I don’t see why I would, at least until he thrusts deep inside me, bottoming out with a groan. The urge to wiggle in his grasp is real, but I hold my breath and wait for him to use me like his own personal fuck toy. And tonight, that’s exactly what he does.
He thrusts against me and claws at my body, slamming his hips forward so they slap against the skin of my ass. I don’t move a muscle, even as my legs tremble and threaten to give out. It’s the single most erotic game we could play, bending over for Mr. Carter in a dark corner of the campus while he fucks me like an animal. Our sweaty bodies collide, his scent soaking into my skin. But I want so much more. I want to taste him. I want to melt him in a spoon and inject him into my veins.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, it occurs to me that he’s fucking me raw. Just like he fucked me raw on Saturday. That wasn’t the agreement, but after he wiped me down and left, there was still traces of him on my skin. Even now, as his grip on me tightens and his breath grows ragged, I can’t find it in me to care. I want to feel his come dripping down my thighs. I want him without any barriers or restrictions.
But he doesn’t give me the satisfaction. When my body surrenders to him with an orgasm so violent I can barely breathe, he withdraws his cock and pumps it in his fist, releasing himself directly into my panties. And then he pulls them back up over my hips, rubbing the soaked material into my pussy.
“Something to remember me by,” he growls into my ear.
“Go ahead. Try to forget me.” I yank down my skirt and turn to face him. “You and I both know you aren’t going to stop. Face it, Mr. Carter, you’re balls deep in this situation now. And I think you like it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SEBASTIAN
AFULL WEEKhas come and gone, and I’ve successfully managed to avoid all contact with Stella. No small feat, considering she’s been plaguing my mind every godforsaken second of every day. When she’s not in my class, I’m wondering what she’s doing. And at night, as I stare at my wall when I should be sleeping, I wonder if she’s safe. On more occasions than I care to admit, I’ve found myself slipping on my Nikes only to run past her dorm to check for her light. This problem is becoming a fucking nuisance, and I don’t have the first clue how I’m going to purge her from my system.
Shame and self-loathing eat at me as I jerk off in my fist every night thinking about her pussy. The tight, untouched pussy that I fucked and claimed. The towel I used to wipe away her blood in the hotel room is still sitting on my bathroom counter, and my head is so fucked up I can’t even bring myself to throw it away.
Initially, I thought Stella had created the whole elaborate tuition charade to force my hand. It wouldn’t be the first time one of my students had tested their powers of seduction on me. In my time at Loyola, I’d seen every trick in the book—requests for office hours, batting eyelashes, cloyingly sweet perfume, short skirts and blouses too low to be decent—and I’d never had an issue turning them away. I’ve never considered myself a weak man, and immaturity doesn’t fall on my list of desirable attributes in a partner. But Stella is neither immature nor is she the type to willfully pursue an illicit affair for the sake of boredom. What Stella craves is security and attention, and for that reason, I should have known there was more to the story.
As a teacher, I don’t typically have access to the financial records at Loyola, but I do have access to Stella’s file, and when I saw a note regarding her father leaving the country, it prompted me to do a little digging. That digging turned into a complete archeological excavation into her family. And one by one, the skeletons presented themselves, completing a shattered picture of Stella’s not so perfect family. It seems father dearest ran into some financial difficulties and decided to help himself to the company pot at the Arthur Group before skipping town and abandoning his wife and daughter. The word sleazebag doesn’t do him justice.
So far, I haven’t been able to gather any information on Lila Monroe’s whereabouts in the aftermath. According to the notes in Stella’s file, the school’s calls to her have also gone unreturned. There is also the small matter of the family’s assets and bank accounts being caught up in the scandal, which means it’s unlikely Lila is still in Greenwich. She probably left town in the wake of her humiliation, but regardless, Stella is eighteen now, and therefore, she’s legally responsible for herself. Which would explain why it would fall upon her to come up with the remainder of the tuition on her account. A fact I only became privy to after schmoozing Marcy in the office with my concerns over Stella’s family situation.
