Her Guilty Secret

‘As a defence barrister, that’s not my problem.’

‘Justice isn’t your problem?’

His eyes narrow. God, he’s hot. My body is squirming and I fantasise about pushing away from the door and closing the distance between us. I fantasise about wrapping my legs around his waist. I’m not very tall and I’ve always been slender, and Connor Hughes is a man mountain. He would easily be able to hold me around his waist, fisting his hands in my hair, pushing my dress up.

Oh, God. I need my brain to be helping me now, not throwing up wildly suggestive images. Just... Stop imagining things!

‘Justice is best served by everyone doing their job to the utmost of their ability.’ He takes a step closer and I’m breathing so hard and fast that my breasts are straining against my dress. His eyes drop to the buttons and my nipples harden into two tight nubs. They have formed a little team, my breasts; they are imploring him to touch them. I look down, my eyes finding his hands. Big hands. Strong and commanding. He would easily be able to hold my breasts in his palms, fingering my flesh.

A moan tingles on my tongue and it is only with a supreme effort that I manage to bite it back.

‘You’re smart,’ he says, his fingers curling around the door handle so that I’m effectively trapped by him. I make no effort to move, though I could easily step to the side. I don’t want to. He’s within leg-wrapping range and I ache to push up. I want to touch him. I need to touch him. Just a little bit. Somewhere. It’s an obsession burning through my blood, as I bet it is his.

Oh, Connor Hughes, you are going to get me into trouble.

‘I know.’

‘But you’re idealistic.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’ The words come out all husky, and I bite down on my lower lip, staring at his at the same time. I’m silently begging him for something. I don’t know what. I need so much from him that my body is vibrating at a whole new frequency.

‘It’s something you’ll learn to live without.’ His lips twist in a tight smile and I’m terrified he’s about to put an end to this. Without kissing me. Without touching me.

He’s my lecturer! What kind of crazy planet am I living on that I want these things?

‘Idealism? I’d rather keep it,’ I say. His eyes drop to my lips and he moves just a fraction closer, so that his thighs brush against me.

‘You can try.’ The words are—oh, so briefly—flavoured by bleakness. It flares every bit of interest within me, spinning dozens of questions. Why does he sound like that? Before I can form one of the questions into words he turns the door handle and I have no choice but to move. Only he doesn’t, so when I step from the door I bump straight into him; our bodies collide.

It is the briefest, quickest connection but it sears me, from the tips of my toes to every last hair on my head.

It all happens so quickly. He puts a steadying hand on my hip. It’s clinical and it isn’t, because it’s him and it’s me and there’s fire and electricity in every single touch. He pushes the door wider still, and then steps back, a normal distance between us now. Showing that he isn’t just a ‘close talker’. He knows how to stand without being in someone’s space.

He wanted to be in my space.

Shit.

This is definitely going to be a problem.

* * *

‘You in?’

I have a royal flush. Of course I’m in. I slide a fifty-pound note into the centre of the table without looking up. The faculty poker night reminds me of my university days—only we play for real money now, not the rings of lager tins.

Shut the door.

Should I lock it, sir?

Fuck. Hearing her call me sir has unleashed just about every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had. Her on her knees, sucking my cock, calling me ‘sir’. Lying back in my bed, begging me to fuck her, hard. Sir. Touching herself, her eyes locked on mine. May I come now, sir?

Sir.

I bite back a groan and toy with my empty beer bottle, running my finger around its base.

What the hell was I thinking?

On Day One at the London Law School I told myself I should steer clear of Olivia Amorelli. Warning bells had blared through me the second she’d walked into my classroom, wearing a long, pale blue dress that showed off her tan and her eyes and made my blood pressure shoot way up.

But it was more than that. Something about her called to me and I knew ignoring it, ignoring her, would be the smart thing to do. There was danger in the kind of desire I felt for her—its depths were unknown, never-ending, and I don’t do well without limits. I like to know where things are going to end up, and Olivia is a wild card.

So I chose to pretend I wasn’t halfway to infatuated by everything about her.

And I was doing okay. Ignoring her and her outfits and her long blonde hair, and the way she blinks and chews on a pen when she’s concentrating.

