Chapter Forty-Four

Hunter

“I’d call Heathcliff the classic Byronic hero,” Laura Snyder says in my second-period Romantic Literature class.

“So would everyone else who’s familiar with the term,” I say. “You’re going to need to dig a little deeper.”

Laura’s cheeks blush. “I mean, he’s dark, you know? A loner.”

“So you’re saying all loners are dark?” I decide to cut Laura a break by calling on someone else whose hand is raised. “Dina?”

“I agree that he’s a Byronic hero, of course, but there’s more of an edge to Heathcliff than, say, even the phantom in Leroux’s masterpiece.”

“Darker than being physically scarred?” I ask.

“For sure. Erik in Phantom had physical and emotional scars. Heathcliff’s are all emotional.”

“So you’re saying emotional scars can be worse than physical?” I ask.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“I’d agree, though unless one is as physically scarred as the phantom was, I’m not sure the question can be answered accurately. But let’s get back to the Byronic hero. The dark-and-brooding type with mysterious origins. Usually a troubled past. We may be able to understand Heathcliff better if we compare him to other Byronic heroes. Can anyone give me an example of a Byronic hero in contemporary literature?”

“Bruce Wayne?” a guy from the back row says with a chuckle.

I smile. “He definitely fits the type, though I’d be hard-pressed to call comic books literature.”

“Anakin Skywalker.” Another guy from the back.

“You know the type for sure,” I say. “Now…contemporary literature?” I nod to a young man in the second row whose name escapes me. “Yes?”

“Severus Snape,” he says. “From Harry Potter. Is that considered literature?”

“Of course. Young adult literature is still literature, and Snape definitely fits the bill. Any others?”

Laura raises her hand again.

“Laura?”

“Jaime Lannister, maybe? From A Game of Thrones?”

“Jaime is definitely an antihero, but I wouldn’t classify him as Byronic.”

“Why not?”

“He’s intelligent and cunning, and clearly he doesn’t care about social norms, since he’s doing his sister—”

Chuckles permeate the room.

“—but he’s not a loner, and he doesn’t have a mysterious or troubled past.”

“I see.” Laura blushes again.

“But you got close.” I smile at her. “Any others?” Then I glance at the clock. The period is over. “Maybe next time. See you all next time.”

The students gather their books, rise, and leave the room, murmuring together.

I shuffle through some notes on my desk, and I’ve just pulled up a lesson plan on my iPad when a figure appears in my doorway.

“Could I speak to you for a moment, Dr. Stone?”

I look up from my iPad.

My classes are over for the day, and I don’t recognize the attractive young woman standing at my desk.

“Sure. What can I help you with?”

“I was wondering…if you’d like to have a cup of coffee sometime.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but it’s against the rules of the university for a professor to date a student.”

“But I’m no longer your student.”

No, she’s not, and I wish I remembered her name so I could address her. But I don’t.

“But you’re still a student at the university,” I say.

“It’s a ridiculous rule,” she says. “I could understand it if I were in your class, but I’m not.”

“It’s still the rule.”

She smiles. “I know a professor who bends that rule.”

I know several, but it’s never led to anything good. “I don’t,” I say succinctly.

Crestfallen, she—God, I wish I remembered her name—leaves the classroom.

This happens to me a lot, but this is the first time it’s happened since I met Frankie.

Frankie, who I’m falling for.

Frankie, who didn’t call me last night as she said she would.

I’m giving her some space. The last thing I want to do is smother her. I’ve been smothered before, and it’s not pretty.

Then another knock on my open door.

I look up. “Oh, hey, Linda. Come on in.”

Linda Burnett, the chair of the English Lit department, enters. Linda’s about ten years older than I am, and she’s a great person. We’ve had many chats over the years about The Great Gatsby.

“Hey, Hunter. Who was that just leaving your classroom?”

“A former student.” I shake my head. “She wanted to have coffee with me.”

“You turned her down, I hope.”

“Of course I did. You know me better than that.”

Her forehead is wrinkled, and she wasn’t smiling when she entered.

“You look glum.” I frown. “What’s going on?”

She clears her throat and sits down across from my desk. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to just blurt it out. Are you publishing an erotic novel under the pen name of Sterling Parker?”

I drop my jaw. No. Just no. “I’m not sure what business that is of yours.”

“Normally, it wouldn’t be, Hunter, but you’re one of our most published professors in academic journals. I would have appreciated a heads-up about this.”

“I haven’t admitted to anything.”

She sighs. “I suppose you haven’t been on social media lately.”

“I’m never on social media, Linda.”

“I’m afraid you’ve been outed,” she says. “Did you ever have a copy of this manuscript in your office?”

“I haven’t admitted to writing anything other than my publications in academic journals and my nonfiction book on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s works.”

“I’m not your enemy here, Hunter. I’m trying to help you.”

“Help me with what?”

“Did you write the novel?”

