Page 7 of Tempting the President (Oro Nero MC)

Elissa is suddenly shaking her head and making throat slicing gestures that remind me about one thing. Didn’t she mention earlier that this building is owned by... oh no.

My stomach drops. “He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”

“Yes, the jerk is right behind you, darling Jayne.”

The deep voice sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning and everything to do with the man who somehow materialized exactly when I was talking about him, like I’d conjured him through the power of obsessive thinking.

I turn slowly, hoping against hope that I’ve somehow misheard or hallucinated his voice.

But nope.

It truly is him, Patrizio Steele in all his intimidating glory, and looking even more devastatingly attractive than I care to remember.

“Mr. Steele.” I aim for cool professionalism and land somewhere closer to strangled embarrassment. “What a...surprise.”

“Is it?” His smile suggests he doesn’t believe me for a second. “I own the building, darling. I’m here quite often.”

Of course he is. Because the universe clearly hates me.

“How nice for you,” I manage, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. “We were just leaving, actually.”

“Were we?” Elissa asks, not moving an inch from her comfortable position. “I could have sworn we just got here.”

“Dr. Stuart,” Patrizio says, his gaze never leaving mine, “I was hoping to continue our conversation from last week. Perhaps somewhere more...private.”

“Private?” The word comes out embarrassingly squeaky.

“My office is upstairs,” he explains, gesturing toward the elevator at the back of the café. “We could continue discussing Annie’s academic progress without...interruptions.”

The way he says “interruptions” makes it clear he’s referring to our previous meeting, which was indeed interrupted...by my complete mortification when he found my Kindle.

“I don’t think—”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Elissa chimes in, the backstabbing betrayal complete. “You two clearly have academic matters to discuss.”

I shoot her a look that promises painful retribution, but she just blinks at me like she’s suddenly not the smartest person I know.

“See you at home.”

And then she’s gone, abandoning me to my fate like the traitor she is.

“Shall we?” Patrizio gestures toward the elevator with that same knowing smile that makes my stomach flip.

Having all eyes on us is the only reason I struggle to keep my cool as he walks me to the elevator. I don’t want to cause a stir. I have my reputation as a respectable college professor to think of. That’s all there is to this, and I am absolutely not excited to be alone with him.

I swear!

The elevator opens directly into his penthouse, which is exactly as intimidating as you’d expect from a man who owns buildings and psychologically torments professors for entertainment.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Furniture that’s just so perfectly themed it has to be custom-ordered. Art that looks like it belongs in museums. It’s the kind of space that makes you intensely aware of your own tendency to spill coffee on expensive things.

“What would you like to drink?”

I’m about to tell him I don’t drink when I realize he’s already headed to an espresso machine that looks so complicated I feel like you need an advanced degree in chemistry just to find the power switch.

“Do you want your usual?”

“Yes, please.”

I’m pretty sure he has no idea what my usual is, but oh, the arrogance of this man to still offer making it.

I hear his machine get to work, and I can feel my body relaxing as the scent of coffee soon fills his living room. Mm. Maybe that was his plan all along? To lower my guard with a caffeinated attack?

“You can sit down, Jayne. I’m not going to bite.”

Yeah right.

I perch on the edge of his sofa, which is leather and probably Italian and definitely the kind of furniture that normal people aren’t allowed to sit on. Everything about this place screams wealth and power and the sort of casual dominance that makes smart women do stupid things.

Like follow strange men to their penthouses for “private conversations.”

A few more moments pass before Patrizio joins me in the living room and hands me my coffee.

Careful, Jayne.

I’m pretty sure this priceless-looking cup will land me in debt if I accidentally break it.

But then I take a sip, and my gaze immediately flies to his.

How?

How is it possible that he’s made a triple shot cappuccino with exactly the right amount of foam and not a hint of sugar, exactly the way I like it?

“Surprised?” he asks, settling into an armchair across from me with his own cup. Espresso, by the smell of it.

“How did you know my coffee preference?”

But Patrizio only smiles at this before changing the subject.

