“I love the light in here. It’s so lofty, almost like a -”
“- church,” he finishes my sentence, grinning. “I know. I love it too. I thought it was important to give students the feeling that their education was for a higher purpose. To motivate and inspire the way religion does.”
I nod, understanding, taking in his words.
“You get that, don’t you?” he asks me gently. As we continue walking through the building, our arms brush together, making me shiver in anticipation. I look up at him and see him staring down at me through his dark lashes, the piercing blue of his eyes boring into me, burning out all thoughts. My pussy clenches even as I blush hotly.
“You’re very mature for your age,” he drawls as we round a corner and find ourselves strolling along the mezzanine. It’s a beautiful, dazzling walkway with immense, cathedral-like windows and a raised ceiling. The fact that below us is a cafeteria doesn’t seem to change the feel of the building’s divinity.
“Mature for my age?” I reply shyly, smiling at the compliment.
“I don’t mean to be condescending,” he explains. “I’ve had interns your age at the office, and those girls couldn’t hold a torch to you. There’s something about you.” My insides turn to mush, and in a final attempt to do the right thing, I stop at the railing of the mezzanine and gesture out towards the cavernous space with the empty cafeteria below us.
“This is another beautiful room. I love the architecture,” I remark in a casual voice, trying to change the subject. Do I sound like I’m in control? I hope to god yes.
Mr. Marks nods.
“If you like this, I have to show you something else. My favorite part of the building. Come on,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me gently with him. Holy shit. This is so inappropriate, but so hot. Mr. Marks’ huge hand envelops mine in a confident grasp. Even if I wanted to pull away, to stop this, I couldn’t – his quiet strength leads me on behind him. Plus, my thoughts are like a runaway train. Feeling his fingers, the same ones he had in my pussy last night, make my juices flow and I go up in flames at the contact.
He’s turned a corner now and pulling me with him, we find ourselves in a small, dark corridor.
“What’s this?” I ask breathlessly, trying hard not to show how affected I am. But Mr. Marks simply points upwards with a cheeky grin and I follow the direction of his hand. It’s a narrow, concrete stairwell that winds up to more darkness.
“Do you trust me?” he asks, his voice deep and low. I’d like to tell him I’d let him do anything to me, let him take me anywhere, but my voice seems stuck in my throat. So I nod silently.
“Good,” he says, and pulls me up along into the stairway with him. It’s pitch black now. Then he stops and lets go of my hand, and I hear him fumble with something above our heads. Then a creak and bright, breezy daylight comes pouring in over us, bathing the dark stairwell in sunshine. I squint as my eyes adjust to the sudden blaze. Mr. Marks is pulling me up with him and it’s not until I feel the wind gently tugging at my dress that I realize where we are: the roof of the Marks Building.
“Wow!” I exclaim, unable to hide my delight. Mr. Marks shoots me a dazzling white smile and takes my hand again, leading me across the roof.
“I discovered it by accident, on the day the building opened a couple of years ago. After I gave the opening speech, I needed to get away from the crowds for a bit. I wandered around and ended up on this roof.”
“The way this wall comes up is great,” I say, running my hands over the smooth stone surface. “It’s shielding us from the wind.”
“Yeah, and isn’t the view incredible?” he asks.
“It’s beautiful,” I agree, peering out over the grounds of the university, and the rise of Manhattan further south. Directly below us is the lacrosse field. The roar of the crowd comes up to meet us. “Sounds like Jimmy is doing alright,” I add ruefully. This suddenly makes Mr. Marks grow serious again. He turns to face me.
“Katie,” he starts, guiding my form gently so that I face him. “You’re special, aren’t you?” I smile and look away, feeling my cheeks burn up.
“Not really, Mr. Marks,” I protest feebly.
“Call me Jordan, please,” he says, and gently touches my chin, turning my face back to him. “And you are. I know. I can see it. I know lots of people your age, including my own son, and just believe me when I say there’s something about you. You’re different.” His hand goes from my chin to the side of my face, cupping it. The way his fingers tangle familiarly in my hair sends shivers down my spine.