Forbidden Heat (Firework Girls #1) (15 page)

The next week is finals week and it keeps me busy. I manage to get myself together enough to, at the very least, put in my best effort. I spend more time at the apartment, where it really is easier to work without the distraction of Shane and Shane’s bed, but we still see each other every day.

My mother has had her tests but won’t get the results back until I’m home for break. I’m trying really hard not to worry about it. There’s nothing I can do about it and we’ll just have to deal with whatever it is as it comes.

Once this week is over, I’ll have four weeks until the next semester starts. Under different circumstances I’d only go home for a week or two, but mom wants me home for the entire break and I’m not inclined to argue. With everything that’s going on, I want to spend as much time with her as I can.

But I’m not looking forward to the separation from Shane.

The night before my flight home, I give him a Christmas gift. It’s a ceramic sculpture I found at the open-air market downtown.

I watch him carefully.

I wasn’t sure if I should get him a gift. I’m not really sure if he celebrates Christmas, first off. I’m also not sure if we’re at the gift-giving stage of a relationship. There’s nothing normal about our relationship. We don’t have all the usual markers. We’re not hanging out with each other’s friends. We’re not meeting each other’s parents. As much time as we spend together, I still have no idea what any of it means.

But his eyes light up and he smiles at me. “I love it.”

“I thought you could put it in your office at school. It could use a little sprucing up.”

“That’s true,” he says. “I’ll think of you every time I look at it. Thank you,” he says, giving me a kiss that leaves me breathless. He pulls back and smiles at me. “Hang on.”

He disappears into the bedroom and comes back with a small, rectangular box wrapped in silver paper.

I smile. I don’t even care what it is, I’m just happy I didn’t misjudge the situation.

“Thank you,” I say taking it.

I remove the shiny paper to reveal a black, velvet box. I tilt the lid open. A delicate sterling silver bracelet winks up at me. It’s beautiful and understated and just my style.

“Oh,” I breathe. “It’s lovely.”

“Do you like it?”

I nod eagerly.

He takes the box from me and I watch his face as he tenderly puts the bracelet around my wrist. “Maybe when you look at it, it will remind you of me,” he says, resting his hand over the bracelet and against my wrist.

“I don’t need a reminder,” I say, looking into his eyes. “I think about you all the time.”

Even better than the bracelet, my favorite Christmas gift comes three days later: my mom’s tests point to a kidney infection, nothing more. Her doctor gives her a prescription and we all take one, giant, collective breath.

When Christmas rolls around, I text Shane a
Merry Christmas
before heading into mass. I don’t really believe all the things the church teaches, but I find the familiar rituals comforting. It’s part of my family.

Shane and I talk on the phone that night. He’s back in Chicago, celebrating with his family. As we describe one another’s day, I realize that in a lot of ways the day has been about the same thing for him as it has been for me: spending time with the people I love.

Well.

Most of them anyway.

A week into the new semester, I’m on Shane’s floor on my stomach doing homework, even though I’m considerably less stressed about grades now than I was last semester. Though I got a B in my neurology class, I managed to squeak out an A in my other classes and salvage my summa cum laude. Spring grades aren’t factored in, so it’s a done deal.

Now I’m just waiting to find out if I get to go to the school of my dreams or not.

But what of that? As much as I’ve been dreaming about that, I’m already starting to view the end of the school year with dread. While graduation could theoretically mean we would no longer have to sneak around because our professor/student relationship would be at an end, it also means we’ll be that much closer to going our separate ways.

It’s getting more and more difficult to put that thought out of my mind.

Shane’s in jeans and a tee, sitting sideways on the couch with his legs stretched out and his laptop open. I may not be as stressed about homework, but he still has plenty to do in the way of grading papers and his own coursework. I’m trying to be a good girl and let him alone for a while.

I glance at him, looking all yummy in his tight tee. I’m wearing a loose skirt that comes to my knees. I’m casually kicking my bare calves and feet behind me and fantasizing about him taking full advantage of the fact that I’m wearing a skirt. I sigh. It just sucks trying to be good sometimes.

I force myself to go back to my work but my pen dies. I rummage around in my bag but don’t have another one.

“Do you have a pen?” I ask.

He glances at me, wearing that look of concentration he gets when he’s working. “Should be some in the office,” he says, going back to his laptop.

I’m even
more
tempted to pull him out of his reverie now, but instead I pad barefoot into the office in search of a pen. We agreed to work for a couple hours before taking a break. One hour to go.

I step into his office and the first thing I see is the sculpture I gave him, sitting on its own pedestal in the corner.

“Shane?” I call.

