Page 109 of Give In

He cupped my pussy possessively. “I knew you were an angel sent to drag me to hell, I just didn’t know you’d be the one to kill me first.”

“There’re worse ways to go.”

“True, but I have a long list of things to do first. Ways to fuck you. Places to come on you. Feel free to kill me with your pussy when I’ve done it all—sixty or seventy years should be enough time to scratch the surface.”

“If that’s the plan, I should probably go home and rest up.” I’d barely made it an inch before his body was covering mine.

“Did I say you could leave?”

The coldness in his tone sent a sick thrill down my spine. “No, but—”

“Nowho?”

“No, Professor Caine.”

“You’re not dismissed until I say you are.”

“Yes, Professor Caine,” I said through a yawn.

He shook his head as he stood, his cock proud and thick as it jutted out. “I’ve finally got you in my bed. Even if I didn’t want to fuck you again,” he paused to grab himself to emphasize the point, “which I do, that’s not all you’re here for.” He headed across the hall and came back a minute later with a washcloth. He kneeled between my legs and ran the warm, wet cloth over my pussy. “And I sure as hell wouldn’t let you drive home when you’re exhausted.”

My brain fritzed out, and it was like I was watching other people on TV. I didn’t speak as Damien finished his tender ministrations and left the room. He returned a few minutes later with one of his pretty blue glasses.

“Water and Motrin,” he said, waiting for me to hold out my hand, which I did. Once he dropped the bright orange pills in my palm, he gave me the glass.

On autopilot, I took the meds and drank the much-needed water.

Damien put the cup on the side table and turned on the lamp there before moving to turn the overhead one off. When he climbed back into bed, he arranged us so he was propped against the headboard with my head on his chest and my leg tangled with his. His arm was tight around my shoulders even though his fingers in my hair were soothing.

That should’ve been a clue, but I was too detached to pick up on it until he began speaking. “Tonight alone, you’ve accused me of having women milling about, cheating on my fictional wife, and,” he released me and raised his hands to make air quotes, “‘banging my way through my students. ’” His arm locked back around me. “Whatever commitaphobe-humps-everything-that-moves propaganda you’re buying into is bullshit. Not every man fears settling down. We’re not perpetualfrat bros,” he sneered. “I’m not going to go into detail because I sure as hell don’t want to hear the details of your past, but I’ve had relationships. They end because they weren’t right. I don’t cheat. Cowards who don’t appreciate what they have or don’t have the balls to go for what they want cheat. Andthisis what I want. Understand?”

“I—”

“Understand?”

“We’re not—”

“We damn sureare.”

“You’re insane.”

“Do you understand?” he bit out, fisting my hair.

“Yes.”

“Good.” His fingers went back to playing with the strands. “Just trust me. Let me take care of you. Okay?”

I nodded, closing my eyes and relaxing into him. We were quiet for long moments before I worked up the nerve to mutter, “It was your cups.”

“My cups?”

“They’re nice.”

“They’re cups.”

I sat up enough to meet his gaze. “You know when businesses set up tables around campus? Like, the credit card vultures or the job fairs? Usually they hand out pens or frisbees or whatever. Sometimes they have cups. So far, I have plastic cups from three credit cards, two banks, and some religion that may or may not be a cult. I had one from a telemarketing company that was trying to recruit students, but it melted in the dishwasher and stunk up the apartment. I think the company got shut down for shady practices, so I’m not surprised they cheaped out on their material.” The dangerous vibe emanating from Damien hit me suddenly, though I wasn’t sure why he was pissed. “Anyway, you’ve got nice ones. Matching sets,” I offered, like that cleared things up.

The ticking muscle on his clenched jaw went wild, but his eyes weren’t storming midnight skies to match the anger of his body language. They were warm as he tucked my hair behind my ear. “Surprisingly, they don’t offer a ‘Lonely Bachelor Bundle’ with one of every glass. I have matching sets because that’s how they come.” He tilted his head toward the blue glass on the side table. “And because I have a busybody mother and a busier-body sister who insist I can’t only have a couple coffee mugs, pilsner glasses, and scotch tumblers.”