Shame (Ruin 3)

“You have no idea.” I sighed. That was the last thing she needed to know. The last thing I wanted to talk about. It would remind her of him, too much of him, and I’d already decided I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t ruin her more. I just didn’t know what that left me with except morbid curiosity and a need to know if it was the same diagnosis.

“So—” I popped a grape in my mouth. “—I think you should eat some food. After all, I am a doc—”

“Professor.”

I held out a piece of cheese to her and lifted my eyebrows. “Doctor.”

She rolled her eyes and took it between her teeth, making me want to throw the food against the floor and take her across the breakfast bar. My body tightened, letting me know it was liking the idea more and more as I watched her chew.

Food. I needed to eat before I devoured her. I popped two more grapes in my mouth just as she asked, “How old are you?”

In the middle of swallowing, I damn-near choked to death. I banged across my chest and reached for the orange juice, already picturing the headline: Westinghouse Heir Slain by Grapes. Fantastic, that’s just what my father needed; then again, he’d probably be able to run for president after such high approval ratings. Imagine, his son, taken so young.

“Old,” I finally managed to croak out. “Like a gross old man. You’re lucky I stopped kissing you when I did Don’t want my arthritis rubbing off on you.”

“First off,” Lisa said, holding a grape in the air. “Gross. Second, you can’t be that old. You went to school with Wes, right?”

“Twenty-seven,” I answered before I lost the nerve. “I graduated from high school early. Wes is younger than me, but our families vacationed together a lot. We attended the same private school. Even went to the same crappy summer camp.

“You and summer camp.” Lisa squinted. “I can’t picture it. That must have been horrible for you, all those labeled clothes jammed into a suitcase… spiders, ants…” She shivered. “You poor thing.”

“Have I somehow given you the impression that I’m unable to survive outside?” I teased, leaning in so I could be closer to her.

“The labels.” She shrugged one shoulder and popped another grape into her mouth. “Kinda killed the whole alpha-male thing you had going for you.”

“I like order,” I argued, placing both of my hands on the counter so that I was as close to her as possible without actually jumping over the counter or pulling her down with me.

Lisa tilted her head as if assessing me. “You like control.”

Well, that was blunt.

I opened my mouth but shut it again. “In some areas, yes, though in my experience, too much control could be a bad thing.”

“Yeah.” A shadow crossed her face. “It really can.”

I knew I’d touched on her past, knew it by the lost and guilty look on her face.

“More grapes?” I held up the plate like I had the social skills of a seven year old and didn’t possess a doctorate degree.

“No.” She placed her hands on her stomach. “I think I’ve had enough food and drama for the night. Maybe I should just go to bed.”

Bed.

Satin sheets.

Red sheets.

Hell, no sheets, just the floor next to the bed, the wall, the stairs, anywhere I could take her — I wanted her writhing, shaking, moaning, licking? Too many verbs, too many actions I was unable to fulfill as my body grew hotter and tighter with the need to peel the dress from her body and touch her skin. My body leapt to attention at the mental image — any minute, and I was going to start panting.

I was probably going to go to hell for all the images flashing through my brain, images of me doing things to her that no professor — teacher, instructor — should ever want to do to his student. Yet, there we were on my desk naked. In my shower? Naked. On my yacht? Naked.

Groaning, I abruptly turned away from her and tried to calm my body down. She probably thought I was pissed — far from it, just so damn tired of being the perfect son, of doing the right thing. I wanted her. It wasn’t right; it was wrong, and for the first time in my life, I wanted the wrong. I wanted the bad. I wanted it more than truth. Give me the lie. Just give me her.

I was going to have to take a cold shower, maybe three. I was her professor. Her teacher. An instructor. At least for the semester. Sharing a bed? Not happening. And even if I wasn’t? She’d hate me for it. I’d hate me for it. And I could only imagine what my father would say if he ever discovered what I was truly doing back in Seattle.

I cleared my throat and turned back around. I grabbed the containers and shoved them back into the fridge before offering my hand. “Sounds like a plan. Let me just show you to your room.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN