The Beauty Series (15 page)

“Hmm,” Blake said. “That’s a perfectly whitewashed definition, but I think we can do better than that. Anyone want to give it a try?”

The room was quiet. Blake waited.

Finally Jeremy spoke up from beside her. “It’s a way of explaining current behavior based on something that happened in the past.”

“Excellent. Framing the present using the past. What’s the benefit of doing this?”

“If something was true then, then it holds that it will be true again,” another student supplied.

“Using the past as context. Good.”

“Consistency,” a surly-faced boy said. “Rules are established and then followed.”

“Yes. Right. What else?” When no one answered, he continued, “Why is precedent such an important tool that they put it front and center, first chapter in the textbook?”

Erin looked down at the glossy white pages with stark-black ink. A few sentences had been highlighted from the previous owner. There was a lot of small text but nothing to give her a clue as to why this was first—or even important at all.

Blake seemed to settle in, resting his elbows on the chair back in front of him.

“There was a time that no one could match the power of Rome,” he began. “One who came close was Carthage, with its advantageous trade position and well-developed culture. Unfortunately, the Romans considered the Carthaginians to be savages and a threat to their way of life. Or so they claimed. In truth they simply wanted the wealth of Carthage. So, following an inspection of the city and surrounding countryside, a Roman commission reported to the Senate ‘an abundance of ship-building materials’ and claimed the Carthaginians had built up their fleet in violation of the treaty.”

Blake paused his story and reached back to take a sip of water. That moment of quiet seemed to give the girl across from Erin courage.

“You’re slanting it,” she blurted out. As thirty faces turned to her, she blushed, looking like she wanted to take it back.

Blake turned to her too, unoffended. “How so?” he asked mildly.

“You’re telling us their motivations, that the Romans really just wanted their wealth, but you don’t know that. Maybe they believed the other people were a threat.”

“Maybe so. And that’s a benefit of history, we can look inside their private writings and their memoirs. We can get a firmer grasp of what they thought outside their public speeches. Unlike current events, where all we have is the public view.”

“Another benefit of precedent,” Erin said under her breath.

He flashed her a quick smile. “Yes. Exactly. Now the Carthaginians knew they were going to get their asses handed to them.” One of the boys snickered at the language here. Blake continued. “So they pleaded with the senate, swearing that they were not in violation of the treaty, promising that they would surrender without a fight.

“So the clever Romans came up with three challenges. On the first, they requested three hundred sons from the noble families as captives. Carthage sent them over in a ship. For the second challenge, they demanded that Carthage send them armor and weaponry. Carthage complied. When it came time for the final challenge, the diplomat explained to the Carthaginians that they would need to move their city, the buildings, everything, ten miles to the left.”

Someone snorted. “Why?”

“The location near the sea had corrupted Carthage’s temperament,” Blake said. “At least according to the commissioner.”

Quiet laughs of disbelief rang out in the small room. It was ridiculous, and yet it was real. History.

“Here Carthage had no choice but to refuse. Imagine moving a whole infrastructure ten miles to the left. It was impossible. Clearly Rome was looking for an excuse to invade and steal their resources.”

“Bullshit,” said the boy who’d spoken earlier, the one whose face seemed set in a perpetual frown. He was large too, bulky but also intimidating. The chair and table they used looked too small for him.

“Sorry?” Blake asked casually.

“I said it’s bullshit. You said you aren’t here to tell us what to think, but you’re doing just that.”

“Do you disagree with my representation of the Third Punic War?” he inquired.

The boy made a rude sound. “You aren’t talking about any Punic War or the Romans, and we all know it.”

“Then who am I talking about?”

“You’re talking about the Iraq War. About Bush. This is some liberal propaganda.”

“It’s just a story. Why does it have to mean anything?”

“Because—” The boy broke off. He snorted softly. “Because it’s a goddamn precedent.”

Blake hummed in agreement and approval. “Precedent is useful for a lot of reasons, but stories are how we connect with the world, how we understand the bigger picture. I told a story about Rome, and you naturally connected that to Iraq. There’s power in stories. Never underestimate that.”

