Page 13 of The Biker and the Professor
“Fine. Half.” He shakes his head in annoyance. “I’ll invoice you on Monday.”
“Thank you.”Imagine that. I just thanked him for allowing me the courtesy to pay half of myownbill.
We finish up our lunch in silence.
Me, all freaking out on the inside, and him, all chill and Zen as if he belongs here as he cleans up our empty wrappers and places the dishware in the sink.
Once he’s through bossing up my kitchen, he leans back against the counter, crosses his muscled arms over his chest, and looks right at me. “Now talk.”
“W-what?”
“Last night you said we needed to talk,” he explicates. “So, talk.”
Oh, right. That.
Way to play dirty, buddy. Feed me first, throw around suggestive remarks, rouse me with overpowering masculinity, andthenput me on the spot. Nero Gunnar isnotnice.
But I can do this. I can say what needs to be said and put an end to his little “thing” or whatever’s happening here.
I slide off the barstool and immediately regret it, because now I’m at a height disadvantage. I’m short, he’s huge, and I hate that I have to look up to talk to him.Damn him.
“I may look small but I’m thirty-two,” I begin. “And you may look like a giant Norseman, but you’retwenty. On top of that, you’re my student. This,”— I motion between us — “is never going to happen. I’m extremely grateful for your help last night and appreciate you bringing me lunch today, but I’m drawing a line right now. You can’t continue to talk to me the way you do. You can’t continue to look at me the way you do. You can’t…touch me. You and I are not equals. Understood?”
His expression remains stolid throughout my speech, giving nothing away. When I’m done, he pushes away from the kitchen counter, rounds the breakfast bar, and saunters toward me. “You drew a line?”
My voice is firm, solid, “Yes.”
“Where?”
“Right here,” I say with a slash of my hand. “Right now.”
He points to the four feet of space between us. “Here?”
I’m irritated, annoyed, aroused. “Yes, here,now.”
With that, he lifts his right leg high enough to mime stepping over not just a line, but a freaking fence. That lone step eats up the entire space between us. Now he’s one hundred percent in my space, line crossed. He smells like worn leather and midday sunlight.
Refusing to let him intimidate me, I stand my ground, glaring up at him.
He brushes his knuckles down my cheek, and my traitorous body sings at his touch. “You can tell yourself whatever you want, find all the excuses you want, but the fact of the matter is, youwantthis just as badly as I do.” He curls his fingers around my throat and uses his thumb under my chin to tilt my head back. “And you hate yourself for it.”
I gasp, my body whistling with desire. When he dips his head and breathes along my neck, I’m so wound up I could implode.
He drags his nose along my jawline, nips at my earlobe.
I’m weak and pathetic and putty in his hands.
When he brings his mouth to hover over mine, my own lips part eagerly, ready to accept him. “Won’t kiss you unless you beg me to,” he whispers, his breath caressing my quivering lips.
Breathless but resolute, I rejoin, “And I won’t beg.”
With a quick nip of my lip, just enough to make me dive in for more, he steps back from me with that barely-there smile of his. “We’ll see.”
And with that, he saunters right out the front door, leaving me bereft with a pulsing clit and aching nipples.
Yep, the line has most definitely been crossed.
Chapter 6