Yeah, I was ignoring her just fine. Until today.

Today, when I called on her, she sat up, arguing with me, making my blood pressure shoot through the roof. Olivia’s stunning. There’s no denying that. But she’s not my usual type. Even though I know she’s twenty-five, she’s tiny and youthful and goes around in jeans and white sneakers. She’s got long blonde hair that I picture running down her naked back and her eyes are full of storm clouds.

When she argued with me today, I damned well wanted to dismiss the class and take her then. And I think she wanted it, too. Which is why I need to be even more careful.

Because I want her and she wants me and we see each other four times a week as it is.

The London Law School is one of the most prestigious schools in the country, if not the world. It has a much sought-after exchange programme with Harvard Law and the fees are astronomical. Olivia is in her last year and she’s academically brilliant. She’s worked hard to make it this far. If she holds it together, she’ll graduate with a swathe of offers from places to undertake her training contract. But even just flirting with a professor is the kind of thing that would get her in trouble here, let alone doing what I want her to do to me.

She is completely forbidden...and damn it all to hell if that doesn’t make me want her even more.

I’m not very good at being told ‘no’.

Even when I know it’s for the best.

I should have let her walk out of the damned classroom. Instead, I called her back. I stood over her, so close I could feel her soft breath on my throat, warm and sweet. I heard her breathing; I wanted to make her breathe faster. Harder. And all for me.

I’m not a spiritual guy but I believe in the powers of opposites and opposition. I think she could both redeem me and challenge me, and I need both. But what about her needs?

What would a guy like me do to her? I crave her sweetness but wouldn’t I only mark her with my darkness? Isn’t that more likely? The Donovan case sits heavy in my throat, the judgement the stuff of nightmares, my victory incontrovertible proof that I am too good at what I do. That I play to win, no matter the cost.

Where once a win was a win and the verdict would have puffed me up, it dances on the edges of my mind now like an incoming surge of the ocean, an impending surge of doom.

‘I’ll pay it. Show me what you got, Connor.’

I lift my eyes to Gary Austin, one of the well-known professors from the Contracts department, and bare my teeth in acknowledgement.

I lay my cards down and stand to grab a beer at the same time.

The four other guys make a collective noise of disappointment as my royal flush obviously beats whatever they’re holding. I play to win. Always.

I pull a bottle from the fridge and crack the top off it, throwing half back in one easy movement.

Olivia’s in class with me tomorrow.

I wonder what she’ll be wearing?

CHAPTER TWO

‘I’VE GOT CLASS until four,’ I murmur into my phone, my eyes glued to the door, waiting for the moment Connor will arrive so I can go back to pretending I don’t notice him.

‘Darling—’ my mum uses her most persuasive voice ‘—it’s a late lunch. Things will just be starting by the time you get there.’

Frustration zips through my belly. ‘I doubt that.’

‘You can’t just not show up.’

I would laugh except this isn’t remotely amusing. ‘I never agreed to go.’

She’s quiet and I know her lips are compressed. ‘Pietro’s counting on you.’

And there it is. The reason my mum has been nagging me about going to my cousin’s girlfriend’s birthday lunch for the past two weeks.

Because my saintly ex-boyfriend will be there—the man my parents are determined for me to take back. To forgive the fact we made no sense together, the fact we had nothing in common, the fact sex was perfunctory and our conversation, for the most part, dull.

Don’t get me wrong—I loved Pietro. But I realised, over time, that it was the kind of love one feels for a friend or, ick, a brother. Not a lover.

I sigh, because saying ‘no’ to my mother isn’t easy. Especially when I know her meddling comes with the best of intentions.

‘Where is it?’ I bite down on my lip right as the door opens and Connor steps in, his stride strong and confident. I stare at him for a couple of seconds and marshal my expression into a look of nonchalant unconcern. It’s a waste of energy. He doesn’t even look my way.

‘Alta Pasta, just off St Christopher’s Place. Do you know it?’

She sounds relieved; she’s taken my acquiescence as a given.

I’ve never argued with my mum and dad, but I can’t stand the way they’re trying to urge me into a sensible relationship, just because they’ll feel better knowing I’ve settled down.