He directed their attention back to the textbook, but Erin felt much more interested in these theoretical words now that she understood the application. Everyone seemed to join in with enthusiasm, even the boy who had challenged Blake before. Any animosity had faded under the strength of curiosity…and the power of stories.

No, she wouldn’t likely underestimate that again. Nor would she underestimate him again. He may have been reluctant to accept the job, but once here, he would have no reservations about performing to his fullest. And his fullest was very, very good.

If she hadn’t known him before, she was pretty sure she’d have a major crush on her professor at this point. But she had known him before, had seen him joyous and brought low. She’d seen him laugh with abandon and climax with an agonized groan. Her feelings right now transcended a crush. They soared into love.

E
rin spent her
days in class or in the library working on her research paper. Her nights were always spent in the same place—Blake’s arms. Sometimes in her apartment, but more often at his place so as to let her roommate sleep in peace. Courtney never mentioned the noise except to keep a running tally on the whiteboard in the kitchen of how long it had been since she’d gotten laid.

The two summer sessions were highly abbreviated. Instead of meeting twice a week for a whole semester, they met every day for six weeks. The next thing Erin knew they were halfway through. Halfway to her goal and completely, head over heels in love with Blake.

She’d been worried about him being her professor—more than she’d let on to him or Courtney. But he was respectful and considerate to all his students, and she was eager to learn from him. Everything was almost perfect. Almost, because they still had to keep things a secret. That night, she drove to his place.

She wanted to throw her arms around him when he opened the door. His grin was mischievous, holding both a question for her and pride at a job well done. Instead she settled for a huge smile in return. She couldn’t have held it back anyway. He’d been amazing in class, authoritative and relatable as usual.

“You were fantastic. I knew you would be, but damn. You even surpassed what I was thinking.”

He shut the door as she passed. “No one ran away screaming, so I’m calling it a win.”

She rolled her eyes. “No one even notices how you look anymore.”

Though she noticed how he looked now, still wearing his slacks and dress shirt, though he’d rolled the sleeves up. His clothes were a little rumpled, his hair a little mussed. Her hungry gaze roamed his body, and when she met his eyes, the desire in them matched her own.

He pressed her against the wall. His kiss said it wasn’t a good time for discussion. It demanded things of her, things like submission and sweetness, like passion and playfulness, and she was too happy to oblige. His tongue darted into her mouth and then out again, quicksilver, and she was left to chase into his with her own.

His hand cupped her neck, a solid and comforting touch that morphed into something dirtier as he grasped her hair. She gasped at the sensation. Her cunt clenched in time with his fist. His other hand slid up from her waist, underneath her shirt, the hot contact enough to melt her into the implacable surface behind her.

He broke the kiss but continued to touch her, everywhere, as if it had been months or years instead of hours and days.

“It’s harder than I expected.” He nibbled a path down her neck.

Oh God, that felt good. Her hips bucked. “Teaching the class?”

“Pretending I don’t know you.”

Her heart squeezed. “For me too. But I’m proud every time I see you there.”

His smile was almost boyish. She had a hard time even seeing the scarring as some specific impediment. It was just the way he looked—a part of him. The only reason she regretted it was because she knew it gave him pain.

He would occasionally turn away and grit his teeth. It came and went, he said, like being burned all over again, echoes of the past. She would have done anything to take that away if she could. She loved, loved, loved him. And he loved her back, she was sure of it. So this insecurity business could die an ugly death, as far as she was concerned. No reason to hold him accountable just because some guy had been a jerk her sophomore year.

“I need to tell you something,” she said. He raised an eyebrow, and she continued. “I heard the tail end of your conversation with Professor Jenkins. The first day of class.”