“I’ve been reading your books.”

And of course it has to be the one subject which I’d rather not talk about.

“You have no right—”

But he just goes on like privacy invasion is nothing to him. “What is it about those books that you find fascinating?”

“Can we please not talk about this?” I grip my coffee cup like it’s a shield against embarrassment. “You said you wanted to discuss Annie’s academic progress.”

“I do.” He leans forward slightly, and the movement shouldn’t be threatening but somehow it makes my pulse race. “And that’s exactly the reason I’m asking you these questions. I want to understand why her professor is so fascinated by the exact subject she’s researching.”

“I’ve already told you, I—”

“Read them for academic research. Yes, I remember.” His smile suggests he finds my denial amusing. “That’s why you’ve read ‘Taken in the Hallway’ seven times and highlighted the scene where the heroine gets cornered by the motorcycle club president and finally admits what she really wants.”

I’m going to die. Actually die of mortification right here on his ridiculously expensive sofa.

“Mr. Steele—”

“Patrizio,” he corrects, and somehow his first name feels even more dangerous on my lips than ‘Mr. Steele’ ever did.

“Patrizio,” I try again, and the way his eyes darken when I say his name makes something flutter in my stomach. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“Honesty would be a good start.” He stands in one fluid motion and moves to sit beside me on the sofa. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. “Tell me why you’re so interested in these stories, Jayne.”

The way he says my name so softly makes it impossible to maintain the professional distance I’m desperately trying to cling to.

“They’re just books,” I say weakly.

“Are they?” His hand settles on the back of the sofa, not quite touching me but close enough that I can feel the whisper of his presence. “Or are they fantasies? Things you think about when you’re alone?”

My throat goes dry. “That’s not—”

“Tell me something,” he interrupts, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “When you read about those powerful men and the women who surrender to them, do you picture yourself as the heroine?”

“No.” The lie is automatic, defensive.

“No?” His smile suggests he knows better. “Then why does your breathing change when I get closer? Why are your pupils dilated right now?”

“Professional curiosity,” I manage, but the words sound weak even to my own ears.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” His fingers brush against a strand of hair that’s escaped my bun, tucking it behind my ear with devastating gentleness. “Because I think it’s something else entirely.”

I should move away. Should stand up and leave and maintain all the professional boundaries I’ve spent years constructing. Instead, I find myself frozen in place, caught between the urge to flee and the much more dangerous impulse to lean into his touch.

“I think,” he continues, his voice a low murmur that seems to vibrate through my entire body, “that you’re fascinated by the idea of surrender. Of letting someone else take control for once. Someone who knows exactly what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need,” I whisper, but there’s no conviction behind the words.

“Don’t I?” His hand cups my cheek, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. “I know you better than you think, darling. I’ve read every book you’ve highlighted. Every scene you’ve bookmarked. Every fantasy that keeps you awake at night.”

He’s too close. Too perceptive. Too everything.

“This is inappropriate,” I try one last time, clinging to professional propriety like a lifeline.

“Is it?” His thumb traces my lower lip, and I can’t help the small gasp that escapes me. “Or is it exactly what you’ve been wanting all along?”

I should say no. Push him away and leave with whatever dignity I have left. But when his mouth hovers just inches from mine, what comes out instead is a breathy, “Yes.”

That’s all it takes. One simple word, and his control seems to snap.

His mouth claims mine with a hunger that makes my entire body come alive. This isn’t the hesitant first kiss of romance novels—this is raw need and barely restrained desire, and when his hands slide into my hair, angling my head for deeper access, I forget every reason this is a terrible idea.

I forget I’m his sister’s professor. Forget we’re in his penthouse in the middle of the afternoon. Forget everything except the way his tongue slides against mine and the solid heat of his body as he pulls me onto his lap.

His hands are everywhere. Tangled in my hair, skimming down my sides, cupping my face with a possessiveness that should frighten me but instead makes me melt against him. When he breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down my neck, I actually whimper, a sound I didn’t even know I was capable of making.

