Dark Blue: Study in Seduction, Book 1 (3 page)

“Call me Alex, please.”

Carla pressed her legs together. Oh, hell no. Not Rochester. His verses, even by twenty-first-century standards, verged on the obscene. Reading one aloud to the kindly and owlish Dr. Bhide would have been bad enough, but in front of Alex? Carla just knew when it came to her turn to read aloud, which would be very soon, she wouldn’t be able to do it without giggling, choking or asking her granny to forgive her.

Alex raked a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his temples to reveal the slenderest of steel threads among the jet. “Okay, Emma, when you’re ready.”

“Of course,
Alex
,” Emma purred. “That’s my absolute
favourite
of Rochester’s poems.” She opened her copy, pointedly taking out a slip that marked the page.

Carla sighed inwardly with relief. At least she now had a few minutes’ respite from having to read aloud. She sank into the beanbag and promptly collapsed backwards. Titters filled the room. She shuffled upright on her beanbag as Emma read, relishing every word and not even faltering when it came to the last lines.

Thy nobler part, which but to name

In our sex would be counted shame,

By age’s frozen grasp possessed,

From ice shall be released,

And, soothed by my reviving hand,

In former warmth and vigour stand.

The minutes ticked by as Alex asked Emma for her thoughts on the poem. Carla barely heard a word. Her brain had turned to mush, because as soon as Emma stopped speaking, it would be her turn. She tried to comfort herself with the fact that there were any number of Rochester’s satirical and political verses that Alex might ask her to read. It didn’t
have
to be an erotic poem, although they were studying forbidden texts.

“Carla?”

She glanced up to find every pair of eyes trained on her, all faintly amused, but none as entertained as Alex’s. He suddenly threw her a stern look that had her melting into the beanbag like a giant marshmallow.

“Glad to see you’re back with us. Can you read number twenty-three, please?” His voice was like the low end of the piano; the notes were all bass. In fact, the whole of him was cast in dark tones—his hair, his eyes, his olive skin.

“Oh yes, yes, of course.”

Twenty-three, number twenty-three, where is it?
She flipped the pages of her copy of Rochester’s
Verse
. “Er… Erm… Er…”

Hell, she’d suddenly got brain freeze and a stutter and, as Alex steepled his fingers and fixed his searing gaze on her, the female equivalent of a massive hard-on.

“I’ve got it!” she cried.

“Well done. Now, let’s hear it.”

Her joy at finding the poem was short-lived, because she’d now regained the power of sight and could see the actual words. There was no way she could read this out
loud out, not even if it meant risking Le Prof’s wrath. Maybe she could feign a coughing attack or anaphylactic shock… The room had fallen silent, and she could see Emma smirking at her side and Gideon picking his teeth to her right.

And Alex, waiting so patiently for her to begin.

“Okay. Number twenty-three. ‘The Imperfect Enjoyment’.

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,

I filled with love, and she all over charms;

Both equally inspired with eager fire,

Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.

With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace,

She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face…
”

Carla hesitated, unlike the woman in the poem. Her eyes were fixed on the words again, anything not to look at Alex as she moved on. It got worse, much worse, and she knew she was rushing. Somehow she had to get through it.

“
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part

Which should convey my soul up to her heart,

In liquid raptures I dissolve all o’er,

Melt into sperm, and spend at every pore.

A touch from any part of her had done’t:

Her hand, her foot, her very look’s a cunt.
”

Right that was it. She’d sped through the last part of the poem, with all its grunting, fucking and tingling, faster than a French TGV train and shut the book so hard that dust flew out of it.

Outside in the college courtyard, she sucked in a lungful of air and tried to forget her stammering critique of “The Imperfect Enjoyment”. It certainly was imperfect. Every minute of reading it out loud and discussing it with Le Prof and her fellow students had been a nightmare.

Had anyone else in the room been able to tell that she knew Alex Lemaitre? They couldn’t possibly know she’d come so hard under his brilliant hands that she’d almost passed out. Had he recognised
her
? The answer to that was so obvious, she wanted to laugh out loud. Of course he bloody had. Just like the night of the fetish party, he’d been toying with her.

“Well, that was entertaining, I must say. You don’t get to say
cunt
and
swive
too often on a Monday morning,” she joked to hide her embarrassment.

Gideon yawned, treating her to a whiff of weedy breath. “I think Professor Lemaitre is vastly overrated. He was on the
Late Show
last week, spouting some bollocks about the rise of popular erotica.”

Emma scrolled through her e-mails on her iPhone. “I watched that show back on YouTube. Four times, actually.” She glanced up. “Did you know he had an erection? You can see it if you freeze-frame it at two minutes four.”

“You really did that?” said Carla.

“Yes. Don’t tell me you’re shocked. You can’t be. You’re a mature woman. You must have seen and done more than all of us put together. You were a journalist, weren’t you?”

“That was for the local free newspaper. We didn’t get a whole lot of scandal.” This was true. Not a lot happened in the small town where Carla had worked as features editor on the local newspaper before coming up to Oxford. The one and only murder they’d ever covered had the chief reporter dancing a tango round the newsroom with the editor. That was probably the moment she’d first dreamed of studying English at university, and never in her wildest dreams had she envisaged ending up here at St Bert’s.

“I don’t see how you could possibly have known Lemaitre had a stiffy,” said Gideon as they skirted the path around the lawn on their way to the college student centre.

“Trust me, I can tell.” Emma lit up a cigarette. “And Alex reduced you to a drooling wreck in that tutorial, Carla. I know you’ve got a massive crush on him as well.”

Massive crush
didn’t even come close to covering the feelings that Alex Lemaitre had inspired in her, either seven months ago in London or now in Oxford. Heat flooded her cheeks. She laughed. “Okay. I’ll admit he is quite attractive.”