Marcy was all too happy to divulge that Lila Monroe is a gold-digging social climber and Stella’s father is no better. She laid bare her opinions for a solid twenty minutes, adding in tidbits of gossip she’d picked up from other faculty members along the way. She also speculated on how Stella came up with the tuition, adding that a federal agent had been poking around in her files as well but had ultimately found nothing useful. They asked about the fundraising campaign for tuition, of which the school had no knowledge, and determined it was legitimate. Though Marcy couldn’t fathom who would want to help a girl like Stella, which was where our conversation came to an abrupt end. She immediately retracted her statement once she realized we were, in fact, not on the same side. But thanks to Marcy’s big mouth and nosy ways, I have a much better understanding of Stella’s actions last week. That being said, it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow what happened between us.
She sold herself to the highest bidder to keep a roof over her head. And being the prick that I am, I exploited that opportunity under the guise of keeping her safe. There was no other man in this world who could take what she was offering. I never would have allowed her to put herself in real danger. It would be a noble justification, if I hadn’t fucked her and blown my load in her like a goddamn caveman without a single logical thought in his head. What’s worse is now that I know Stella’s situation, I still want to do it again and again. I want to manipulate and degrade her and use her for the high that she gives me. A high I haven’t experienced since my soccer career ended. When I’m inside her, or toying with her, or even stalking her like a fiend, it makes me feel alive again. And while I don’t claim to be a morally superior man, there are some things that even I take issue with. Without a doubt, fucking Stella again is out of the question.
ROUTINE IS the death of joy.
Katie once told me that while she was drunk on wine coolers and high on life. She could be oddly prophetic when she drank, and I lost track of how many times she rattled off something that made perfect sense. They were always simple but enlightened truths. I wonder what she’d have to say to me now, watching as I repeat the same sequence every week with little chance of deviation.
I am a creature of habit. Shopping at the same stores, eating at the same restaurants, summers in Nantucket, and winters at Loyola. I sleep very little and maintain my fitness by running, even though it hurts like a motherfucker with my reconstructed knee. I enjoy the pain, and up until now, I have enjoyed the comfort of my routine. But when Friday rolls around, I know that if I spend one more goddamned day around Stella, I’m going to do something stupid, like shove my cock down her throat.
So instead, I leave after third period and venture into the city. I don’t particularly know why. It isn’t a place I’m fond of visiting, and I have no good memories here. But at one point in time, this was my routine. Walking down the streets of New York. Staring up at the steel and glass monstrosity of Carter Holdings as I considered what my future would be like. Now, I can just imagine my father up there, ruling his empire with an iron fist even as the cancer eats away at his body.
I don’t step inside. That was never the intent of my trip. My father and I said everything we had to say to each other during his last visit. We both know I’ll never forgive him for what happened to Katie, just as I’ll never forgive myself. There will be no Kumbaya moments between us, and I accept that as I move along to one of my favorite haunts a few blocks away. It’s a specialty bar where rich douchebags like me drink exquisitely overpriced and exotic whiskys. In particular, I’m fond their Japanese selection, and I used to sample them often when I lived here.
Like everything else in New York, the place is already crowded, but I manage to find a secluded booth in the back. It isn’t taken because it’s not trendy to sit alone and drink, which is evident by the number of patrons standing at the bar, scanning the sea of potential for the night. Among them, I’m not even really surprised to see a familiar face. He recognizes me too before I can look away, and I immediately regret my decision to come here as he cuts through the crowd. The waitress appears before he does, offering me a disinterested glance as she requests my order.
“He’ll take a double Yamazaki 12,” Remington answers for me as he slides into the opposite seat. “And so will I.”
Efficiently, she files away the order in her memory and leaves, and then I’m left alone with Remington Moncrief. He’s now widely known as the goalkeeper for MLS New England, but at one stretch of time, he was a friend and fellow teammate at Harvard.
“Sebastian Carter.” He shakes his head and grins. “Has it been a minute or what?”
“Indeed, it has,” I answer dryly.
Remington is up to speed on my past, my family, and even my current situation. I can only assume that he’s keeping the atmosphere neutral because I’ve been anything but welcoming to his presence over the past five years. It has nothing do with him and everything to do with the reminder of the night I lost everything. I’ve always been too chicken shit to tell him that, but then again, I’ve never needed to.
“How are you, friend?” He leans back against the booth and scrubs a hand over his chin as he examines me.
“Surviving.” I shrug. “I would ask how you are, but I already know from reading about you in the papers.”
His lips tilt up at the corners and he shakes his head. “Can’t believe everything you read in those.”
“Never do,” I answer. “But regardless, I’m glad that life is treating you well.”