The Professor's Spring Fling Read online

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  The Wild Rose Press

  www.thewildrosepress.com

  Copyright ©2008 by Annick Claire

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  The Professor's Spring Fling

  Epilogue

  Also available

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  The Professor's

  Spring Fling

  by

  Annick Claire

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Professor's Spring Fling

  COPYRIGHT ©

  2008 by Annick Claire

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Angela Anderson

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 706

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

  Publishing History

  First Scarlet Rose Edition, August 2008

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To all the writers who have helped me get here, sincere and heartfelt thanks.

  Your generosity never goes unnoticed

  or unappreciated.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  The Professor's Spring Fling

  Amelia Bradley sifted through papers in front of the fire, a glass of white wine on the hearth step beside her. Her first semester as a professor at the small New England college had been an unqualified success. With that accomplishment under her belt, she was enjoying the second semester even more.

  Being a young, successful, critically acclaimed novelist was one thing, being able to teach writing to bright young students quite another. But she'd accepted the position for a year at the urging of a college friend who had also gone the academic route, if for no other reason than to prove she could do it.

  She set the papers aside; they were mid-term essays and she'd already plowed through half of them. After three years in California, she considered New England a different world. She enjoyed it, though. The more reclusive life suited her. She loved her snug cottage, and the chance to reflect and write without the frenzied social obligations of LA was more attractive than she would've thought.

  She curled up on the luxurious, deep pile carpet in front of the fire and stretched like a cat. Her fingers slipped under her flannel pajama top, skimmed up her rib cage and massaged her breasts, pressing her palms over her nipples.

  She loved New England.

  But lord, she missed sex.

  It had not been her intention to live like a nun when she moved here, but somehow, after settling into classes and the more academic life, she hadn't found anyone who interested her.

  Well, all right, if she must be honest, the only one who interested her was a student.

  She pinched her nipples. Not interested. More like obsessed.

  At first, she'd been appalled by her reaction to the young man, and he wasn't even in any of her classes. Then she'd come to realize he was just that type of man. Everyone on campus, male or female, was completely enamored of Nicholas Creston.

  The combination of charm, devastating good looks, and the confident, easy grace that came from lifelong wealth was a potent attraction. He was practically a character from a novel.

  Mystery surrounded him.

  It was generally accepted that he came from a different stratosphere financially, but he was so charming, so fun, so generous, materially and intellectually, that no one thought to question just exactly why he was here. Rumors followed him as often as women. That he was the son of European royalty. That he was a dot.com billionaire. That he was the descendent of one of last century's oil barons. However, everyone seemed so pleased to have him, they didn't want to tempt fate by excavating the truth.

  Amelia knew, as a first-class researcher, the fact that it was hard to discover his true identity was a sure-fire sign of astronomical wealth. Otherwise, it would be easy. A part of her was curious to learn his secrets, but if she were honest, she'd bought into the group mentality. She didn't want him leaving either. What if it was true and, once they learned his secrets, he'd disappear into the mist?

  But as a writer, as a student of humanity and motivation, and all the other hallmarks of good fiction and intriguing reality, she understood the greatest mystery of all: Why was he even here at this tiny college? Denley had a good reputation, but it was hardly the academic powerhouse where he obviously belonged and could clearly afford.

  But no one would ever want him to leave. It was sheer joy simply watching him. He rowed crew, so he had the body of Adonis. He had the looks and charm of a movie star—the devastating black Irish variety. His dark curls and mischievous green eyes left even the most rigid professor simpering and eating out of his hand.

  And she was certainly not the rigid type.

  But damn him, not only was he gorgeous and charming, not to mention the most sensual male she'd ever encountered, he was also smart—brilliant, in fact. And perhaps most potentially devastating of all, rumor had it he was nice.

  Oh, not nice in the mild-mannered sort of way. He was hot-blooded and well traveled, in the sexual sense, or so she'd heard. But despite the many women he'd been rumored to have slept with, he'd never treated them poorly or cruelly. It was as if they lived to serve him, and then did their duty when the time came by letting him go without fuss. Because, of course, there might come a day when he'd come back to grace them again with his lovemaking.

  And, for pity's sake, what woman in her right mind would not be obsessed with such a man? Especially a previously oversexed woman who'd lived the life of a damn nun for the past six months?

  Amelia slipped her fingers under her waistband and into the folds of skin at the top of her legs, rubbing hard, her other arm folded across her middle. What she needed was some friction. What she needed was release.

  None of this had really been a problem until last month.

  Last semester Nick had traveled in decidedly different circles, both personally and academically. Amelia taught mostly freshman classes—by choice—and a couple of graduate seminars, either too high or too low for the young Prince of Denley, as she thought of him.