It makes me want to do the opposite.

Unconsciously, my eyes land on Connor and a frown crosses my face.

I want to do completely the opposite. I want to find someone manifestly unsuitable. Completely wrong. And I want to have some fun. Not a relationship, nothing like what Pietro and I shared.

And, in that moment, which I’m not proud of, I want to be with someone who would infuriate my parents...

‘I’ll see if I can make it.’

‘You’re a good girl, Olivia.’

It’s just an expression, something she says often, but it raises my hackles to the point of bursting. A good girl? I am a good girl. I always have been. Even when my friend Clara and I went travelling, I was the one taking care of her, booking our hostels, putting glasses of water beside her bed and condoms in her purse.

Apparently I don’t know how to be anything other than a good, sensible girl.

‘Are we interrupting your social life, Miss Amorelli?’

Colour blooms in my face. I feel it spread and curse my propensity to flush when I’m embarrassed.

Everyone is looking at me. I glare at Connor and then pointedly lift my eyes to the clock above his head. There’s still a minute to go until the lecture technically starts.

Nonetheless, my inner Goody-Two-Shoes, who really isn’t very ‘inner’ at all, stands to attention.

‘Mum? I have to go.’

I disconnect the call and slide my phone to the desk.

Heat spreads from my face to my neck as Connor continues to stare at me. For barely a millisecond, his eyes lower, glancing somewhere in the region of my cleavage, and then he turns away, moving to the whiteboard.

He begins to speak, addressing the whole class, and I flick my notebook open and take the lid off my pen, but I’m only pretending to listen. I write out a few things, word for word, as he says them, but they’re random and unimportant. I can’t focus. My brain is fogged.

I can honestly say I’ve never looked at a guy and felt myself spontaneously combust in a cloud of sexual heat.

This, with Connor, is completely different.

It scares the hell out of me, if I’m honest, only because he’s as completely off-limits to me as if he were my best friend’s fiancé.

He turns around and smiles. Everyone laughs.

I don’t.

I stare at him and his eyes zip to mine. The world, the earth, the universe—everything freezes. We are powerless to fight it, this moment. We simply stare at one another and silence falls; we are encumbered by a desire that is impossible to acknowledge. Impossible to resist.

‘Okay.’ He seems to rally himself with more ease than I could muster for a million quid. ‘Group assignments are due at the end of today. Anyone not able to complete theirs?’ He drags his eyes away—at least I hope he’s having to drag them away. I can’t. I continue to stare at him. He’s wearing a navy blue suit, a pale blue shirt and brown shoes. No tie, and the shirt’s open at the neck. He has a nice neck. Thick and strong. I imagine running my tongue along it and then look at the clock, jerking my eyes away forcibly.

The class is almost over.

I’m almost done.

‘That’s it. Read the two cases and summarise judgements before Thursday.’

There’s a commotion as everyone stands but Connor holds his hands up, silencing us once more. ‘And the Law School Ball on Friday night is not optional. Dean Walters has asked me to remind you to come, dress up and be on your best behaviour.’ He pulls a face that is half mocking, full hot. ‘But seriously, you guys, this is an incredible opportunity to meet real-world professionals and socialise with representatives of some of the top-tier firms in the country. So be prepared to make a good impression and it might lead to an interview for those of you planning to undertake your training contracts.’

I try to imagine Connor Hughes ever going to one of these balls with the intention of sucking up, and fail. Even as a student, I bet he was as arrogant as they came. You don’t learn that kind of attitude; it’s innate.

A hand somewhere to my left shoots up in the air.

‘Yes, Miss Cave?’

‘What if we already know where we want to apply?’

Connor shrugged. ‘So? Apply.’

‘Okay. Can I email you direct?’

Everyone laughs, Connor included. ‘Sure.’

But I don’t laugh.

Something uncomfortable slides through me, twisting my organs. Is Benita Cave flirting with Connor?

Is he flirting back?

More heat spreads through my cheeks. I’m so distracted by this unpleasant notion that I barely notice people are leaving until the class is almost empty and I’m this close to being alone with Connor once more.

