Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels Read online

  “See you in class.” He strides away, his attention locked on the dean’s window and the shadowed silhouette within.

  He swears she doesn’t suspect anything, but she’s been gunning against me since she stepped in as Mother Superior my sophomore year. Maybe it’s my slutty reputation or lack of wealth. Or maybe it’s my choice of college.

  Leopold Conservatory of New York is the most selective university in the country and only accepts one Le Moyne musician each year. That is, if they accept any of us at all. Dozens of my peers have applied, including Prescott, but Mrs. McCracken said I’m the best. I’m the one she was going to recommend. Which makes me Prescott’s biggest competitor. At least, I was. Without her referral, I may very well be back to square one.

  Curled up beneath a tree, I devour Prescott’s lunch and convince myself not to worry about him. Marceaux will like me. He’ll see that I deserve the spot. And tonight… Tonight, I won’t get in Prescott’s car. We can go over his assignments on the sidewalk, and if he has a problem with that, I’ll leave. Let him fail his coursework and drop out of the running for Leopold. I’ll find another slacker to make up for the loss in income.

  As I run the three-mile track that winds around the tree-covered property, I strengthen my mind and body with the solidity of that plan.

  When the five-minute warning bell rings through the buildings, I’m showered, dressed, and weaving through the crowds in Crescent Hall, my stomach lurching into a roil.

  All you need is a moment.

  Stogie’s confidence in me lightens my steps, but it’s the memory of Daddy’s energy that lifts my lips. If he were in my shoes, walking the halls he dreamed about, he would’ve been humming with unrestrained enthusiasm and gratefulness. I can feel it, his infectious dynamism, pumping my blood and hurrying my strides as I enter Room 1A, the same music room I was in last year.

  An impressive display of brass, string, and percussion instruments line the far wall. Six or so of my fellow musicians gather around the desks at the center of the huge L-shaped space. If I walked around the corner, I would see the Bösendorfer grand piano in the alcove. But my attention snags on the man in the front of the room.

  Perched on the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest, he watches the congregation of students with a brooding, irritated expression. Thank God he hasn’t noticed me yet, because I can’t seem to unglue my feet from the floor or look away.

  He’s unexpectedly young, not student young but perhaps my brother’s age. His profile is ruggedly sculpted, his jaw cleanly shaved, yet so dark I suspect the sharpest razor doesn’t scrape away the shadow.

  The longer I stare, the more I realize it’s not his face that looks youthful. It’s his style, so unlike other teachers with their conservative suits and modest demeanors.

  It’s the way his black hair is arranged, short on the sides, long and messy on top, like a shove of his fingers left it falling across his brow in perfect chaos. His long legs appear to be encased in dark jeans, but closer scrutiny confirms he’s wearing slacks that are cut like jeans. The sleeves of his plaid button-up roll up to the elbows, and his tie has a different plaid design, which doesn’t match but somehow totally works. His brown fitted waistcoat is the kind a man wears beneath a suit jacket. Except there is no jacket.

  His overall look is casual cosmopolitan, professional with personality, challenging the dress code without violating it.

  “Take a seat.” His booming voice reverberates through the room, jarring my insides, but it’s not directed at me.

  I exhale a moment of relief before he swivels toward me. His blue eyes move first, followed by his whole body. His hands grip the edge of the desk as his face comes into full view. Sweet merciful fuck, words like shockingly pretty dilute the effect of his image. Yeah, the first glimpse is a shock, but it’s not just his attractiveness. It’s his presence, his projection of self-assurance and command that makes me feel disoriented, breathless, and really fucking weird deep in my core.

  He stares at me for an eternal second, expressionless, and his dark eyebrows pull into a V.

  “Are you…?” He glances at the hall behind me and returns to my face. “You weren’t at the staff meeting this morning.”

  “Staff meeting?” Realization punches me in the gut.

  He thinks I’m a teacher, and now he’s looking at me like guys do, his gaze dragging over my body and arousing a twisted sickness in my belly. It reminds me how different I look than other girls my age and how much I hate those differences.