His hands find the buttons of my blouse and make short work of them. The cool air against my heated skin makes me shiver, but not nearly as much as the look in his eyes as he takes in the sight of me in my practical white cotton bra.

“Perfect,” he growls under his breath, and somehow he makes me believe it. Makes me feel beautiful and desired and perfect exactly as I am, not despite my practical underwear but because of it. Because it’s real. Because it’s me.

The way he plays with my nipple is terrifyingly familiar, and even more terrifyingly addictive, and I find myself squirming in his lap, desperate for more.

“P-Please...”

“Tell me what you want, Jayne.” His voice is rough with desire but still commanding. Still in control while I’m falling apart. “Say it.”

“I want—” I break off, embarrassment warring with need.

“Say it,” he repeats, his hand sliding up my thigh with deliberate slowness. “Tell me exactly what you want, darling.”

“I want you to touch me.” The words come out in a rush, half-desperate and entirely honest. “Like in the books. Like—”

“Like this?” His fingers find the edge of my underwear, teasing along the elastic without quite slipping beneath. “Is this what you’ve been reading about? What you’ve been thinking about when you touch yourself at night?”

I should be mortified by his directness, but instead I find myself nodding, beyond shame, beyond pretense. “Yes.”

His smile is pure masculine satisfaction, and I feel uneasy. For a moment. It can’t last any longer, with Patrizio kissing me again, deep and possessive, while his hand finally, finally slips beneath my underwear to find me completely drenched in my need for him.

“You’re so damn wet, darling...”

I clutch at his shoulders, lost in sensation as he circles and teases, bringing me closer and closer to the edge with each deliberate stroke. When he slides one finger inside me, then two, I cry out against his mouth, beyond caring how I sound or who might hear.

“P-Patrizio...”

His thumb presses against that perfect spot while his fingers curve inside me, and I shatter completely, crying out his name again and again as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me.

When I finally come back to myself, I’m cradled against his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath my cheek. One of his hands strokes my hair with gentle possessiveness while the other holds me securely against him, as if he’s afraid I might try to escape.

He’s fully clothed. I’m half-undressed. And I’ve just had the most intense orgasm of my life with my student’s brother on his penthouse sofa.

This is bad. So, so bad.

“Stop thinking,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I can practically hear your brain trying to rationalize this away.”

“This can’t happen again,” I say shakily, even as I make no move to leave the comfort of his arms.

“But we both know it will. Again and again.”

“I’m Annie’s professor , and you’re her brother ! That—”

“—makes us the perfect pair, since we both want what’s best for her, don’t you think?”

“What I think—”

“It was rhetorical,” he cuts me off. “I’d rather you don’t think, if you don’t mind.”

I bite my lip hard.

No, Jayne.

Don’t laugh at that.

Just don’t.

“But if you insist on thinking,” he says magnanimously, “then think of how right it feels, for you to be in my arms—”

Doesn’t he see he has this completely backwards?

“In my home—”

Everything about this is wrong!

“Because this is exactly where you belong.”

No, no, no!

The certainty in his voice should scare me. Should make me run as far and as fast as I can. Instead, it makes something deep inside me settle, like a puzzle piece finally clicking into place.

“I need to go,” I say, not moving an inch.

“Of course.” He presses another kiss to my forehead, then helps me sit up, his hands lingering on my waist.

I try buttoning up my blouse, but my hands are shaking too hard.

“Let me.”

My breath catches as his fingers brush against my skin, and heat blooms in my cheeks when we both notice the way my nipples have started pouting anew.

“They miss me.”

“They do not!”

Dark eyes gleam down at me, and argh! Why does it feel like I’ve already lost just by talking about my nipples like they’re actual sentient beings—

No!

I stumble back, but it’s too late, with his hand against the small of my back, and he’s holding me still as he pulls my nipple into his mouth for one last bite.

I’m fuming when he finally releases me, but Patrizio only smiles. “When you’re ready to admit what you really want, you know where to find me.”