Passionate History (2 page)

Regardless, it hadn’t occurred to her to do anything about her little crush. Fantasizing was one thing. In reality, sleeping with a professor was a little creepy. Plus, she’d be mortified if he rejected her and then remembered her as the weird nympho college student who’d thrown herself at him one time.

But then, about a week before finals, she’d been one of the last to leave the lecture room, waiting for her friend Akiko to shut down her laptop, when Professor Worthy had dropped a book near her feet, and she’d leaned over to pick it up for him. She’d straightened, and he’d seemed to jerk his denim blue eyes away from her boobs, which were looking particularly fine in a tight, green halter top. He’d stammered thanks and, if she wasn’t mistaken, his always ruddy Scottish coloring had deepened into an actual blush. Promising.

Akiko confirmed once they were out onto High Street. “He was totally checking you out. He’s cute, but he’s our
teacher
. Gross.”

Bree hadn’t thought it gross at all.

The warm summer air, the thrill of knowing she was an independent woman, with the formality of the graduation ceremony the only thing left to accomplish in her undergraduate career at Weston, not to mention the severe sex drought she’d been experiencing, had all led her to his office. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she’d decided.

And there was so much to gain.

She could have gone on being held by him and kissed by him for a long time, but the slow simmer of lust exploded into full-fledged desire when he ran his thumb over one of her nipples through the thin sundress and sheer lace of her bra. Her nipple hardened almost painfully, and she silently urged him to do it again, pressing her soft mounds into his hands, into his chest, giving him access to touch her as freely as he wanted.

He cupped her breasts, making them ache with acute need, a need that wasn’t fulfilled the more he touched them. Instead, her womb clenched, releasing a rush of wetness between her legs. She rubbed against him instinctively, seeking relief from the feelings he elicited from her. It was all so delightfully naughty: the brightly lit office, mundane except for the large Scottish man fondling her with desperation. The window was open; anyone crossing the lawn behind the building might see them. The frantic way he kissed and touched her left no room for thought about anything else except the need to kiss and touch him back. He was warm and strong through his plain, pale blue Oxford shirt. He dressed kind of preppy. His hair was always carefully trimmed and he was cleanly shaven. But there were muscles under those conservative clothes. His abs were like steel when she stroked them, her fingers seeking his belt buckle, the barrier between her and his most intriguing part.

As she tugged his shirt free, he suddenly stepped back, shaking his head. She was so drunk on arousal, she stumbled a little as he let her go. Ridiculous heels. She’d only worn them to sweeten the deal. Normally, she prized comfort over looks.

But he wasn’t looking at her heels, or at her. He scrubbed a hand up and down his face. Bree saw the opportunity slipping away from them. Time for an executive decision. She fumbled for the light switch behind her and hit it, so the only illumination came from his old-fashioned green desk lamp. The semi-darkness made what she was about to say easier.

“Look at me.”

Professor Worthy slowly raised his head and met her gaze. Guilt, confusion, and overwhelming lust battled for dominance in his expression. The last one was good enough for her to continue. She needed this, and she’d do anything to get it.

“I want you.” Her voice was clear, unafraid. “Take me.”

She was afraid he would be an idiot and be strong, but after a beat, he lunged for her again, mashing his mouth against hers, wrapping his arms around her like iron bands. He practically carried her to his desk, pushing her against the edge with the weight of his body.

“You want me to take you?” he said, his voice so low and raspy she almost didn’t recognize it.

She whimpered her affirmative response when he thrust his hand between her legs and pressed. He’d be able to feel how wet she was; she was crazy for him to know how much he turned her on.

He began stroking her there, underneath her dress and over her panties, until the fabric was so soaked she reached down and peeled them off, while his fingers kept doing wicked, wonderful things to her sex.

The release was fast and hard when it came. The almost excruciating pleasure of her orgasm rocked her, and she’d have screamed if he hadn’t been sucking on her tongue. She shuddered and gasped for air and, with her remaining fine-motor skills, unbuckled his belt.