“Shit.” He shut his eyes. “I’m sorry. I hoped you wouldn’t see her there. Erin, I swear I didn’t—”

“No, it’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I trust you, and I understand that she might come speak to you once in a while. You guys do share an employer, at least for the semester. So I didn’t want you to have to worry that I’m going to freak out if you have a conversation. I wouldn’t even have said anything, except I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide from me.”

He pulled her to the couch. “I appreciate your progressive views on the matter, but as our fellow classmate would say, bullshit.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You have every right to be upset about finding me like that or at the very least to know what we talked about. And even if you don’t insist on it, I want to tell you. I made it clear to her that we were over. I told her if she came to my house again, that I’d call the cops on her.”

“You actually said that?”

He shrugged. “It’s the truth. What she did was beyond inappropriate, and I needed to nip it in the bud. For my relationship with you but also for myself. I can’t promise she’ll never do anything again, but I have no interest in her. None. And I’m pretty sure I pissed her off enough where she’ll want nothing to do with me.”

She arched a brow. “Setting a precedent, are we?”

He chuckled. “You’re going to throw all my lectures back at me, aren’t you?”

“Most likely. Why, you going to get fed up with me?”

“Never.” Another kiss, softer this time. “Stay with me.” A press of his lips to hers. “Wrapped up so tight I never have to worry that I’ll wake up and you won’t be there.”

As if to obey him, her limbs moved without thought, her arms twining around his neck, her legs hitching around his thighs. Her back arched up from the wall, seeking the hard length and hot pulse of him, trying to connect them everywhere.

“I’ll never leave you,” she whispered.

She felt him through her jeans, felt his cock jump in response to her words. They were connected, the emotions and the sex. They tangled together like their bodies and hearts, not elegant but instead grasping, pleading, begging. Needing.

She shuddered, silently beseeching, but when her tongue found the heavy beat at his neck, she moaned. He tasted like musk and man, like faith and irreverence all at once. His skin here was unmarred, uninjured, and yet still rough. The uneven rasp of a healthy, vibrant man who had worked and fought and weathered the world before finding refuge in her arms.

He reacted to the wet slide of her tongue violently. He bucked against her, slamming her into the wall.

“Wait,” he muttered. “One minute…just.”

She didn’t want to wait. Didn’t want him to bring himself under control, burying the passion somewhere deep and unreachable. She grazed his collarbone with her teeth, an animal instinct to incite and distract him. To draw out the beast inside him—not the wounded skin he thought made him so, but the hard, angry part of him. The part he kept carefully away from her, treating her instead like fragile glass. As if she wouldn’t be able to handle him—or as if she wouldn’t want to. She couldn’t blame him after the way Professor Jenkins had left him at his most vulnerable. He’d learned to hide his pain and frustration. He’d learned to doubt Erin too. But she was stronger than that. She wasn’t delicate nor easily bruised. And she was greedy. Nothing but the whole of him would be good enough.

She slid her hand down the plane of his chest and abs, down to the cloth-covered cock below. It strained against his pants, restricted by clothes and by him.
However she wants it, don’t push too far.
That was fine at the beginning, but not now. She had something to prove and maybe so did he.

She squeezed gently, luxuriating in the stuttered breaths bellowing from his chest, the low, pained grunt emanating from his throat, and, God, his hands—the way they pushed like beams against the wall on either side of her head, straining with the force of his lust and yet holding steady to allow her to explore. So much strength, so much restraint. He was a lashing storm clasped tightly in a steel box, and she held the key.

With her fingers flying, she unbuckled his belt and took out his cock. It fell heavily into her palm, burning up against her skin. She fell to her knees and tongued him, kissed him with all the force and passion that she had given his mouth just seconds earlier. She had sucked a man before, had even done this to him before, but never quite like this. Like making out with his cock, like making love to him with her mouth. He was smooth and slippery on her tongue, the faint salt barely registering beneath the passion that drove her. And to her delight, he was too caught up in the moment to censor himself. He dropped one hand and clasped her head, thrusting deep in beautiful rhythm. This was no careful role-play like they had done in his office that day, this was unruly and wild, a deluge of sex and sensation.