  I pull my satchel over my chest, hiding my most noticeable parts. “I’m not…” I clear my throat and force my feet toward the nearest desk. “I’m a student. Piano.”

  “Of course.” He stands, hands slipping into his pockets, voice gruff. “Sit down.”

  His stark, icy eyes follow me, and goddammit, I don’t want to be intimidated by them. I attempt to fortify my swift steps with the confidence I felt walking in, but my legs are wobbly.

  As I lower the satchel beside a vacant desk, his impatience thunders louder, sharper. “Hurry up!”

  I drop into the chair, hands trembling and my heartbeat a heavy hammer in my head. If I were stronger, more confident, I wouldn’t care that his gaze is drilling into mine and tripping my pulse.

  If I were stronger, I’d be able to look away.

  Emeric

  Blindsided. That’s the best explanation for the stern volume of my voice and tightness in my usually-composed expression. I wasn’t prepared for this. Not for a tall, voluptuous, sexy-beyond-all-reason woman to walk into my classroom. My first thought? Beverly Rivard found the hottest music teacher in the country to place in my employ. To test me.

  But she’s not a teacher.

  I relax my fingers on the edge of the desk. Christ, that would’ve been a terrible inconvenience.

  Except this is worse.

  Distrust steels the girl’s gaze as she studies me from the front row. Sitting stiffly in the chair, she tugs the hem of her skirt over her knees and keeps her legs closed. Not the reaction I’m used to from women—or high school girls, for that matter.

  I pride myself on being a strict, respectable educator. I know how female students look at me, and I’m immune to the bubbly-hearted infatuation in their innocent eyes. But there isn’t a hint of naïve adoration in the deep mahogany eyes staring at me now. In my six years of teaching, I’ve never encountered a student who regards me as if she’s summed me up in a glance and disapproves of my intentions.

  Maybe this girl heard about the mistakes I made with Joanne, the debauchery that led to her taking my job. Well, fuck that job. Only my parents know the depth of what I lost in Shreveport and the nature of my intentions.

  Whatever this girl thinks she knows, I’m not beyond using intimidation or a show of power to demand her focus in the classroom.

  I hold her incisive gaze as I speak to the class. “Find a seat and put your phones away.”

  Several more students trickle in, and a quick count of eleven girls and nine boys confirms everyone is present.

  As the bell rings, the latecomers choose their seats. I recognize Beverly’s son from the pictures displayed in her office. Prescott Rivard is cockier in person, wearing a smirk instead of a photogenic smile. He settles next to the brown-eyed beauty and leans over her desk to twist a finger through her hair.

  She jerks away. “Stop it.”

  The hipster boy on her other side angles toward her, his skinny body squeezed into tight pants, a checkered shirt, and a plaid bow tie. He stares at her mouth through black-framed glasses and whispers something too low for me to hear.

  Her lips thin into a line, and the dark expression on her face seems to come from a place much deeper than simple irritation.

  I need to know what he’s saying to her. It’s a weird sort of curiosity, pulsing in my chest, as I level a look at the whispering boy. “What’s your name?”

  He reclines, flippantly slouching with his legs stretched out beneath the des
k. “Sebastian Roth.”

  I walk toward him and give the toe of his shoe a warning kick that propels him to sit straight. “What did you say to her, Mr. Roth?”

  He leers at the girl, rubbing his mouth to hide his grin. “I was just commenting on how big her…uh…” He looks at her chest and lifts his gaze to her mouth. “Her lip. How big her lip is.”

  Prescott bursts into laughter, followed by several boys sitting around him.

  That’s when I notice the segregation in seating. Girls on one side. Boys on the other. With the exception of the girl who looks like a woman. Whether she chose her seat out of urgency or to deliberately sit where hard-dicked boys could flock around her, I intend to find out.

  With the tips of my fingers in my pockets, thumbs out, I shift to stand before her. “Your name?”

  Her bottom lip is, indeed, cut and swollen. She sucks it between her teeth as her shoulders make a slow decent to self-assurance. Then she raises her chin and meets my eyes. “Ivory Westbrook.”

