25: A Way To Control

Ivy's POV 

I feigned confusion, trying to make my voice steady. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Brandon didn’t buy it for a second.

He shifted closer, his body brushing against mine in the smallest, most deliberate movement. It wasn’t even a touch, not really, just a slow, careful invasion of space. 

His hand hovered near my hip, so close that I could feel the heat radiating off of him, and could sense the exact distance between his fingers and my skin.

My pulse kicked up, but I forced myself to hold my ground.

“I smelled you the second you got there,” he murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful.

My stomach tightened. I knew exactly what he meant, but I wasn’t about to admit that.

“I don’t—”

“I smelled you,” he repeated, cutting me off, his tone quieter now, almost amused. Savoring. Like he was rolling the words around in his mouth just to enjoy how they tasted. 

“And I smelled what watching did to you. That little pulse of arousal you tried to fight.”

I went still.

Every single muscle in my body locked up, my breath caught somewhere in my throat. Heat crawled up my neck, shame curling deep in my stomach.

Before I could process, before I could even think of coming up with some kind of denial, Brandon moved.

So swift and effortless.

One second he was just standing there, close enough to suffocate me with his presence, and the next, my back was against the wall, and I was pinned.

The air between us all but disappeared as he leaned in, a slow, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips, his breath warm against my skin.

I felt trapped, every nerve in my body on high alert, the sharp edge of his scent filling my lungs.

And then his voice.

Soft. Laced with mockery.

“You wanted to be the one in Amari’s position, didn’t you? You wanted to be the one that I fucked like that?”

I shook my head, forcing out a scoff, trying to inject as much disbelief into my voice as possible. “You’re delusional. That’s not true.”

Brandon’s smirk deepened, slow and smug, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Am I?”

His gaze flickered downward, just for a second, before locking onto mine again. There was something taunting in the way he looked at me, something sharp and knowing that made my stomach tighten.

“If I raised up your skirt right now,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, silkier, “and brushed your panties aside, I’d find you fucking soaked for me.”

My breath caught.

A sharp, involuntary inhale that I couldn’t control.

I wanted to argue. Wanted to deny it, to shove him back and tell him to go to hell. But the words didn’t come. They just wouldn’t.

I just stood there, staring at him.

And then his hand moved.

A slow, deliberate slide up my lower thigh. Warm fingertips grazing my skin, unhurried, teasing. My muscles tensed instantly at the contact, my entire body going rigid.

I should have slapped his hand away. I should have.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Why was I enjoying this?

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, but it was drowned out by something stronger, the sensation of his touch creeping higher, his palm pressing just lightly against the inside of my thigh.

I bit down on my lip hard, struggling to keep my breathing steady, struggling not to react. But when his fingers brushed the edge of my panties, so light, so barely there, my eyes fluttered shut.

Fuck.

It was instinctual, a betrayal of my own body, and I knew he caught it.

And then just as easily as he had started, he stopped.

The warmth of his hand disappeared, leaving nothing but air and the sharp contrast of where his skin had just been. My eyes flew open, pulse erratic, my body screaming at the loss of contact even as my brain tried to catch up.

Brandon was already stepping back, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just fucking touched me like that. Like he hadn’t made me want him to go further.

“Make sure you don’t score more than 80 on Monday’s assessment,” he murmured.

Then, without another glance, he walked away.