Shit.

I pack up quickly, squishing my book into my bag and tossing it over my shoulder. I jam my phone into the back pocket of my jeans as I stand and straighten my simple white singlet top so that it sits properly over my waistband.

‘You know—’ Connor’s voice is soft and even though other students are still milling around I know he’s addressing me ‘—it’s not a great idea to be chatting on your phone during class.’

My ears are hot.

‘I wasn’t on the phone during class,’ I point out, changing trajectory and moving towards the desk.

‘I beg to differ.’

‘With respect, sir, it was before class.’

His eyes narrow, and seem to change colour. ‘I was here, wasn’t I? Thus the class had begun.’

I’m tempted to argue with him—I want to argue with him. But Connor Hughes is obviously used to people doing exactly what he wants, when he wants. Plus, he’s my lecturer and I know I can’t say what I’m thinking. Because I’m a good girl.

I press my fingertips into the edge of his desk. Breath is burning through me and my chest heaves with the effort. We stare at each other for a long time. Or maybe it’s just seconds. I don’t know. Time seems to stand still. It’s heavy around me, like wading through just-poured concrete.

‘Shut the door, Miss Amorelli.’

Oh, God. Here we are again. The tension stretches between us, pulling so hard, so tight, that I think it might actually snap me in half.

But a thrill of adrenalin is surging in my veins simultaneously. I want this. I need it. To be alone with him, even for a few stolen minutes, even knowing nothing can happen. I storm towards the door as though I’m pissed off and not excited. I push it shut and whip around to face him.

He’s sitting at the desk, a bemused expression on his handsome-as-sin face.

‘Yes?’ I press back against the door, all but willing him to come and hold his body to mine.

He stands slowly, unfurling his frame and prowling across the room. He comes close, but not close enough.

His smile is sardonic and utterly sexy. ‘I meant with you on the other side of it.’

I ignore the flash of embarrassment, pushing it deep down inside myself. ‘Am I supposed to be a mind-reader?’

‘I don’t know what you’re supposed to be.’ There is resignation in that sentence.

His eyes drop to my breasts, heating me up, making me tingle all over. My nipples thrust forward of their own volition and his lips twist in a smile that is both mocking and approving, all at once.

This is so wrong.

And still I don’t move. Suddenly, I’m desperate for him to touch me, or for me to touch him. Everything seems to come screeching to a halt—I am angry with my parents for their machinations, for the way they want to control my personal life. I’m angry at Pietro for being a pawn in their games. And, most of all, I’m angry at Connor Hughes for being sexy AF even when I hate the work he does—defending criminals who should be locked up with the keys thrown away.

‘You should go, Olivia.’ He steps back as though he can put an end to this. As though he can walk away from this insane gravitational pull.

But I’m sick of being told what to do. I’m sick of being a good girl. Just once, I want to do something for myself, something completely wrong.

‘And what if I don’t go?’

There’s a look of desperation in his expression, as though we’re sinking in quicksand, and his voice is gravel when he speaks. ‘You should.’

It’s four o’clock. Thoughts of the birthday lunch fragment my mood, but it annoys me. I’m impatient at the expectation that I’ll simply do what my mother asks.

I take a step forward and he squares his shoulders but doesn’t retreat.

‘I had a dream about you last night,’ I murmur, the words slipping from between my lips, unbidden.

His eyes blink closed for a moment and he draws in a breath. ‘Did you?’

‘Uh huh.’ I step close enough that my breasts are pressing against his chest.

‘Careful.’ His words whisper against my hair and a frisson of awareness dances all the way down my back.

I lift my face, angling my eyes to meet his. ‘Of what?’

‘Of playing with fire.’

‘Is that what I’m doing?’

His Adam’s apple jerks as he swallows. ‘Yes.’

I am; he’s right. And it feels so good. I am not a good girl—at least, not just a good girl.

‘Don’t you want to know what my dream was about?’

His eyes are lightly mocking. ‘I think I can guess.’

My lips twist into a small smile. ‘I dreamed,’ I say huskily, ‘that you touched me here.’ I lift a hand to my breast, running my fingertips over nipples that are taut. He makes a groaning noise but keeps watching, his eyes glued to the progress of my fingertips.