  But somehow, for some obscure reason that no one could adequately explain to her, he had appeared in her class this semester. Something about certain required courses not transferring appropriately or some such nonsense.

  Having him there was torture.

  Every single day, she saw more of his spectacular mind and his mouth-watering body; even wrapped in winter sweaters, she could appreciate the firm biceps and broad shoulders. The stretch of arm between elbow and wrist tantalized her to distraction, exposed as it was when he pushed up his sleeves.

  She dug her heels into the carpet, pressing her clit harder against her fingers, closing her eyes to imagine him on top of her, inside her. His dark head and long, strong body cove
red her, then thrust into her, so hard they inched across the carpet as one. His hands circled her wrists and held them above her head, powerless to touch or move, except as he allowed her to.

  Dark hair and skin contrasted with her lighter tones, her fine, short mouse-brown hair; his length spilled over hers by a few inches, but their bodies fit perfectly, her tight, tense nipples nearly flattened against his muscled chest.

  He drove into her one final, powerful time, with a grunting cry she matched in real life, as her fingers brought her close to climax. She forced the image of him from her thoughts.

  Undersexed she might be, but she also had a conscience. He was a junior in college and her student. She would not mess around with him.

  The doorbell rang just as she brought herself to release with another keening cry. Breathing hard, she threw her elbow over her eyes, willing the uninvited guest to leave her in peace.

  No such luck. The doorbell chimed again, and she levered up to look across the room at the clock. Who in the world was standing on her doorstep at nearly eleven o'clock on a Sunday?

  The third ring annoyed her. The town was small, and she'd left her urban fears behind in LA. She swung the door wide, then felt the breath leave her body at the sight of her sexual obsession standing on her doorstep.

  Her stomach clenched and her nipples tightened even more, but she forced her features into a surprised yet bland expression, grateful for the generous cut of her flannel top. “May I help you, Mr. Creston?"

  He smiled, his sexy lips curling and eyes flashing with unholy amusement, answering her question in a very different way from the words that tipped from his mouth. “Sorry to bother you, Professor, especially so late at night. I've been trying for a long time to screw up the courage to ask you something."

  She tried to ignore the image of their two bodies pressed together, entwined passionately, erotically together on her carpet. She pressed her fingernails into her palm. Screw. Had he used that word on purpose?

  Heat rose from her core, creeping up into her breasts. They ached with want for him. She bit her lip.

  She stood resolutely in her doorway. If he stepped over the threshold, she was lost. “Surely it can wait until class on Tuesday?"

  He pulled a manila envelope from under his arm. “I've started a book. It's a thriller, nothing like your work, Professor. It's hack stuff. But I'd like your opinion."

  She took a deep breath, willing her heart to slow down even as he stepped closer to hand her the packet. She took it in lifeless fingers, her other hand gripping the doorjamb for support, tension arcing through her body.

  She watched, mesmerized, as his strong, warm fingers wrapped possessively at her hipbone. “Are you okay, Professor?"

  But the tone of his voice sounded neither concerned nor solicitous. She twisted her glance away from his hands and back to his face. Very little emotion showed on his features, just a typical, beguiling half-smile quirked on his lips.

  But his eyes. Desire sparked like burning emeralds from his eyes.

  She didn't respond, thinking at first that this was her own, sex-starved, Nick-obsessed hallucination. But then his hand moved slowly up from her hip, following the line of her body. Finally, his fingers rested just to the side of her breast and his thumb skimmed across her body to brush her nipple so quickly she almost thought she'd dreamed it, before going back to rest above her ribcage.

  Her knees turned to jelly, but she tightened her fingers even more, her knuckles whitening against the door molding. He placed his other hand around her opposite hip.

  "Can't I come in Professor?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. You're my student, Nick."

  He ignored that. “You make me feel the exact same way, in case you're interested, Professor. In class, I listen to your brilliant lectures with half an ear. The other part of my brain is undressing you and pulling you across your desk. It's wild and primitive and sexy as hell."

  She threw a furtive glance behind him, up and down the dark street. What would her neighbors think, for heaven's sake?

  He must have read her mind. “You live like a nun, Professor. All they see is some man standing on your doorstep. Since you won't even let me in, they can't think any less of you.” He smiled, sensuality oozing from his pores. “I won't attack you. Even though I'm not completely sure you wouldn't welcome it.” His fingers pressed more tightly into her, then released completely. He stepped back.

  Torn between feeling bereft at the loss of his touch and mortified that he'd picked up on her obsession with him, she shifted, pressing her shoulder against the jamb and hugging the envelope against her chest like so much armor.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he tilted his head to study her. His eyelids and voice dropped in a sultry, conspiratorial way. “Don't worry, no one in the class would ever notice. I wasn't even sure until just now, and I'm good at picking up on sexual energy like that.” He raised an eyebrow in amused challenge. Arrogant man.