“For Christ’s sake, Linda. Yes, I wrote the novel. I’m Sterling Parker. I’m not ashamed of my work, but I chose to use a pseudonym for exactly this reason. I didn’t want any blowback here at work.”

“I’m afraid it’s a little late for that.”

“I’m still not ashamed. The book is damned good, and though it’s fictional, it’s based on years of research into alternative sexual lifestyles during the Regency and Victorian eras. My agent says she’s never read anything like it, and—”

Linda holds up her hand. “I’m not questioning the validity of the work, Hunter. You’re an excellent researcher, an original thinker, and a talented writer. We all know that. The issue is the potential scandal that’s brewing on social media.”

I roll my eyes. “It’ll blow over. Things like this always do.”

“I hope so,” Linda says. “The university can’t afford another scandal—not after what happened with Logan Armstrong.”

“That was a witch hunt. Logan never touched that young man.”

“I know that, and so do you. And so does he. And so does that kid. But Title IX requires the school to investigate everything.”

“Logan told me all about it,” I say. “He rejected the guy’s advances, and the guy got pissed, so he started everything. It’s over now.”

“Yes,” Linda agrees. “That’s over, but it was enough for Logan to leave Mellville. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

“Because someone thinks I wrote an erotic novel? So what? I did. I’m a human being, Linda. I’m allowed to have a life and interests outside the university. But this is a private matter. I do not like when my privacy is threatened.”

“Of course. I understand.” She twists her lips. “But I’m not going to lie, Hunter. I have a bad feeling about this.” She rises, leaves, and closes the door.

I gather my stuff, head to the subway, and get on the first train. I’m pissed. I never wanted my pen name to become known because my private life is private. It’s not the end of the world, but who outed me?

I’m always careful, so it couldn’t have been anyone at the college. I never had my manuscript on the university system, and I certainly didn’t keep a hard copy anywhere on campus.

The only people who know are my agent and my publisher, and they wouldn’t…

Shit…

I ride along, watching the subway doors open at each stop. I have no idea where I’m going until I get off the train and somehow end up in front of Frankie’s building.

It’s six o’clock, so she may still be at work.

I walk into her building, nodding to the doorman.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I need to see Francesca Thomas. She’s expecting me.”

“Sure, I remember you. Go on up.”

I head to Frankie’s apartment and knock on the door.

A few seconds later, she opens it. “Hello, Hunter.”

I walk briskly in. “You said you’d call me last night, Frankie. What’s going on?”

“I…”

“Damn it!” I grab her and crush my mouth to hers.

Her lips are already parted, and I dive my tongue between them.

She kisses me back, her need apparently as great as mine.

Until she breaks the kiss.

She gasps as she wipes her mouth. “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to see you. Why didn’t you call me last night?”

“I had to think,” she says.

“You told me when you left that it wasn’t over.”

“I…”

“I’ve had a shit day, Francesca, and I cannot take any lies tonight. What the fuck is going on?”

“I just…” She buries her face in her hands. “I don’t think it’s going to work, Hunter.”

“You’re feeling what I’m feeling.” I rake my gaze over her as emotion—anger, passion, rage—boils through me. “I already know this. The way you react to me. The way you’re looking at me now. The way your cheeks are red, the way you’re squirming. I know your pussy is wet for me, Frankie. So why do you want to end this?”

“It’s not that I want to, Hunter. It’s…”

I advance on her, grab her, and pull her to me. I slide my lips over her neck up to her earlobe and tug on it harshly. “Tell me I’m not making you hot right now,” I whisper. “Tell me you don’t want me the way I want you. Tell me my cock can’t possibly be this hard for a woman who doesn’t want me.”

“I… I…”

I sweep her into my arms, walk into her bedroom. Her bed is unmade, which is endearing to me.

“Have you forgotten you were spanked in this apartment, Frankie? Because I’m going to spank your ass until it’s so red and burning and your pussy is so wet that you beg me to fuck you.”

“Hunter… Please…”

“Please what, Frankie?” My tone is harsh, the way I speak to a disobedient sub who isn’t disobedient for long. “Please stop? All you have to do is tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Please…” she breathes.

“Please… What…?” I say through clenched teeth.

“Please… Please fuck me. Spank me. Then fuck me. Make me hurt, Hunter. Please.”

I say no more.

Normally, at the club, I have them undress for me. It’s part of the fantasy, part of the turn-on.

Tonight, I want Frankie to be naked, and I want to get her that way as quickly as possible.

She’s still in her work clothes—a short black skirt, a white blouse, and a gray blazer.

And those pumps she always wears. Those freaking black patent leather platform pumps, with the bright red soles that make her legs look even longer, and damn, they’re sexy as hell.

I like it when she leaves them on while we fuck, but not tonight. Tonight, they’re coming off. I lay her down on the bed and pluck them off of her feet.

