‘I told you to think very hard about what you were going to do to get your tenure, didn’t I?’
Despite the fact that she was trembling from head to toe, she managed to grit out, ‘Let go of me, Dale. This is assault and if you don’t let me go, you’re going to regret it.’
‘What are you going to do to me? Huh? You’re nothing but a hypocritical little slut.’
He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. It felt as if all the individual strands of hair were about to rip right out of her skull. Cold ropes of adrenaline raced through her veins even as fear paralysed her.
The room spun; the rushing in her ears drowned out his words. But nothing could erase the feel of his hands on her body. She heard buttons pop as he ripped open her blouse. The sheer cream silk of the bra she was wearing ripped as he jerked it down, spilling her breasts out into the cold air conditioning.
Her nipples hardened and he pinched one hard. Shards of pains shot through her body and she cried out. He laughed and twisted harder. White-hot pain flooded her veins and chased the fog from her brain. In some detached part of her mind, she noted that she only felt pain, no pleasure. She had no time to digest its meaning, however. She wasn’t going to stand here and put up no resistance.
‘You think you’re going to deny me yet fuck the janitor.’ He let go of her hair to grip her bruisingly around the waist. She felt him fumbling with his zipper between their bodies. ‘If you want that tenure you need so damn badly, you’re going to get with the programme, Ross. You’re going to fuck me and when I’m done fucking you, you’re going to get on your knees and suck my dick. And,’ he grunted as he yanked on his zipper, ‘when I’m done coming in your mouth you’re going to swallow and thank me for doing it.’
Rage coursed through her. He thought he was going to force himself on her and get away with it. He actually thought he was going to use her job to control her.
No job was worth being a victim. No job was worth her self-respect.
‘Get your fucking hands off me!’ she screamed even as she grabbed the fountain pen she’d been using to grade papers and plunged it with all her might into Whittier’s leg.
He hollered, high and long, and fell back. His legs buckled under him and he hit the floor.
Then all hell broke loose.
Connor felt the door cave in under the force of his shoulder. Thank God the doors were old and the locks even older. The coffee was forgotten and currently lay in a puddle on the floor where he’d dropped it when he’d heard the commotion going on in Bridget’s office. The dean was in there, attempting to rape his woman.
There was no way in hell he was going to let that happen.
As the door exploded off its hinges, Connor assessed the situation and saw Bridget, her breasts naked and exposed, and the dean on the floor with what looked like a pen sticking out of his leg.
A small part of his brain was proud of Bridget for fighting back. The other part of him could only think about killing the son of a bitch who thought he’d do something so fucking despicable.
He lunged at Whittier and, straddling his chest, punched him solidly in the jaw. He enjoyed the crunch of skin and teeth under his fist even as he felt the skin on his knuckles give way.
‘Connor!’ Bridget was calling his name. He barely registered it through the fog of anger suffusing his brain.
Eventually, he came to himself and saw what he was doing. Dean Whittier was struggling under him as he choked him. The man’s face was red and his eyes bulging.
Connor wanted very much to kill the bastard but he wasn’t worth a prison sentence. The one who deserved to be going to prison was Whittier.
He dropped him unceremoniously and didn’t even pretend not to enjoy the sound of his head hitting the tile floor. Whittier moaned but didn’t move.
Lurching to his feet, Connor whirled and grabbed Bridget, who’d managed to pull herself together. She was crying and clutching the torn remnants of her blouse together.
‘Baby, are you OK?’
She nodded and collapsed into his arms.
‘Take me home, Connor.’
‘We need to call the police.’
‘No!’ her voice was sharp. Stepping away from him, she walked over to where Whittier still lay whimpering on the ground. With the pointed toe of her stiletto, she jabbed him in the ribs and he curled into the foetal position. ‘No, cops, because the dean here is going to give me my tenure, aren’t you? If you don’t, I have a witness to what you did and I’ll report you to the police so fast your head will spin.’ She kneeled down and smacked Whittier hard on the cheek. ‘You hear me?’
He groaned and nodded.
‘Good.’ She started to rise, but stopped, ‘One more thing, Dean.’ She reached out and gripped a handful of his hair, forcing him to face her. ‘If you ever so much as brush against me, I’ll do a hell of a lot worse. Got it?’ He nodded.
Without blinking an eye, she snatched her pen out of his leg. He screamed and even Connor flinched. Bright blood oozed out of the wound, turning his pants deep scarlet.
Connor stepped over Whittier’s body as if he were so much trash and wrapped his jacket around Bridget. ‘Let’s go.’
He didn’t understand everything that was going on here, but that was going to change.
Chapter Twenty-seven
She was sleeping peacefully, but there was no peace for Connor. His brain still reeled from everything she’d told him. Skyler was in the kitchen; he could hear her in there, making tea or something from the sounds.
The knowledge of what that sleazeball Whittier was doing to these two women made him wish he’d killed him when he had the chance. The bastard didn’t deserve to draw breath.
He opened the bedroom door and paused to look at Bridget. She looked small and pale against the navy blue sheets. Her red hair spilled across the pillow like coppery ropes and the strain of the night’s events was erased in sleep.
He loved her. He wanted her. But she didn’t trust him.
More than anything, that was what he’d realised tonight.
He’d seen the knowledge in her face when he’d asked her how long it had all been going on. She’d copped to the fact that it had started coming to a head weeks ago, even though Whittier had been a threat long before they’d started seeing each other.
She’d also told him her plan for exposing the dean. Her tenure might be secure after tonight, but Skyler was still at risk.
He gnashed his teeth at the danger she was putting herself in to do it. People like Whittier didn’t take defeat lightly and he could very well retaliate. She hadn’t been willing to hear it, though. She was a mama bear where her student was concerned and he couldn’t fault her. He’d probably do the same thing.
The fact remained that he’d been right. She’d been hiding this from him.
Trust.
One little word that had more meaning than anything else.
They didn’t have it, and without it, they didn’t have anything.
She’d never lied to him, he had to concede, but she hadn’t been honest either. That she’d kept this from him showed that she wasn’t willing to invest in him the same way he’d invested in her. He’d told her everything: his deepest shame, his greatest hopes.
He had to give her credit for telling him about the rape. That couldn’t have been easy, but rather than bringing them together it had become the excuse to keep a distance between them in bed. She wasn’t willing to meet him halfway. She wanted everything from him and wasn’t willing to give him anything.
If it were possible for a heart to shatter, his now lay in pieces at his feet.
He’d tucked her into bed and lain with her until she’d fallen asleep. Tonight had been traumatic for her and despite the cost to himself, he was proud of her for standing up for herself.
That their relationship was over could wait for the morning.