“For feck’s sake, I don’t see what he’s got that I haven’t,” Gideon spluttered in disgust.

Emma giggled. “I’d love to see what Alex is like when he’s angry. I’ve heard rumours, of course, and I am so tempted not to hand in the next essay just to see what happens.”

Gideon was in full flow. “He’s too old for you.”

“No, he’s mature and experienced. Big difference,
huge
. As far as Le Prof is concerned… Mmm, come to Daddy, Emma.”

Gideon guffawed. “Typical. Feminist by day, looking for a father figure by night.”

Alex, a father figure? Carla was speechless. He was surely only in his mid-thirties? She resolved to Google him to death the moment she was on her own with access to a computer. In the meantime, Emma would have to do.

“Does he actually have any children?” she asked, which sounded safer than asking if he was married.

“Not according to Wiki, but he is divorced. His ex lives in San Francisco.”

“Really? What else does Wiki have to say about him?”

“That he was born in Provence to an English father and French mother. He uses his mother’s name for some reason or another. He went to boarding school over here, got a First in English literature at Cambridge, and then did a PhD in the States—presumably that’s where he met his wife. Then he came back to Oxford.”

“How old did you say he was?”

“I didn’t, and for your information, he’s thirty-five.” Emma gave her a sly smile. “Similar to you.”

“Cheeky. I’m only thirty-four.”

“I know that. I just wanted to see your face. You see, Le Prof is made for you.”

“Apart from being our tutor,” replied Carla, and then swiftly changed tack. “He must be one of the youngest professors in the university.”

“
The
youngest, I think, and now, twice a week for the rest of the summer term, we’re going to be confined in a small room with him. How crap is that?”

“Totally.” She clutched her bag tighter to her chest as if words could protect her from the desires Alex had kindled. Desires she didn’t understand even now and hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. Needs that Stephen, no matter how much he’d cared and provided for her, had never been able to meet, even if Carla dared to have confessed them to him in the first place. So why, since almost her first glimpse of him, had she been fantasising that Alex Lemaitre
could
fulfil them?

They stopped outside the student union. “Coffee, anyone?” asked Emma.

Gideon checked his watch. “No, thanks. I’ve got to get to the river for rowing practise. It’s Eights Week at the end of term. Have to get myself licked into shape.” He flexed his arm muscles. “Unless someone is prepared to do it for me.”

“Is he part Neanderthal?” Carla asked Emma once Gideon had gone.

“That’s a bit harsh on the Neanderthals. Are you coming for coffee?”

“I’d like to, but I ought to go and start on my Rochester essay. If Alex’s reputation is anything to go by, he has high expectations. I think I’ll emigrate after I’ve sent it to him. I hope he doesn’t give us grades in the tute.”

“Mmm. Well,
I hate to tell you this when you’re already traumatized… Le Prof likes his students to read their essay out loud in group tutes.”

“Read them out? They don’t do that anymore at St Bert’s, do they? I thought that had gone out years ago, and Dr. Bhide never expected it.”

“That’s because Dr. Bhide was a sensitive soul who wouldn’t hurt a fly or dream of torturing a poor ickle fresher. Le Prof may be hot enough to set St Bert’s alight, but he’s also the Terminator of tutors. You’d better get your flameproof knickers on, because you’re going to have to share your insights on Rochester with the rest of us.”

“Perhaps the rumours about him are an exaggeration. He wasn’t
that
evil this morning, and besides, I’ve learned better than to believe in rumours and gossip in my job,” said Carla, squirming at the image of flameproof knickers.

Emma blew a spiral of smoke heavenwards. “Let’s hope so, because we’ve got the next eight weeks to measure up.”

“Shit.”

“Stop worrying. You underestimate yourself. Now, you look like you need that coffee, and it’s starting to rain. Let’s get into the Union before it starts to stink of wet chemists.”

As they queued for the coffee machine in the Union, Emma’s iPhone rang. She glanced at the screen. “Oh my God. Sorry, I just
have
to take this. By the way, have you booked into college dinner next week? You’ll need some stodge inside you before we go out.”

“Yes. I’ll be there,” Carla managed to reply, even though most of her rational brain had been consumed by the one thought that at some point, and very soon, Alex Lemaitre might mention their encounter at the fetish club.

“Ciao, then!” said Emma.

After she’d gone, Carla took a deep breath, dug out her purse and fed some coins into the machine, hoping it would conjure up a cappuccino. She didn’t go to college dinner that often because, unlike the rest of the freshers, she didn’t actually live in college. Oldies like her were considered mature enough to trust with a flat in the graduate hostel just out of town. The area was sedate and suburban, a bit like her, she supposed. The following week, she’d agreed to go to a club with Emma and some other students and was having dinner in hall before they went out.

“Carla, hello again. How are you?”

The tiny down on the back of her neck rose. Clutching her cappuccino, she turned to find Alex right behind her. His tanned forearm was only inches away from her thighs as he leaned forward to slot cash into the coffee machine. Though they weren’t even touching, he may as well have run his hand along her naked flesh, because even the hint of a touch made her senses spring into life. Instinctively, she tensed her thighs and bottom.

“
Are
you okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Fine. Very fine, thanks, Alex.”

He straightened as she gathered her sensible Mrs. Jonas persona from the seething tangle of her fantasies. It wouldn’t do to drool on the Union’s new parquet flooring. He smiled at her too, the warm and friendly smile of a normal—and totally mortal—man. Surely he couldn’t really be the intellectual tyrant Emma had made him out to be? Rumours spread like strep throat at St Bert’s, mostly fuelled by teenage wish fulfilment.