  Ivory. That conjures an image of paleness with hard, worn edges like piano keys or teeth. Doesn’t fit her at all. She’s a dark portrait of soft curves and chestnut hair with deep golden skin that seems to absorb shadows in the room I hadn’t noticed until now.

  Fuck, I’m definitely going out and getting laid tonight.

  “Miss Westbrook, find a seat with fewer distractions.” I point toward the girls.

  Ivory’s enormous doe eyes stare up at me, as if caught in the glare of stage lights. She blinks, glances at the girls, and looks down at her desk when they cast her uninviting sneers. That answers my question about her seating choice.

  “I’m not here to indulge in your sensibilities.” I slam a hand on her desk, making her jump. “Move.”

  With a ragged inhale, she grabs her satchel and walks toward the snickering girls, her gait leaden yet determined.

  Every male in the room watches her stride along the front row of desks, and I don’t have to follow suit to know what they see. Stripper-pole legs, tits almighty, and a high, round ass that flexes with each step.

  The primitive, hungry part of me wants to join in their appreciation while the protective part wants to cover her with an over-sized coat. Instead, the disciplinarian takes over and lands an admonishing smack on the back of the closest juvenile head.

  Sebastian flinches and casts me a startled look. “What was that for?”

  I pluck his phone from his hand and toss it in the vicinity of my desk. It overshoots, slides off the other side, and hits the floor.

  The rest of the room erupts in a flurry, shoving phones into pockets and bags. Everyone except Ivory. Hands folded together on the desk and no phone in sight, she watches me with a guarded expression.

  Sebastian plays with a clump of his over-oiled hair. “If you broke my phone…”

  I arch my eyebrow, my tone hard. “Go on.”

  He shrugs. “My dad will buy me a new one.”

  Of course, and it would be hypocritical of me to condemn this kid for being an entitled prick. I was no different at his age, with wealthy parents and an inflated sense of self-importance. Hell, I’m still a prick, only now I’m held accountable for my actions.

  I move to the front of the room, hands clasped behind my back. “Welcome to twelfth-grade Music Theory. I’m Mr. Marceaux, and I’ll be your music director for your last year here at Le Moyne Academy. After this class, you’ll head to your master classes in specific disciplines. Piano students will remain with me. Before we begin, what do you want to know about me?”

  The Asian girl who Ivory chose to sit by raises her hand.

  I gesture toward her. “Introduce yourself, please.”

  She stands beside her desk. “Ellie Lai. Cello.” She bounces on her toes. “What’s your background?”

  I give her a nod and wait until she settles in her seat. “I hold a Master of Music from Leopold Conservatory of New York. I’m a member of the Louisiana Symphony Orchestra. And my most recent employment was Head of School at Shreveport Preparatory, where I also directed the music program.”

  Prescott makes a show of stretching and smiling. Then he nonchalantly tosses an arm in the air and speaks without my prompt. “What are you, like…twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?” His voice drawls with antagonism. “How did you get a master’s, do the teaching thing and become dean, all in such a short amount time? What’s up with that, Mr. M?”

  I worked my fucking ass off, you lazy little cocksucker.

  And to think, in one hasty slide of a zipper, I lost it all, including something I never set out to have, which ended up being the only thing that mattered.

  The very thought of Joanne sitting behind my desk in Shreveport makes my rib cage vibrate with rage. But imagining her continuing her life without me evokes a toxic fume of poison so invasive I can smell the betrayal with every choking breath.

  I slowly roll my neck, clearing my thoughts and reining myself in. “I received my undergrad early and taught high school in Manhattan while I worked on my master’s. Any other questions?”

  Ivory raises her hand.

  “Yes?”

  She remains seated, doesn’t fidget, and her dark gaze hones directly into mine. “You play piano? I mean, of course you do, since you’ll be my tutor. But you play piano in the Symphony Orchestra?”

  Christ, her voice… It’s not lazy and high-pitched like girls her age. It’s complex and entrancing, like raindrops at midnight.

  “Yes, I play piano in the Orchestra.”

