Page 147 of Broken by my Bully
“Haven…have you been crying?”
“No.” I turn away, and then shuffle to the edge of the bed so I can stand up and avoid further interrogation.
Unfortunately, the hungover, half-drunk fool who’d possessed my body this morning had decided it would be a good idea to only come to bed in a t-shirt and underwear.
Bastian’s much taller than me, but his t-shirt barely reaches past my ass. And while his t-shirt smells glorious, feels glorious, and might even look glorious draping off me like a nightshirt, if you’re into that kind of thing, there’s no way I’m letting my professor see me half naked.
Even though, technically, it would make us even at this point.
Even though, technically, I was in the wrong for putting on his clothes in the first place.
Although…was I? I’m in his house, in his bed. I’ve eaten his food, drunk his wine, gotten drunkonhis wine.
I’m pretty drunk onhim, actually. Like DUI levels of intoxicated.
Maybe I want him to see me half-naked.
Maybe I want him to see me all-the-way naked.
Maybe I want him to explain how he came to the conclusion that sex was better than chocolate because I wasdoing it wrong.
But I’m supposed to be keeping my head down and getting a degree, not sleeping with one of my professors.
So nope.
Standing up is not an option.
I drag the sheets around my middle, trying to be inconspicuous about it.
Shouldn’t have bothered.
Bastian is more concerned with my tear-stained face than with my exposed ass.
“Talk to me.” He drops to a crouch, and even kneeling, he radiates dominance. The intensity in his dark eyes is too much to handle, so I look away.
“I had a bad dream.”
“About?” His thumb finds my knee through the sheet.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.” The word is soft, almost affectionate. “Was it Kai?”
“No,” I scoff.
“So there’s someone else I should be worried about? Who?”
My breath catches. How does he always know?
“Stop psychoanalyzing?—”
“I’m not analyzing. I’m learning. Every tear, every flinch, every sharp breath tells me something about you.” His hand slides higher. “Repressed trauma can often?—”
“Oh shut the fuck up!” I snap, knocking away his hand with my arm.
My hand flies over my mouth, then slides up to my eyes. “Shit, sorry.”
Bastian grabs my thigh through the sheets bundled at my waist. “Haven, it’s okay. I told you I was a therapist. I’ve seen it all. I know you’re not angry at me. You’re just?—“