‘And here.’ I run my fingers higher, to the pulse point at the base of my throat. ‘And here.’ I touch my lips.

‘Anywhere else?’ The words are gruff, strained.

I nod, slowly.

‘Here.’ I run my fingertip down my body, pressing against the zip of my jeans. We’re so close that I can’t do so without brushing against his cock—it’s rock-hard. Power rocks me to my core.

‘And you don’t think it’s inappropriate to dream of your teacher?’

Adrenalin heats my blood and flavours my mouth. ‘Sure it is.’ I bite down on my lower lip. ‘I’m not sure I care, though.’

His groan is so soft that I only hear it because I’m standing right here, pressed against him.

‘Show me.’

I blink.

‘Show me what you dreamed I did to you.’

I nod, slowly, and drop my hand back to my jeans, this time undoing the button and lowering the zip.

And, as I touch myself, his cock is right there, too. My fingers push against my wet, hot clit and he stays close, so that every movement also rubs his dick.

I’m so close. I’ve been dreaming about him for a month, wanting him, needing this, so that now I’m there I have no ability to hold on and stretch this out. I come hard, against my fingers, but when I would cry out with pleasure he lifts a hand to my mouth, pressing his palm against my lips to silence me. I bite down on his flesh—gently.

He laughs, and pushes his dick further forward, so that if it weren’t for the barrier of his clothes he’d be touching me. My body pulses.

Sagging, spent, I withdraw my hand, and he catches me around the wrist.

‘Now let me show you what I’ve been dreaming of doing.’

I hold my breath but, instead of lifting me over his shoulder and taking me somewhere more private, he simply lifts my fingers to his lips. He takes them deep inside his mouth and my knees buckle under the overwhelming sensual awareness. He wraps an arm around my waist, vice-like, and continues to suck my fingers until I’m whimpering.

Then, slowly, he pulls my wrist, removing my finger from his mouth, and he unclamps my waist. He steps back, watching me with glittering eyes. ‘Careful, Miss Amorelli. If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned.’

* * *

I had two lectures to get through after Olivia.

Two lectures that I somehow managed to bullshit my way through—I couldn’t tell you, for a million pounds, what the fuck I talked about. I guess I more or less stuck to the course notes, but holy shit.

I see only her face before me.

Her face, scrunched with pleasure, feel her nipples hard against my chest.

I hear only her rushed breathing, her low moans. I hear the exhalation of breath as she tipped over the edge, sucking her lower lip between her teeth and squeezing her eyes closed.

I smell only her.

I taste only her.

Hell, I taste her and it is like taking an addict to a crack den. She tasted so good; how am I meant to leave it at that? How am I meant to stand in front of her without a tent in my pants?

One taste of Olivia is never going to be enough.

I watch the last student file out of my class and then load up the LLS lecturer app on my iPad. I’m only here for the term—and just because I was feeling almost suffocated by my need to get away from Dublin and my firm. I didn’t want all the gadgets that came with this temporary lecturing gig.

I was happy to stand up in front of the class and spitball about law and trial experience, interviewing clients, prepping witnesses, you know, the real stuff these students will need to know to be effective in the real world.

But the university has weird rules about this stuff. All the teaching staff need to have the same equipment—it comes as standard. Something about what the students deserve.

So I have the app and for the first time since taking up this honorary lectureship I open it and flick into my student files.

They’re in alphabetical order by surname, so she’s right near the top. I send a guilty look towards the door—then feel like an A-grade idiot.

I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just checking a student’s schedule.

She’s finished for the day—no hope of seeing her again now. I resist the impulse to scribble down her phone number and address. I’ve already crossed so many lines I’m like a freaking acrobat. I don’t think I need to add another transgression to my list.

She’s got a tutorial tomorrow at ten.

I can wait until then.

Just.

* * *

Olivia doesn’t show.

I wait outside the classroom feeling like a stalker, pretending I’m busy checking something on my phone when every twenty seconds my eyes are obsessively scanning the corridor for the sight of long blonde hair and enormous blue eyes.