I slowly walk up to it, running my fingers along its smooth surface. I have this unpleasant tingling feeling on my skin, and I can’t even say why.

He comes through the door and heads for his desk. “Couldn’t find one?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look. Why is this here?”

He looks at the sculpture and gets a funny look on his face.

“I bought this for your office at school.”

“I know.”

In the back of my mind, I know I’m being silly. Why should I feel bothered? It was a gift and he can put it anywhere he wants. He could put it in the garden if he wanted to, really. But I have a strange feeling about seeing it here. I don’t know why. The look on his face only encourages my feeling that something’s wrong.

“Don’t you think it looks nice there?” he asks.

“Is that why you put it there?” I ask, looking him in the eye.

He’s getting a different look on his face now, one I’ve seen on him before. One thing I’ve learned about Shane Brooks: he won’t lie if asked about something directly.

“No,” he says.

“Then why did you put it here?”

He presses his lips together, then says, “Because I didn’t want a reminder of you in my office at school.”

I straighten, feeling a little slapped.

“You don’t want reminders of me?”

He looks apologetic and comes to me with his arms outstretched. “Honey—”

I put my hand up to stop him. I’m acutely aware of his bracelet on my wrist. I’ve worn it every day since he gave it to me.

“Honey,” he says again, dropping his arms. “That’s my office at
school
. That’s where I’m
Professor
Brooks. I just... I couldn’t handle the guilt of having a gift from you, one of my students, in my office like that. Surely you can understand.”

My blood is pulsing through my body. I understand. I do. But I still don’t like it and I can’t pretend to. “When are you going to stop looking at me as just a student?”

“You aren’t
just
a student, but you
are
a student. How am I supposed to forget that when you show up in my class twice a week? When I’m entering your grades into the system?”

“Ugh,” I say, pressing my palms to my eyes. “We’ve been... together,” I say, not knowing what word to use and hating that too, “for
four months
now, Shane. I can’t believe you’re
still
holding back.”

“Isabella, I—”

“How are we supposed to have a relationship when you’re holding back?” I exhale in frustration. “
Is
this a relationship? What are we even doing?”

“I’ll tell you what
I’m
doing,” he says, grabbing me by the arms, “I’m hanging on for dear life! All I want is to take you and make you mine but I can’t.”

“I’m right
here
,” I say desperately. “You
have
taken me. I don’t understand what more needs to happen.”

Still holding my arms, he closes his eyes and presses his forehead against mine. His breath is coming in short, sharp pants.

“What would be different,” I say, “if you
weren’t
my professor? Aside from being out in the open, because I don’t think that’s what we’re talking about.”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes still closed, still gripping me. “That’s not what we’re talking about,” he says, his voice tight.

“So what would be different if you weren’t my professor?”

“I
am
your professor.”

“Look at me!” I say, bringing my hands to both sides of his face.

He opens his eyes and I’m holding him close.

I need him to see me. I need him to hear me.

“
What. If. You. Weren’t.”

Something clicks inside him. I see it. His eyes sharpen on mine and his breathing halts. His body tenses up, like an animal ready to strike.

In the next second, he does.

He presses his mouth hard against mine and backs me up until we slam into the wall. His whole body is pressed against me, crushing me, and I feel his erection against my thigh.

He breaks free and I gasp for breath. His hands dart up under my skirt and hook around my panties, thrusting them down and off me. When he looks at me, I realize I’ve never before witnessed the full extent of his desire for me. He looks like he wants to devour me.

His jeans come off next and I try to brace myself but I’m unprepared for the intensity with which he comes at me, pinning me hard against the wall. He lifts my legs and wraps them around his waist, thrusting into me with more violence than I’ve ever experienced.

I’m stretched to the limit, full of every inch of him as he hits bottom.

“Wait,” I breathe, but something in him has been unleashed. He rams me again, almost frantically pounding me and claiming me. Unable to move, I’m the helpless receiver of Shane’s passion. The heat in my body blooms as he ravages me and I open to him, heart, body, and soul.

“Shane,” I gasp, “Yes.”

I’m gripping his shoulders for dear life. He doesn’t slow and my muscles tighten around his cock as he takes me like he’s never done before. He grunts again and again, like an animal, and I feel him building. I’m building too, and pinned in like I am, I’m unable to move with it. It feels like I’m going to be torn apart by my own pleasure.

He pounds me fiercely, pushing me rapidly to my climax. When it comes, it explodes with such violence I cry out again and again, digging my fingernails into his shoulder, my legs quivering helplessly. In the middle of my orgasm he thrusts and hits bottom once, twice, three times and then lets out a long, loud cry as his hot semen spills into me. Gasping, I cling to him as he takes more than I thought it possible to give.