Текст книги "Tempting"
Автор книги: Alex Lucian
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Tempting Book One in the Tempting Series
Alex Lucian
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Release News
Acknowledgments
© 2015 by Alex Lucian
All rights reserved.
Cover Designer: Najla Qamber, Najla Qamber Designs, www.najlaqamberdesigns.com/
Interior Designer: The Write Assistants, www.thewriteassistants.com
Editing: M. Wiemer, Jon Perry
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, brands, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
For Jamie, the greatest inspiration
Chapter One
Professor Easton,
Please bend me over your desk and fuck me until it hurts.
Sincerely,
Adele Morello
• • •
I stared at the email for several minutes, my cursor hovering over the “Send” button. And then I hit the backspace button and rewrote.
From: Adele Morello
Date: Saturday, September 12, 2015 07:37 PM
Subject: A plea
To: Nathaniel Easton
Professor Easton,
Do you have any opportunities for extra credit? In looking over the course syllabus, I’m concerned I will struggle in some areas of this class and would like an opportunity to pre-emptively redeem myself.
Sincerely,
Adele Morello
• • •
Much better. Smiling to myself, I clicked “Send” and leaned back in my chair, taking care to not put too much pressure on my ass. The chair swiveled from side to side, squeaking with each twist. I tapped my fingers on the desk, waiting impatiently for his reply. Leaning my head back, I looked to my right, saw my bed, sheets rumpled and pillows scattered across the ground. If I closed my eyes and inhaled, I could still smell him.
His hands gripping my hips, fingers biting into bone.
His tongue circling my pierced nipple, an assault by his teeth.
His grunts as he came inside me, eyes flashing above me in the dark.
I could live on the memory of that night for a very long time. But frankly, I didn’t want to. I wanted a round two, three. Four.
My phone chirped and I glanced at it, seeing the text from Leo. I ignored it. I felt a little bad that I hadn’t messaged him after my abrupt exit from the bar the night before. The exit that was thanks to one Professor Easton.
I looked back at the computer, and when I saw a reply, I sat up straighter, immediately wincing at the quick bite of pain in my ass.
From: Nathaniel Easton
Date: Saturday, September 12, 2015 07:41 PM
Subject: Re: A plea
To: Adele Morello
Ms. Morello,
I’m afraid extra credit requires more work for me, therefore it’s not something I typically offer. If you are implying you are incapable of doing the coursework that will be assigned, perhaps you should consider withdrawing from the class now.
Your alternative is to hire a tutor. If you have the financial means to do so, I’d be happy to forward you a list of students who would have the time for you.
Regards,
Nathaniel Easton, EdD
Professor – Creative Writing
• • •
Well. That was basically a big fuck off, Adele. Luckily, I wasn’t easily discouraged. After glancing at the bed again, my eyes fell over the only physical evidence I had that he’d been here. Who knew plastic and a little metal could be so important? He’d regret leaving them here.
From: Adele Morello
Date: Saturday, September 12, 2015 07:42 PM
Subject: Re: A plea
To: Nathaniel Easton
Professor Easton,
Thank you for your prompt reply. I’ll make do.
See you in class,
Adele
• • •
I padded across the worn wooden floor to the bed, grabbed the pair of brown-rimmed glasses he’d left behind. My fingertip caressed the gold emblem: the stacked Ms. I’d pulled them off of his shirt when he’d climbed over me, tossing them to the nightstand without either of us giving them a second glance. I knew the glasses cost more than two thousand dollars, so he would likely want them back. Opening the arms, I placed them on my face and turned my head to the full length mirror to my right.
Bringing my thumb to my mouth, I chewed on my nail as I regarded my reflection. My hand came up to my mane of pale blonde hair, ruffling it around. And then I smiled, knowing Professor Nathaniel Easton hadn’t recognized the woman he’d gone home with the night before.
The woman whose hair he’d held tight in his fist as he flipped her onto her stomach and slid into her from behind.
The woman whose ass he had slapped like a man on the verge of losing himself, a man who had let down his guard long enough to show how deeply he needed release. How long had it been since he’d fucked like that?
I tilted my head to the side and pushed my hair off my shoulder, exposing the line of love bites across my collarbone. One black-polished fingernail followed their bruising, relishing the way he’d completely consumed me in that bed.
