Page 63 of His to Teach
“What’s his last name?” I demand. “Where does he live?”
She shakes her head, smiling softly. “Why? You gonna go beat him up in the middle of the night?”
“Fuck yes I am,” I growl. Beating him up doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m going to rip his fucking hands off for touching her.
“Don’t worry,” she says, voice soft and very sad. “Mason punched him when he found out.”
“Mason should have done a lot more than punch him.”
“I didn’t bring this up because I wanted you to leave me here in your bed in the middle of the night,” she points out. “I brought it up because it’s part of what freaks me out about our relationship.”
Horror erupts in my belly. “You think that this…what we do…you think it’s like what he did to you?”
Her eyes widen, like she’s scared of whatever expression she sees on my face. “No. You’re nothing like him, Nate. Nothing.” I search her eyes, trying to understand this. “It’s me,” she whispers, shame in her voice. “Did I stay with him for so long because I wanted to be treated badly? And is that the basis of my desire to be dominated and spanked? That I want to be hurt? That I think I deserve it?”
She shakes her head. “But I also realize that you don’t treat me badly, not at all. You take care of me, even when you’re spanking me.” Her smile is sad. “And that kind of ruins my theory, you know? Maybe I don’t crave all this kinky BDSM shit because I’m fucked up and think I deserve to hurt.”
“You’renotfucked up.”
Her smile looks a little less sad. “But that’s what I’ve always believed, Nate. I believed the only reason I wanted this was because I was so screwed up. I mean, my entire academic career is based on trying to understand why I want what I want. And then you come along and make me doubt everything I ever thought. So it’s all very confusing in my head.”
I cup her face in my hands, unable to untangle the chaotic mess of feelings rushing through me. I hate that she doubts herself, that she feels so much shame. I’m horrified by the idea that she might think, even briefly, that my punishments are in any way related to how that fucking asshole touched her. So horrified that I wonder if I’ll ever be able to put my hands on her again. Which in turn makes me feel guilty, like I’m validating her own fears and shame. Like I’m agreeing that her kinky desires are wrong in some way.
But one emotion grows larger than all of those. Her insistence that I’m the one making her doubt that she’s screwed up. That thought brings warmth to my chest, makes me want toprotect and take care of her and show her, over and over again, that there’s nothing wrong with her. To make her see herself as the perfect woman I see.
“Harper,” I whisper, my voice rough. I swallow several times, trying to get past the lump in my throat. “I’m glad I make you doubt the idea that there’s something wrong with you. I promise you that I will always make you doubt anything negative you might be thinking about yourself. I will make it my mission to show you what I see when I look at you.”
Her chocolate brown eyes are wide and I can see the need in them. “What do you see?” she whispers.
I bring her face to mine, kissing her softly, before pulling back to look into her eyes. “I see so much strength. So much beauty. I see someone kind and insanely smart, dedicated and ambitious. Someone funny and sweet and sassy.” I shake my head. “Someone brave enough to be vulnerable. To take chances and face fears and take risks to figure out what she wants.”
I kiss her again, kiss away the tears now slipping down her face. “You’re all I see anymore, Harper. You’re always in my thoughts.”In my heart,I think, but I’m too afraid to say it. Because I’m not nearly as brave as she is. “You fucking consume me. You’re…” I swallow again, unable to finish.
“Nate,” she manages, her voice thick with tears. But I don’t let her go on. Because I need to make sure that she believes me, and there’s only one way I can think of to do that. So I kiss her again, pulling her close, letting my hands roam down her skin. I show her with my body what I can’t seem to say in words—that I’ve fallen for her, that I’m in way over my head.
That she’s quickly becoming everything to me.
HARPER
The next several weeks pass in a blur of hazy bliss. At first, we try to keep our non-academic relationship to the weekends. I tell myself that it’s enough to see him during the day, to have these hours of looking up from my research to see him sitting there in the classroom, smiling at me.
But it’s not enough, and we both know it. We start sneaking away to have lunch together off campus. We drive out of Charlotte to have dinner a few times, before we start getting lazy and just eating in at his place—which I have no complaints about since being at home gives us more time for sex.
And oh, my heavens, do we have sex. I begin to fear that I might become addicted to Nate’s body, to the way he commands me and controls me in bed. Not every night is kinky—though we do make plenty of time for that, too, usually at the club—but Nate is always in charge. And that’s the way I like it. Like the way he consumes my body and my thoughts, the way he possesses me entirely.
On second thought, like doesn’t begin to cover it. I crave this man and the things he does to me.
It’s not all about sex, either. We spend so much time talking, over meals, cooking together in his kitchen, curled around each other at night in bed. No matter what we’re doing, Nate peppers me with questions, his curiosity about my life never seeming to wane no matter how much I open up.
Which is strange for me. With the exception of Emma, I don’t think I’ve ever told another human so much about me. He wants to know about my interests, my goals, the things that make me laugh and keep me entertained. His attention is flattering and more than a little confusing. Why on earth would a guy like him be so interested in my little, boring life?
His life is far from little or boring. It’s harder to get him to talk—I don’t possess that whole commanding alpha tone he has—but the more time we spend together, the more detailed my picture of this man becomes. The complex mystery that is Nate slowly unfolds in the time we spend together and I find that I learn just as much about him by watching him as I do by questioning him.
I learn he loves international cuisine by the way he tries to recreate favorite meals from his travels in his kitchen at home. I learn he has a fondness for Stephen King novels when I find several ratty paperbacks scattered around the house, their dog-eared pages and tattered covers the polar opposite of the almost reverent way he treats his academic journals and texts. I discover his life-long (if somewhat sheepish) love of comic books when he pauses just a moment too long on a Superman movie while flipping through the channels one night after dinner. When I push, he finally takes me to his office and shows me his extensive collection of comics.
I suggest that I should dress up as Wonder Woman someday and he gets so excited that he fucks me right there in the middle of the floor, not even caring when one of his precious comics gets torn underneath us.
I make him cupcakes after sex one night, naked in his kitchen while he watches, and learn he prefers vanilla frosting to chocolate—which strikes me as hilarious considering his sexual proclivities. He drives me three hours to the beach one cloudy Sunday and we curl up in a heavy quilt on the sand while I do homework and Nate grades papers.
