Page 103 of Almost Ravaged

Damn.

Smirking, he brings his coffee to his lips. After a long draw, he sets it down again and pins me with a look. “Do you concede the point, Ms. Davvies?”

“No.”

I don’t want to give in. I could debate with him all day.

He cocks one eyebrow, then presses, “No, but…”

Shoulders slumping, I sigh. “No, but I’ve got nothing. And now I’m depressed.”

He barks out a laugh, and a little thrill shoots through me once more. Debating with Mercer is exhilarating. But making him laugh is a pleasure all its own.

Our verbal sparring energizes me. His knowledge intrigues me. I could listen to him talk all day, and I love picking his brain. Now that we’ve found a rapport, he’s so open and willing to share.

Our weekly meetings have devolved into part status update, and part captivating conversation. I haven’t felt this invigorated conversing with someone since my dad.

We would spend hours upon hours sitting on hard bleachers while the boys practiced, engaging in heated debates just like this. Once I was old enough to have a phone, we’d use a shared file in the Notes app to keep track of the topics or moral quandaries we’d come up with throughout the week. Come Saturday, the debates would begin. We’d get through as many topics as we could, then add anything we didn’t get to discuss to the following week’s agenda.

I still have all the notes saved on my phone, and handwritten in a notebook, just in case technology ever fails me.

As Mercer shifts in his chair, catching my attention, I close and lock the steel door on the box containing that line of thought. For the sake of my own mental health, I can’t think about my dad right now. Class starts in an hour, and I’ve got a full day after that.

I reach for my coffee to give myself something to do but, still off-kilter, swipe three empty creamer cups onto the floor in the process.

“Good grief.” With a roll of my eyes, I slide off my chair and crawl under the desk to clean up the mess.

Mercer pushes back, probably to give me space, causing a little more light to flood the area.

I spot two of the empty cups right away and snatch them up while I scan the floor for the third.

As I search, I come across a small puddle of cream on the chair mat. “Hey,” I say, holding out a hand. “Can you hand me a tissue?”

His chair creaks as he shifts above me. Then he pushes back farther.

“Here,” he snaps.

The grit in his tone makes my heart rate skyrocket. Gone is the playful, witty professor I was bantering with moments ago. This man sounds like the professor I met on the first day of class, terse and annoyed.

The tissue floats to the ground, barely missing my outstretched hand. Heart climbing up my throat, I glance up. What is his pr—

My thoughts jumble and vacate my head completely as I take in the way Mercer looms over me, his legs spread wide.

His lids are heavy, but that doesn’t temper the storm brewing in his obsidian eyes.

Oh.

He doesn’t look like he’s angry with me.

He looks like he wants to devour me.

I lick my lips on instinct.

He tracks the movement with a quiet hiss, then homes in on my mouth and grips the armrests of his chair.

My God.

It hits me in this moment just how compromising this position is. I’m on my hands and knees, hovering beneath the desk, practically between his legs.