We hadn’t exchanged phone numbers, just saliva. There’d been no empty promises of seeing one another again. I’d followed his lead, and we’d fucked like only two strangers with wild abandon could.
And best of all, he hadn’t realized I was his student.
But he would.
Chapter Two
The Night Before
“Adele!” Someone called my name and my head lifted, searching the crowded bar. I saw bodies moving against each other in a drunken dance, beers being tipped back, and in the middle of the chaos was my best friend, Leo, a glass of beer in each hand, arms above his head.
He pushed and turned, maneuvering through the crowd with the ease he owed to being a six-foot-three, broad-shouldered quarterback.
“Hey,” he said, breathless as he pushed a beer into my hand. Someone brushed by me, causing the beer to spill across my fingers. I moved the beer to my other hand and shook my wet hand.
“Hey yourself,” I returned, bringing the beer to my lips.
“What’s up with the costume?” His eyes roamed up and down and I followed his gaze, taking in what he was seeing. Skin-tight leggings, ripped up tank, leather jacket: all black. I wore my thick hair down and I was stacked on stilettos with heels narrow enough to pierce skin.
“It’s not a costume.” I tucked my hand into the front pocket of my jacket and sipped my beer again. “It’s just a little different from my school clothes.”
“I’d say. That’s some … uh, interesting eye makeup. Are you channeling Catwoman or something?”
I rolled my eyes. My eyes searched the bar before coming back to Leo. “I’m just trying something new is all.”
“Is this some kind of revenge ploy to burn Garrett?”
I shuddered thinking of Garrett, of his slimy hands and slick words, lying to me about the rumors swirling around campus, lying all the way through the moment I found him with his pants down and some pretty blonde coed sucking him off.
“She came on to me,” he’d said, as if that absolved him from any guilt.
“Hell no, Leo. Come on. I don’t need to load on the eyeliner and slide on leather to make him hurt.” My eyes searched the bar again, seeing if I recognized anyone.
“Then who are you looking for?” Leo had caught me, not that I’d been very subtle.
My eyes moved back to his and I narrowed them, shrugging, and sipped more beer. “Not sure yet.” I licked the foam from my upper lip and set the glass down. “So what’s new with you?”
Leo leaned against the bar as I sat on the stool immediately next to him, the raucous voices around us requiring him to lean forward so I could hear his answer.
“Darcy wants to cool things for a while.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Cool things? Why? You guys just started going out.”
He shrugged. “She thinks we’re moving too fast.”
“Oh, puh-lease,” I groaned. Darcy was Leo’s first real girlfriend out of high school. They had only become official a few weeks ago, over a keg of Sam Adams graciously purchased by Leo’s fancy-pants CEO daddy. She’d trailed him and, by association, me all summer long, hanging over us like a cloud of sparkle and black ringlets. I’d bared my teeth to her a few times, flirted with Leo in front of her more often than I cared to admit, but she’d snuck through his defenses and latched on like an orange-tanned little leech.
Leo raised his eyebrows and blew out a breath, seemingly as confused as me. “She’s worried I’ll distract her.”
“You?” I asked incredulously. “She’s the one who showed up to your practice and screamed hysterically when you were sacked. She’s worried you’ll distract her?” I laughed. Long, loud.
When Leo didn’t laugh along with me, I reached a hand forward and patted his shoulder. “Poor baby, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make fun, really. But you have to admit she’s a little bit over the top.”
With a slight nod of his head, he peered down at his beer. “Yeah, okay. She did start washing and folding my boxer briefs when I wasn’t home. I don’t even fold them.”
I laughed again. When he didn’t seem to join me still, I squeezed his shoulder and dropped my hand. “Come on, Leo. We’re twenty-one. Darcy isn’t the one you’ll imprison with a ring someday.” Looking around the bar, I said, “Let’s take your mind off of Darcy tonight.” It sounded more sexually suggestive than I’d meant, and Leo glanced up at me, brown eyes searching mine.
“Get real, Madsen. Not ever.” I shook my head at him and finally earned a small lift of his lips. “Finish your beer and I’ll buy you some big boy shots.”
By the third beer and second shot, my bladder was protesting against the compression of my leggings and I left Leo with some blonde he’d snagged on the way back to the table with round four. I did the need-to-pee dance all the way to the bathroom, the liquor causing me to fumble a few times, falling against the wall.