  "Nick, it's out of the question. Yes, a part of me would love to have you throw me on my desk and fuck me until I can't breathe. But you are my student and I cannot, ethically, get involved with you."

  He didn't answer, and a strange shiver ran up her spine while they stared at each other. After a few seconds, his gaze dropped to her lips, which she licked in response. His eyes narrowed at the gesture, then swept back up to lock onto hers again. “How old are you, Professor?"

  She ground her jaws together. “None of your business, Nick."

  He laughed, an unbelievably sexy sound that tripped as intensely over her breasts as his finger had. “It's on the copyright page of every book you've ever written. You're twenty-six years old. Quite an accomplished twenty-six, I might add. Far more accomplished than I am, and I'm thirty."

  A slow curl of desire drifted up from below her stomach to the tips of her aching breasts. No wonder he seemed so much older. He was. Her brain felt like cotton wool, unable to process thought. “You're still my student."

  "And I'm the best student you have in any class. I'm even better than your grad students."

  True, damn him to hell. But it was still wrong. It was. Because he was her student. Right? No, wrong. It was so tempting. He made it seem so easy. But it wasn't. She couldn't. She wouldn't. And she told him so in a hoarse voice that sounded like sex. “No, Nick.” Her fingers clenched on the yellow package with the strain of her denial.

  "Whatever you say, Professor.” She heard the words. She watched them as they tumbled into the chilly, dark night, accompanied by a puff of steamy breath and that slow, sultry, signature smile that said something else entirely.

  It said, “Maybe not tonight. But soon."

  "Goodnight, then.” He backed away a few steps, the unholy smile and gleam in his eyes fading into dark distance, but she could still feel them on her even after he turned and walked down the driveway to the sidewalk. She closed the door on his visit, her back against it, her body humming with sexual awareness.

  * * * *

  Finally.

  Spring break.

  She thought she'd never make it.

  As much as Amelia enjoyed teaching, it was torture having Nick in class. Every Tuesday and Thursday, ten to eleven-forty a.m.

  After his late-night visit on her doorstep a month ago, her body pulsed with awareness whenever he was near. Somehow, she managed to put it to the back of her mind in class, but gods above, the nights.

  She craved him, there was no other word for it. She dreamed erotic dreams, scorching images of him possessing her every way imaginable. Each morning he seemed imprinted on her skin, her dream lover tempting her to know how the real man would feel.

  And he knew it, too. She could tell by the way he watched her like a tiger tracking his prey. She rarely met his gaze in class. With intense focus, she could keep her mind on her job and the twenty other students in the class. But always, though not a muscle moved on his face, she knew they shared the same carnal image of his naked, fevered body pinning hers to th
e desk, surging into her like a pagan god, worshiping her skin with his lips and fingers.

  Not surprisingly, the Friday before Spring Break offered a skeleton student body. Amelia cut a diagonal path across the traditional campus quadrangle from the building of her final class to her office on the top floor of the oldest structure on the grounds. She didn't expect any students to seek her out today, but she still wanted to honor her posted hours in case.

  Her cell phone bleated as she pulled her key out of her bag. She rushed to open the door and drop the bag on her desk, shuffling through it to find the blasted thing.

  She checked the number, her eyebrows rising as she placed the tiny phone against her ear. “Sara?"

  "Hey, Lia."

  "Is everything okay?"

  "Well, yes. In fact, it's great! Sort of.” Amelia didn't even try to piece together the puzzle of her sister's sentence. She waited patiently for her to continue.

  "Christophe's firm called an hour ago. They want him to fly out to San Francisco for the week and give some lectures at a conference,” she paused and then giggled. “The guy from LA who was supposed to give them wound up in the hospital with some freaky reaction to a cosmetic procedure.” She giggled.

  Amelia filled in the blanks. “So you think you should fly out with him and do some sightseeing?"

  Her sister hesitated before answering slowly, “No. I would like to fly out with him. However, I promised my sister, who moved to the East Coast six months ago, but I have yet to see, that she would spend Spring Break with me and my husband in New York City."

  "Oh, Sara, don't worry about it. This is a great opportunity for you two. You should go. Besides, I haven't done any writing in weeks. I'll drive down to Hilton Head for the week and work on something. I haven't been there since I moved East either. Come to think of it, I haven't been there on my own in years."

  "Are you sure, Lia? Wait a minute. You're not writing? Are you okay?"

  She smiled at her sister's concern. Sara, more than anyone, knew that writing to Amelia was like breathing. “I'm fine. Teaching is a little more time-consuming than I expected, especially after mid-terms.” She avoided discussing her very distracting sexual obsession. “A week on my own will probably be good for me. You know how it is, everything happens for a reason. Enjoy San Francisco. And love to Christophe."