She’s wearing pantyhose. First time I’ve seen her wear them. Her legs are usually bare. But Frankie’s a professional woman, and when she goes to work, she looks the part.

I ease my hands under her skirt, ready to rip the hose off when—

“God…” I groan.

They’re not pantyhose after all, but nude-colored nylon stockings held in place by a garter belt.

My cock hardens further.

“Fuck it all,” I say through clenched teeth. “My God, you’re sexy.”

“It’s a brand-new pair of stockings, Hunter.”

“So what?” I rip the first one from the garter belt, and then the second, until her legs are bare.

If I ruin them, I’ll buy her a new pair. I don’t give a fuck right now.

I rip the garter belt off her next, and then her skirt, pulling it over her thighs and throwing it on the floor. Lace panties. Fucking nude-colored lace panties. I take the waistband between my teeth and rip as hard as I can.

The waistband disintegrates under my attack, and I throw the panties on the floor.

Frankie’s eyes are closed, her cheeks flushed.

She’s enjoying this.

And so am I.

Only her jacket, blouse, and bra separate me from her nude body.

I’d tear them off her, but part of me doesn’t want to ruin her work clothes. I already trashed her stockings, garter belt, and panties.

“Get up,” I command. “Sit up and take the rest of them off. Right now. As quickly as you can.”

She pops up and obeys me. Within seconds, the blazer, blouse, and bra have joined the rest of her clothes on the floor.

Her gorgeous tits fall gently against her chest, and her nipples are ripe and hard.

I smash my mouth to one, sucking hard as I twist the other with my fingers.

“Oh my God!” she cries.

I bite harder, twist harder. She tangles her hands in my hair, pulling at it and then caressing my scalp.

I work her tits until they’re close to raw, and then I let them go, flip her over, bring her up onto her knees.

Then I shed my own clothes quickly, and I thrust my cock into her from behind.

She’s so wet that I slide right in.

I stay there a moment, allow myself to simply enjoy the completion, allow myself to forget the horribleness of this day—Linda’s visit and the imminent social media scandal surrounding my novel, yes, but even more so, the memory of Frankie telling me it’s not going to work out.

Right then, I realize what’s important.

I’ll fight against any social media scandal.

But even more? I’ll fight for Frankie.

And I’ll win. I will win both fights.

I fuck her hard and fast, and once my rage subsides, I slide in and out of her slowly, savoring every second of it.

Beneath me, she sobs into her pillow. “Hunter, Hunter… So good.”

So good? I’ll give her so good.

I pull out of her, flip her over onto her back, and then thrust back inside. I roll us onto our sides so we’re facing each other, and I look down, watching our bodies come together.

The beauty and the simplicity of two bodies coming together.

But there’s more beauty in our souls coming together.

Surely she must feel it too.

“You’re not ending this,” I say through gritted teeth. “I will not let you.”

“There, there are… There are… My God!” She cries out as she comes, clenching around me.

That’s all it takes to send me over the edge.

I thrust into her once more, hard and quickly, and I release. Release into her.

In that moment, I give her not only my body but my heart and soul.

She cannot end this.

I won’t allow it.

We lie there, still facing each other, for what seems like an eternity but is only seconds. Finally, I pull out of her, my cock still semi-hard.

“My God,” she says. “That was phenomenal, Hunter. I’ve never experienced anything like that in my life.”

“Then you’ve changed your mind? You’re not ending this?”

She doesn’t reply.

“Spit it out, Francesca. I’ve had a shit day, and I need you to lay it on the line.”

She opens her eyes. “You know we saw Penn at the club.”

“I know.”

“I just found out…today…that my sister and her fiancé go there as well.”

“So what?”

“It’s just too weird, Hunter. What if we saw them there? It was bad enough seeing Penn there.”

I drop my jaw and keep myself from rolling my eyes. “You’re kidding me, right? That’s why you’re ending this? Because you don’t want to go to the club anymore?”

“It just feels too strange to me. And I can’t ask you to give up the club, Hunter. It’s a huge part of your life. You love it.”

She’s not wrong. I do love the club.

But I love her more.

My God. I’m in love, and it’s different from Allison. Different from Teresa.

It’s unique, just as love should be. With Teresa, I was trying to duplicate what I had with Allison. Now? I realize love can never be duplicated. Love can’t be reproduced because it’s always unique between two individuals.

I love Frankie. I love her so much.

Am I willing to give up the club for her?

Damn. I never thought it would come to this.

For a moment, I consider it. I consider giving up the club and all it’s meant to me over these years.

Granted, if I pursue a relationship with Frankie, I will need the club less. But still…it can be a place where she blooms. Where we bloom together. Where we find her fantasies.

I love Frankie more than the club, and yesterday, I might have agreed to give it up.

But not today.

Today, I will fight.

I will fight whatever scandal comes my way. I will fight for the club.

Most of all, I’ll fight for Frankie.

I’ll fight for what I deserve.