He released his hold on her to help her free his cock from pants and boxer shorts. Those slid down to his feet, and then there was the mouthwatering weight of him, hot and hard in her hand, filling her with a sense of rightness and purpose. She stroked him as she had never before enjoyed stroking a man’s penis. The shaft was thick and smooth, and the sounds he made as she wrapped her fist around him and gently pumped up and down were gratifyingly guttural.

“God,” he said. She wanted nothing more than to feel him in her mouth, but when she moved to kneel down, he stopped her. “I’ll explode.”

She wanted him to explode, wanted to make him come fast and hard the way he’d made her come. But he held her wrists tightly in one hand, keeping her upright.

“We’re going to need a condom,” he grunted.

She slipped one hand out of his grasp and slid two fingers inside her black lace bra, fished out a square of foil, and handed it to him. She was mesmerized by his perfect lips as he took the packet in his teeth and tore it open.

Even in the dim light, she could see the wild gleam in his eyes, reflecting her own sense of abandon. She trailed her gaze down, over his chest, smooth and strong under the half unbuttoned shirt, to the dark blond curls from which his erection protruded, straight and thick, straining at the latex of the condom. He held himself away from her, his powerful, lean thighs tensed. Bree braced herself against the desk, spreading her legs and raising her skirt up enough to give him access to her wet core. They looked at one another for one long moment before he plunged into her in one bold, terrifying, blissful stroke, filling her up and then some, taking away her breath with another searing kiss.

He pumped inside her steadily, and she met him with every stroke, heedless of the desk’s edge biting her backside, or of her precarious balance in those silly heels. All she knew was she loved every second of being consumed by passion from the inside out. She let go and reveled in being really and truly fucked by a man who obviously knew what he was doing, and who was so attracted to her he’d break some rules to do it.

Just as she started to go up and over the edge once more, Professor Worthy stopped and pulled out. She let out a near growl of frustration then an exclamation of surprise as he twisted her around so her torso was bent over the desk and the front of her thighs met the table’s edge. Air cooled her bare ass as he raised her dress up, his palm grazing each cheek. Bree jumped with the erotic sensation of his hand running along the seam between her legs.

“So wet,” he murmured.

He flicked his finger against her clit, and she sighed, melting into the table. Her initial surprise gave way to sheer hunger. She widened her stance, giving him a better view and better purchase from which to claim her. He reached one hand around her waist to anchor her, keeping the other on her ass as he drove into her from behind, the fullness of his cock in this position taking her to orgasm almost immediately. She couldn’t help her cries, but she turned her head and bit her shoulder to keep from being too loud. He panted and moaned behind her. He was close. Her orgasm felt endless, spiraling around and around the longer he thrust into her. He released his hold on her waist and ass and reached forward to cup her breasts, protecting them from the hard surface of the desk. He let out a choked cry, squeezed her nipples, and she knew he was coming as tears sprang to her eyes at the sheer ecstasy of feeling him behind her, in front of her, everywhere, in every pore.

They breathed together, back to front, for a long minute. Bree could have stayed there forever, pinned to the desk by Professor Worthy’s beautiful cock. But after a while, the ache of her shoes made itself known, and she groaned and shifted. He withdrew from her immediately, and she took her time straightening her dress and turning around, while she heard the noises of zipper and belt. It would be easier to face him if they weren’t half naked.

Bree supposed she should be embarrassed. But she was elated. He’d been amazing. She’d cherish this memory forever—which meant she had to leave now, while she remained in the haze of kisses and body parts and pleasure.

Professor Worthy looked at her with a half-sheepish, half-shell-shocked expression on his face. He looked, in fact, like the adorably befuddled professor she’d grown to care about over the last months.

“That was….”

“Yeah.” She wanted to tell him how incredible he’d made her feel, but words seemed inadequate. Instead, she closed the distance between them, pressed a long, close-mouthed kiss to his lips. She breathed in the scent of their lovemaking on his skin, mixed with his stodgy aftershave. Then she let him go.

