Page 18 of Dean's Delinquent

“I believe the song is changing,” the dean continues, easing his hand around my waist. “It would be rather remiss of me not to dance with the daughter of our bigger donors.”

Thankfully, Caldwell doesn’t put up a fight. With a nonchalant shrug, he removes his hands from my body, allowing me to breathe for the first time since he dragged me out to the dance floor. However, there’s no missing the look of rage in his eyes as he glances at me one last time before heading toward his parent’s table.

For the first time since I’ve met him, fear niggles its way into my heart, making me freeze from the inside out. It doesn’t matter that Dean Anderson’s warm arms wrap me in a tight embrace as he leads me into the steps of this easy dance. The heat never seems to reach my heart where I need it the most.

“Miss Hartwell,” he murmurs, swaying me ever so gently to the rhythm of some nameless song. “You seem very far away. Care to join me here on planet earth?”

A soft smile quirks my lips, melting a bit of the ice surrounding me. “It’s nothing. Just... rich people shit, I guess.”

His abrupt stop causes me to crash into his chest. For a moment, all I can feel is hard, steely muscles under his immaculate shirt. But that’s impossible. He’s an old man. A dean. Deans don’t have ripped abs and hard pecs.

“Rich people or not,” he grumbles. “If they make you feel uncomfortable, you’re well within your rights to say so.”

“Shows what you know,” I bite back. “Sorry. That was unkind. It’s been a rather long day.”

“Far longer for me than you, I can guarantee.” His dark chuckle goes straight to my pussy, making my clit tingle with that infernal need to get off again.

Doing my best to take my mind off of the heat of his body wrapping around mine and the intoxicating scent of his woodsy cologne invading my lungs, threatening to turn me into some babbling, needy, wanting mess, I glance back over at the table. Not surprising, I note the pinched look on my mom’s face and the ramrod tightening of her shoulders as she stares at me, studying my every move. It’s rather obvious that she’s unhappy with this new choice of dance partner.

Somehow, it’s as if I should only be dancing with Caldwell and no one else. Fuck the consequences. What the hell was I supposed to say? No to the fucking dean of my college? It would be different if I was merely visiting or even just considering if I should go here. There wouldn’t be anything at stake if I rebuffed him and carried on with Caldwell.

Unfortunately for me, so much is at stake here. The very future of my career could rest in his capable hands. Not to mention the fact that I’m already stirring up trouble and controversy with my articles. I’d rather have his wrath over a conscious choice I’m making and not one being forced upon me.

Poor little rich girl, I muse to myself as we glide across the dance floor. Such problems really are pedantic if I stop to think about them. However, with each twitch of the dean’s fingers against my back, I find my ability to think becoming far harder than it should be.

His thumb grazes a touch lower, perilously close to the swell of my ass cheek. The same ass cheek he blistered not more than a few hours ago. So achingly close yet still within the bounds of propriety.

Even as I glance up at him, it’s as if he’s still so very much unaffected. In direct opposition, my body responds as if there’s some pavlovian response here. For a brief moment, all I want him to do is shove all the dishes off of our table and bend me over it so he can spank me again.

At least with the discomfort distracting me, I can lose myself in the world of what if. What if I was never born a Hartwell? What if Caldwell was some middle-aged, balding bastard who already had his ‘heir and a spare’? What if I was free to do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted and didn’t have to answer to anyone about anything?

“Miss Hartwell?” The dean’s voice cuts through the fog, drawing my attention back to him.

“I’m sorry. Did I miss something?” It’s only then I realize we’re stopped at the edge of the dance floor while everyone else is heading to their seats.

“The dance is over, Miss Hartwell. Allow me to escort you back to the table.”

“Thank you. How kind,” I tease. “Seems like you can be such a gentleman when you want to be.”

His eyes darken a touch as he tips his head forward, his lips curving into a wolfish grin. “And I’m sure you can be just a sweet, innocent little angel when you’re not trying to be a colossal brat.”

“Touché.” The soft giggle erupts from my lips, unbidden, unfettered, and, according to my mother, wholly unladylike.

“Ahh. It’s good to see my only daughter enjoying herself tonight. Normally, she prefers staying home,” my dad booms as he reaches out to shake the dean’s hand. “However did you manage to convince her to show up?”

I study Dean Anderson, taking in every minute movement. It’s as if everything tightens up as he forces a smile to his lips. “Your daughter has an extraordinary work ethic when it comes to her journalism. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to offer her the chance to cover this event for our paper.”

“Ahh. Yes,” he teases, giving me a patronizing wink. “That makes sense. You lured her out with a promise of letting her scribble away at the table. I should have thought about that myself. Now then, if you have a moment, I’d like to discuss some things regarding my sons.”

With a smooth, fluid motion, Dean Anderson extends his arm to me. “Allow me to escort my lovely dance partner back to the table. Then I’ll see to your questions.”

“Of course,” he sputters, extending his hand to allow us both to pass.

For a moment, my father’s face blanches as his cheeks tinge in red. It’s almost as if he forgot all about me for a moment. But then, it’s not as if I’m instrumental in getting him what he wants. So it makes sense for him to just rudely dismiss me as if I don’t matter.

“Will you be okay here by yourself?” he murmurs as he pulls out my chair.

Thatcher leans over and winks, his eyes gleaming. “Hardly alone. Don’t worry, boss. Grigori and I can take excellent care of her while you grease the palms.”

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