Page 7

Chapter 6

Deirdre

“Leave my loneliness unbroken!” Edgar Allan Poe

T he rhythmic hum of the car fills the quiet space between us. As we drive further away from the club and toward Cornelia Heights, the city lights cast fleeting shadows across Kieran’s face. His eyes face forward, and he remains focused on the task at hand.

Getting me home.

His jacket feels like a heavy weight draped over my shoulders. The lingering scent of whiskey and cedarwood fills my nose and feels like a warm embrace.

I look out the window and recognize the tall building in the distance, sitting on the hill. The closer we get to the university, the more squirmish I become in my seat. I gnaw on my lower lip as my nerves begin to take hold. The thought of walking into my dorm with him sends a wave of unease through me. What if the Resident Advisor sees me getting out of his car? It’s a Friday night. What if there are students loitering in the parking lot? Too many eyes on us would raise too many questions.

I glance over at him, his profile is carved in stoic concentration. “Maybe we shouldn’t go to the dorms,” I say, suddenly.

His grip on the wheel tightens slightly. “And where do you suggest we go?”

I hesitate for a moment.

The truth is, I know that either place is dangerous. I should just go back to my dorm, half ass soak this shirt and just throw Claire some money for a new one.

But…

Ignoring my thoughts, I shrug casually and reply, “Your place.”

That gets his attention.

His head turns slightly, and his brows furrow. I can tell he is skeptical of this plan.

“I just mean…” I rush to explain, trying to find an excuse. “The dorms have communal laundry, and the water in our bathroom sink barely gets warm enough to wash our faces, let alone our shirts. If I have any chance of saving this blouse, it needs to soak properly.”

His jaw ticks, eyes flickering to me before returning to the road. “Miss Ravencroft…”

“Professor,” I continue, cutting off whatever refusal is forming on his lips. Motioning to my shirt, “I would just prefer to go anywhere else, so no one sees me like this.”

He exhales sharply, drumming his fingers against the wheel. For a moment, I think he will tell me no, that he will insist on taking me straight to the dorms and leaving things at that.

But then, without another word, he flicks the turn signal and veers away from the path leading to campus, heading instead toward more secluded, tree-lined streets.

My stomach twists with apprehension. I know I should have just let him take me to the dorms, but there’s a part of me that is curious to know more about him.

Besides, we’re just soaking my shirt. How harmful can that be?

“This stays between us,” he mutters, seemingly more to himself than to me.

Satisfied, I settle back into my seat. “Of course, Professor.”

The rest of the car ride is quiet. Surprisingly, the air is not heavy with the thick tension that Professor McKnight usually exudes. Inside the car, I revel in the faint sound of classical music playing softly on the radio.

About twenty minutes past the university, we pull into the long driveway of a two-story Victorian home. Outside of the gate, there is a brick pillar with a plaque registering it as one of New Haven’s historical homes. The shell of the home is a pale-yellow wood frame with towering oak trees on either side. A porch made of worn white wood wraps around the house, and the stained-glass windows of the second story reflect the warm, amber glow of the interior.

He brings the car to a slow stop and shuts the engine off. Unbuckling his seat belt, he walks around to my side of the car. When he opens the door, I step out hesitantly, still not quite sure I should be here. Cornelia Heights has some of the strictest policies of all universities when it comes to staff fraternization with students.

With an inscrutable look, Kiernan guides me up the white steps to the large oak door.

“Come in,” he says simply, holding the door open for me.

The inside is even more stunning. High ceilings with ornate crown molding, a grand staircase with a polished mahogany banister leading to the second floor, and antique furniture that looks like it’s been passed down for generations. The living room is filled with bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes, and a marble fireplace serves as the centerpiece of the room. It smells faintly of aged wood and something earthy, like cedarwood.

Nothing about his home surprises me. I never really pegged Kieran for some modern contemporary penthouse type. Plus, New Haven is known for its grand historical homes. It’s almost as if a literature professor had to live in this home.

“You live here?” I ask all the same, taking in the sheer elegance of it all. I feel tiny standing in the middle of this oversized living room.

“For about fifteen years now,” he replies, leading me toward the kitchen.

The kitchen is a surprising mix of modern and classic. Copper pots hang above a butcher block island, while stainless steel appliances contrast with the vintage cabinets painted in a soft sage green. He motions toward a chair by the kitchen table.

