Half Of My Heart
Yazar
Iya Hart
Okur
2,9M
Bölüm
43
"On your knees, Miss Renée."
"Yes, sir."
For two years, Anya Renée has been in a relationship with Blake Rossi until one afternoon, he isn't hers anymore. Shattered by his betrayal, Anya's sole comfort becomes her sinfully hot tattooed professor who explains English in class enigmatically and whispers filthy things in her ears when they are alone.
He becomes her passion. Her addiction.
She becomes his obsession.
But fate has other plans and getting it on with your ex-boyfriend's Dad never ends well.
Chapter 1
ANYA
I see it all through the bedroom door.
Blake, my boyfriend, is sitting on the bed with a naked girl riding him. His jeans are still on but, judging from her moans, I know they’re not completely on.
The girl isn’t facing me, but I don’t need to see her face to know who she is—Amelia Miller, the head cheerleader at our high school. We used to be friends, but she tried to get me kicked off the squad when I started dating the star quarterback.
I kick the door open.
Blake glances over Amelia’s shoulder and his face turns pale. He shoves Amelia off, throwing her to the floor with a shriek.
“FUCK YOU!” I scream, flipping them both off. Without waiting to hear Blake’s explanation, I spin on my heel and storm out of the room.
“Anya, wait!” Hurried footsteps follow behind me while I sprint down the stairs.
I let out a choked sob as I reach the bottom, and fingers curl around my wrist, turning me to face a bare chest still tainted with lipstick marks.
“Anya, let me ex—”
“No! There’s nothing to explain!” I yank my wrist out of his grasp. “You fucking liar! You have been lying to me all along. Why the fuck do you keep making false promises when you don’t have any interest in this relationship?”
“Anya,” he huffs, raking a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I swear, I didn’t mean to this time. I…I want you.”
“Fucking hell you want me!” I push his chest, shoving him back, and he hits the entryway table behind him, stumbling on his heels. “I’m done with you, Blake. We’re done!” I grit my teeth, promising myself not to cry as I turn around.
I open the front door and collide with a rock-solid chest.
A hand curls around my exposed waist, the sweet pressure of it reminding me of feelings other than anger.
I skate my eyes up the broad torso of a man who stands nearly six feet, five inches tall. They linger on the collar of his cotton shirt, where the edges of a tattoo lace over his tanned skin.
It feels like his amber eyes are magnetizing me.
I take in the other handsome features of the not-so-stranger’s face. His dark, wavy locks sprinkled with white strands. His strong, square-cut jaw, dusted with a light stubble. Those Cupid’s-bow lips.
The man before me is Dimitri Rossi, the father of my now ex-boyfriend, and also my professor. People say he’s one of the most brilliant literature professors in the world. His classes are so popular that I’m sure the only reason I got in was because I am—was—dating his kid.
Mr. Rossi studies me, a look of pure concern locking his jaw tight. He reads my expression instantly.
I should have known he would be coming home, too. Most college courses were over for the day.
“Anya.” Mr. Rossi speaks my name with such carefulness, in that Italian drawl of his, that I forget about heartbreak for a second. “What’s wrong?”
This man has always been kind to me. He has asked countless times if his son was messing up, and I have always stood up for Blake.
Whether it was during my and Mr. Rossi’s late-night ice-cream sessions after Blake made me cry or while watching action movies from opposite ends of the couch as I waited for Blake to stumble home, I defended him.
The many nights here with the Rossi men have filled me with every emotion possible, but as I stand here with Mr. Rossi hand on my waist, the familiar guilt overcomes me. Guilt for having a crush on my boyfriend’s father.
His touch burns my bare skin, and I fidget under his grasp. When he notices, he releases me—one tattooed finger at a time—leaving behind only heat.
I pull away from him and march out of the apartment, leaving his question unanswered. He’ll figure it out soon enough.
***
“That asshole did what?!” Vanessa, my best friend, bellows over the video call. Lying atop her plush bed, she stops picking at her manicured nails.
Walking in a daze along the cobbled path in New York outside Blake’s apartment building, I curse my instinct to blindly trust people. My mother always says I trust too easily, and I am finally starting to believe her.
I tell Vanessa about how everything happened. How I was supposed to meet up with Blake for a project, but he had told me he was sick, so I decided to make a surprise visit to his house. How quiet it had been when I stepped inside. Then the sound coming from Blake’s room. The sick feeling in my stomach when I realized what I was hearing.
The only thing I didn’t mention was bumping into Dimitri. Vanessa teased me about him all the time, saying that he was into me, that I belonged with him instead of Blake—it always made me feel embarrassed.
There’s no way Mr. Rossi would be interested in me. Still, Vanessa isn’t always wrong. She had warned me hundreds of times about Blake.
Vanessa cocks her head to one side.
Her smooth, glistening brown skin contrasts with the ivory shades of her bedsheets, accentuating the elegance of her appearance. She has so much grace in how she carries herself. I would be so lost without her.
“Can you believe it? I blame myself for trusting him instead of you!”
Vanessa nods and tilts her head. “I told you he has a reputation.”
I sigh. “You know me,” I say, shrugging, unable to properly defend my actions. “I’m a mess.”
“He’s such a prick,” she groans. “If you go back to him, I swear…”
“Never,” I declare firmly with a swipe of my hand. “I’m so done with boys, Ness. From here on, I’m only dating men. Real men.”
Or one particular man.
Now that I think about it, actually, I don’t know whether I am disappointed or relieved that my boyfriend cheated on me.
On one hand, I am upset that Blake wasn’t willing to change for me, that two years of trying to make it work were wasted. My feminist brain is telling me to be angry and to curse the hell out of him.
But then there is a tiny part of me that is rejoicing from the thought that now I can crush on his dad all I want without an afterthought. He is still my professor, though, and anything between us could threaten his job.
“Get home soon, bitch.” Vanessa’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “I’ll bring over the Bordeaux.”
I chuckle. “Here I was thinking you’d let that rot in your cupboard till death.”
“One glass each only.” She wags her finger at me, then winks.
“Okay, I’m on my way. I love you.” I blow her a kiss over the phone. “Thanks for always being there for me.”
She blows me a kiss back. “Love you too!”
I laugh before hanging up. Only Vanessa can make me forget all my worries with just a few words.
People pass by as I wait for a cab, standing under a heavily pregnant sky. Rain would be a mercy; it would at least make me feel something other than self-hatred. A gust of wind sends goosebumps over my exposed midriff, and I hug my waist, recalling Mr. Rossi’s touch.
I used to suspect that the only reason I accepted Blake’s bullshit was to be close to his dad. The clench in my heart, now that I realize I won’t have late-night ice creams with him anymore, confirms it.
But he is still my professor, so I will still see him.
Not all professors have enigmatic personalities with a body that is covered with ink. Even his fingers are tattooed.
Worst of all? He has a tongue piercing. Looking at it only brings me visions of his head between my thighs. As his hands brush over my belly up to my breasts, and his fingers pinch my nip—
Wait! Do I really want that? To feel him between my legs and on my body? Do I actually like him more than a crush?
No, it is so sick of me to feel such things for the father of my ex—and my professor. I shake the thoughts away and pull out my phone to use a rideshare app.
Before I can input my ride details, however, a black SUV pulls up, and the window rolls down to reveal Dimitri Rossi sitting in the driver’s seat.
My heart flutters, and butterflies dance in my stomach.
The doors unlock with a click, and he leans over. In that deep accent of his, he asks, “Ride with me instead?”