  Her smile is a slow-building nocturne, a tranquil expansion from her mouth to her eyes. “Solo?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Wow.”

  Not only am I shocked by her line of questioning, but the reverent way she’s looking at me makes my goddamn skin hum. I don’t like it. I’m proud of my achievements, but not when that lofty feeling distracts me from my hard-earned bitterness.

  I dismiss the remaining raised hands with a sharp tone. “Open your Music Theory books to chapter three. We’re going to jump right into…” My attention snags on Ivory as the entire room follows my directive except her. “Do you need a hearing aid, Miss Westbrook?”

  “No.” She drops her hands in her lap and meets my gaze head-on. “My other teachers gave me the week to buy my books.”

  “Do I look like your other teachers?”

  “No, Mr. Marceaux.” A female voice pipes up in the back. “You definitely do not.”

  A chorus of giggles follows, and irritation curls my fingers.

  I swipe my text book from my bag and drop it on her desk. “Chapter three.” I lean in, putting my face in hers. “Try to keep up.”

  She blinks rapidly. “Yes, sir.”

  Her whispered response strums at a pulsating, destructive, very adult hunger deep inside me. My skin heats, and my palms slick with sweat.

  Jesus, I’m going to need a screaming-hard fuck tonight. Leather, rope, and chafing strokes. No safe words. No clingy aftercare. Chloe or Deb will do. Maybe both.

  Focus, Emeric.

  “Take out your tablets and open a browser to my website.” With my back to the class, I continue talking while scrawling the url on the whiteboard. “You’ll find all my lectures here. I expect you to follow along.”

  When I face the room, Ivory hasn’t moved to follow my directions.

  I feel a vein throbbing in my forehead and anchor my fists on my hips. “Let me guess. No tablet?”

  “She can sit here,” Prescott says, patting his lap, “and share mine.”

  She clenches her jaw and flips him off.

  I waver between wanting to punch Prescott’s face and whip Ivory’s perfect ass. Neither is a lawful option, and the latter boils my blood just for thinking it.

  My focus dips to her lips for a breath too long before I address the class. “Read the chapter and answer the questions at the end of the lecture.”

  I curl a finger at Ivory in a follow-me gesture. “I’ll see you in the hall.”

 
Ivory

  I follow Mr. Marceaux out of the classroom, my mouth dry and hands damp. As the door clicks shut behind him, my insides writhe under the barrage of a thousand fists.

  He’s not a huge man, but he seems gigantic in the empty hall, a towering pissed-off mountain of repercussion.

  If my future depends on his first impression of me, I’ve fucked my life to hell.

  He rubs a hand down his face, over his mouth, and glares at me for an eternity. “You come to my class unprepared and—”

  “I cleared the text book issue with the front office. They always give me the first week to—”

  “Do not interrupt me,” he says harshly and leans in, bracing a hand on the wall beside my head.

  A rush of blood heats my cheeks beneath the intimidating blue of his gaze. His mouth is so close I can smell the lingering scent of cinnamon gum on his breath, and my stomach turns with unease.

  “Are you deliberately trying to waste my time?” His jaw hardens. “No sniveling excuses or lies. You have five words to explain why you don’t have your supplies.”

  Five words? Is this guy serious? He can eat a dick, because I’m only giving him four.

  “I live in Treme.”

  “Treme,” he echoes, deadpanned.

  I hate how stiff and uncomfortable I feel in the confines of his glare. I want him to look away, because I hate his eyes, hate the vivid facets of sapphire and the way the icy specks sharpen under the fluorescent lights. Nothing could ever be gentle or safe in that gaze.

  His throat moves in the deep pocket of shadow above his tie. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you live in Treme?”

  He doesn’t just ask the question. He snaps it like a whip. Like a punishment I didn’t earn.

  I’m only inches away from him, my back against the wall, and I feel defensive, cornered, my hackles bristling with vindication. “Oh, right. I forgot you have a big fancy degree, so I’ll dumb it down for you.”

  “Watch your fucking tone.”

  It’s barely a whisper, caught and held in the small space between us, but I feel it vibrate through me like a thunderous roar.