“Have a seat,” he says as he grabs a clean dishcloth and runs water in the sink. “Let me take a look at your blouse. If we soak it now, it should keep the stain from setting.”

I look around nervously. “Um…I’m only wearing a bra underneath this.”

“Oh, right,” he says, realizing I can’t just strip in the middle of his kitchen. He leaves the water running and disappears down the hallway. I can hear him rummaging around. When he returns, he has a black shirt in his hands.

He glances at me and says, “Here,” handing it to me.

“It’s clean, and it should fit well enough until your blouse is dry. There is a half bathroom down the hallway on the right.” He points in the direction he just came from.

Walking into the dark bathroom, I run my hand up the wall to search for a light switch. When my fingers find it, I flip it on and come face to face with a small oval mirror on the wall above a white porcelain vanity. My cheeks instantly flush when I see just how see-through my blouse has been since we left the club. My rosy, pink lace bralette leaves little to the imagination.

Great. My professor has had a full view of my boobs all evening.

I hesitate for a moment before pulling the blouse over my head, leaving me standing there in my bra. Slipping the soft cotton shirt that swallows me whole over my head, I notice it smells faintly of his home and distinctly like him, clean and masculine. I quickly glance back in the mirror and attempt to fix my hair. I don’t know why I am trying to impress this man. He has sin written all over him.

I emerge from the bathroom and walk back into the kitchen. When I hold out my stained blouse, he takes it without comment and begins rinsing it carefully in the sink. His attention to detail is methodical and precise.

“This should help,” he says after a moment, draping the blouse over a hanger near the sink to air dry.

“Thanks,” I say awkwardly, wrapping my arms around myself as I stand near the counter.

Without warning, Professor McKnight unbuttons his own stained shirt, pulling it off with practiced ease. I can’t help but stare for a moment. For a man in his forties, (yes, I may have googled him when I found out he was my professor), he’s in incredible shape. His chest is thick and broad, his shoulders defined, and his stomach is so sculpted, he reminds me of one of those Greek statues. My mouth slowly gapes open as my eyes trail down to the V shape arrowing down to his hips.

Now, I don’t blame any of the staff or Miss Legs for Days for fawning over him.

“Uh, y-you should probably put that back on,” I stammer, trying to ignore whatever strange energy is suddenly crackling in the air.

He raises a brow at me.

“Why? You think the university’s going to come knocking down my door?”

“I’m just saying,” I reply, crossing my arms across my chest. “I should probably leave before this becomes a whole thing. You know, with university policies about fraternization and professor-student relationships and all.”

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “All I’m doing is washing your shirt. Then I’m driving you home. That’s it.”

“Fine,” I say with a slight edge to my voice.

And before I can even stop myself, I ask abruptly, “So, what is a renowned Poe scholar like you doing at a gentlemen’s club every night?”

I can’t believe I just let that slip out of my mouth.

His expression hardens slightly, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I do not go every night . And for the record, Salvation saved me ten years ago.”

That catches me off guard. “What do you mean?” I ask, leaning against the counter. “It’s just a gentleman’s club.”

Kieran pauses, his gaze fixed on the blouse hanging next to the sink. “It wasn’t always,” he says finally. “Before it became what it is now, it was a lifestyle club.”

I blink, surprised by the honesty. “You mean a sex club?”

He corrects me. “A safe space for people of all backgrounds and couples to explore their preferences and their kinks without fear of judgment from others.”

“Okay…”

“When kink-shaming became the cultural trend around here, and the people of New Haven found out what went on there, they tried to shut it down,” he continues, his tone quieter now. “Vincent turned it into a gentleman’s club instead. But the foundation stayed the same. It’s about giving people space to be who they are.”

I study him carefully, sensing there’s more to the story. “So, what does that have to do with you?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s not going to answer.

“I’m an anonymous shareholder. It would be a conflict of interest with the university if anyone found out,” he admits.

“But more than that, Salvation showed me a lot about myself and what I enjoyed. And it saved me when...” His voice trails off, and his dark eyes seem to grow even darker.

The raw emotion in his expression is enough to stop me from pressing further. Whatever he’s holding back, it’s something heavy, something that still haunts him.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, not sure what else to offer him as far as comfort.

He shakes his head, dismissing my apology. “You don’t have to be. It’s in the past.”

But as the silence stretches between us, I can’t help but think that the past isn’t as far behind him as he wants me to believe.