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The rain lashed against the windows of the hotel room, fracturing the city lights into a smattering constellation of refracted lights. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cedarwood and the tension that had been building between us for months.
I leaned lightly against the built-in desk, my pulse hammering in my throat. My son’s teacher didn’t move; he simply watched me, his gaze heavy and dark. His eyes tracing the way my breath hitched.
“You’re trembling,” he noted, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated right through me.
“It’s cold,” I lied, shifting away from the desk.
He rose then, moving with a predatory grace that made the room feel suddenly too small. When he stopped, he was inches away. Close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his body. He reached out, his thumb grazing the hollow of my throat, before sliding upward to tilt my head back.
“I don’t think it’s the cold,” Making eye contact, he murmured before leaning down until his lips brushed against the shell of my ear.
I gasped as his other hand found the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. The contact was electrifying
