I’ll set out something for you to wear,” I shout from the bedroom. “Meet me in the kitchen.”

Tossing one of my t-shirts on the bed for her, I strip my clothes and drag on a pair of flannel pants.

On my way out, I grab my phone and make a call to my dad’s clinic. As expected, it goes to voice mail. My bare feet pad down the carpeted stairs and into the kitchen as I tell the recorder who I am and what I require.

I could’ve called my dad to schedule her appointment, but I don’t want to field his questions tonight. Not when I still don’t have all the answers.

By the time she emerges in the kitchen doorway, I have two plates of heated linguine carbonara set out on the island.

She hovers on the threshold, her deep brown eyes darting between the food and my bare chest. Her expression creases with every emotion in existence before softening with a smile. “You cooked?”

“My catering service did.” I grab two glasses and a pitcher of sweet tea. “The oven warmed it up.”

She approaches the island, tugging the mid-thigh shirt down her tanned legs. Her long wet hair soaks the white cotton against her chest, revealing taut nipples and delicate shoulders. I find it impossible to look away. It’s as if every fiber of my being is tied to hers, and every movement she makes moves me, pulling me closer, deeper.

I never stood a chance.

“Thank you.” She sits on the bar stool, tucking the hem of the shirt between her legs. “This smells incredible.”

I settle on the stool beside her, twisting to face her, and stab a fork into the noodles.

Her eyes return to my chest.

I arch a brow. “What?”

She holds a finger in front of me, tapping the air as her concentration travels from my shoulders to my waist.

Is she counting?

Fuck me, my pecs bounce. All she has to do is look at me and my body reacts.