“Thank you,” she said, and hurried out as gracefully as she could on those stilts.

Five years later

“Fuck! Let me in—” A horn blared as Bree belatedly hit the turn signal, having crossed three lanes of traffic in ten seconds. “Mass-hole!” she called, cheerful after having made her exit.

She remembered Massachusetts drivers were absolutely insane, but she’d forgotten how fast the exit for Weston University appeared. It didn’t help she was late and the air conditioning in her crappy rental barely made a dent in the unseasonable May heat. Her dress felt sticky against her back, and her naturally wavy hair, already tangled from the five-hour flight from Seattle, was probably frizzy as hell.

Too bad she didn’t have time to stop somewhere and freshen up. Her decision to attend her five-year college reunion had been made—as so many of her decisions were—last minute and with the minimum of planning. She didn’t actually have lodging lined up; all the hotels near Weston had been booked for reunion and commencement weekend for months, but she was certain one of her obliging classmates would have room on their hotel couch or, worst-case scenario, on the floor of the dorm room they’d booked out of nostalgia. It wouldn’t be the first floor she’d crashed on, but maybe it would be the last.

Living in the moment had worked well for her for twenty-six years, but lately, having no plans, no roots, and no prospects had gotten old. She was headed back to Weston for step one of her planning-for-the-future project. In order to apply to graduate school in art history, she required letters of recommendation from her undergraduate professors, and combining the task of soliciting them and seeing some old friends and the campus again was kismet. For days, she’d been unreasonably excited at the prospect of seeing one professor in particular.

If she could only find a parking place within a mile of the art history department. By the time she parked and trudged up Hill Street, where the quaint wood frame house-turned-department-offices sat on the corner, her minimal makeup had completely melted off, and she was dying for a glass of water. Perpendicular to Hill ran High Street, along which sat the familiar row of brownstone buildings that made up the oldest and most picturesque part of campus. It would be fun to walk up and explore later, but first she had to make an appearance at the art history department cocktails. The reception’s name was left over from a merrier generation, but was now an unfortunate misnomer, as the only refreshments were stale cookies and lukewarm tea provided by the inadequate university catering company. Even so, as parched as she was, tepid tea sounded divine.

A white tent had been erected behind the building, and a dozen or so students milled about, some shepherding family members. A few clustered around the older, professorial types. Bree spotted Professor Woodlawn, the chair of the department, and the teacher who’d inspired her to become an art history major in the first place, surrounded by a suitably large throng of ex-students coming to pay their respects to the dowager-like professor. Bree looked forward to catching up with the woman, whose grandmotherly appearance hid a tongue as sharp as a razor when a student’s answers were uninformed or dull. But first, the bathroom. She could sneak inside the building and freshen up before the reception ended.

Blessed air conditioning made her feel ten times better the moment she slipped through the back door. She headed for the powder room she remembered was off the downstairs main hall. Startling, how natural it felt to be back in the building she’d spent so much time in, even though half a decade had passed since she’d last stepped foot in it. She’d traveled across the globe, worked a dozen jobs, met an untold number of people both strange and wonderful, but she had never before felt homesick the way she did walking through the cramped, worn hallway of the art history building on her way to the bathroom. The place smelled like books and dust and microwave popcorn. Who knew she was so nostalgic?

She recalled the hours spent arguing over her thesis with her advisor, Professor Bunmi, the senior seminar where she’d thrown herself into Italian Renaissance painting. Her studies weren’t all she’d thrown herself into. The memory of her last encounter with her senior seminar professor made her grin a bit idiotically. She hadn’t thought about that night in a while, but the memory of her tryst with Professor Worthy always got her pulse racing.

She found the bathroom unoccupied and used her fingers to do what she could to tame her hair. A splash of cold water on the back of her neck made her feel more human. She exited the bathroom and paused outside, glancing across the hallway to a closed office door. The nameplate beside it hadn’t changed. Aidan Worthy, Associate Professor of European Art. He was still here. Just because the last time she’d seen him he’d been inside her didn’t mean it had to be awkward if they met again.