After washing and drying my hands, I ran my fingers through my hair, tousling the slight waves I’d added to it, before reapplying my eyeliner and lip gloss.
After I pushed through the door to exit the bathroom, I collided with a wall of heat.
I stumbled backward, a slide reel of my life flashing before my eyes, ending with a vision of my skyscraper heels taking me out, my brains splayed across the bathroom tile.
“Whoa.” An arm wrapped around my waist, yanking me up and forward, my body colliding once again with the wall of warmth. My fingers clutched his chest, nails digging into leather.
My eyelids slid open; my heartbeat slowed. I met his eyes.
“Hey,” he said, in a voice that would have been a whisper were it not for the loud around us. “I got you.”
I searched his face. Blue-green eyes, the color of a shallow tropical lake. Jet black hair, sticking up all over. A well-defined jaw line covered in a few weeks’ growth of black facial hair. Brown eye glasses hanging from the front of his cornflower blue shirt, right in the center of his leather jacket he wore open.
I waited for him to say something.
“You alright?”
Not really what I was hoping for. I nodded my head a little more frantically than I’d intended, my blonde hair falling all over my face. I peered up at his eyes, looking for a spark of recognition, looking for anything that told me he recognized me.
After staring at one another for several seconds, three things became immediately clear:
1. Professor Easton didn’t recognize me as his student.
2. Professor Easton was fucking hot. I’d only seen him from my seat in his class, yards and yards away. Being mere inches from him made my blood warm, my legs tingle.
3. I was still holding onto him and he was still holding on to me.
I tilted my head, causing my hair to fall back over my shoulder. His eyes traveled to my exposed neck and stayed there for a beat, before returning to my eyes.
“What’s your name?”
I debated telling him a lie. I compromised, telling him a nickname instead. “Add.”
“Add?” He raised one thick, well defined eyebrow. “Like Math?”
“Yes.” It came out breathier than I wanted. “What’s yours?”
“Nathan.” It was also a nickname, I knew, as my syllabus had listed one Nathaniel Easton. He didn’t look old enough to be a professor, but he had a solid ten years on me.
“Hi, Nathan.” I licked my lips, coming away with gloss. “Wanna dance?”
Nathan looked surprised. His lips opened as if he was going to instantly say no, but he hesitated. I wasn’t usually that bold, but with my all black costume and sex hair and Dr. Easton looking—let’s be honest—absolutely fucking mouth-watering ... well, I would have kicked myself in the ass with my pin needle heels if I hadn’t tried to take advantage of this cliché meet-cute.
“Dance?” He looked over his shoulder, but didn’t shift his body to let me go. “I’m not much of a dancer.” He turned back to me, eyes roaming my face, trying to figure me out.
“Mm,” I purred, my fingers slowly crawling up his chest, thumbs brushing in their wake. I looked up at him under my lashes. “It’s easy.” My hands clasped his shoulders, squeezing slightly, and I stepped closer, so we were stomach to stomach, my eyes inches from his; my mouth breathing his air. I tilted my head again, letting my hair fall to one side and brought my lips to his ear. “Move with me,” I said, lips brushing his lobe. I pulled back to meet his gaze as I dipped my hips, sliding along his body like water.
His reluctance lasted only a moment before the arm around my back tightened, securing me more firmly against him. My entire body hummed, atoms coming alive at his touch.
We moved away from the bathroom, toward the dance floor, arms and legs entwined and hips aligned. Nathan’s eyes didn’t stray from mine, holding me in place. The music roared, the speakers bouncing the bass all the way to our space on the middle of the dance floor. The song was a slower one, with a resounding beat. A song that exuded sex, a song that demanded we get so close that we tangled with one another.
My face brushed against the stubble on his jawline a couple times, leaving a tingle across my cheeks. Images of his face between my legs, that hair scraping against my thighs, came vividly to the surface, making me ache. I wrapped one hand around his neck, lightly dug my nails into his skin, taking in his warm, spicy cologne. It was subtle, but enough to drive me mad. With my other hand, I explored: fingers along his jaw, hand in his hair, along the muscles of his shoulder.
“What are we doing, Add?” He’d narrowed his eyes, and the lights danced across his face as we swayed from song to song, keeping our bodies close.
“Dancing.” As another slower song came on, I turned around, bringing my back to his chest, my ass aligned with his crotch. I shivered, feeling his arousal hard against the thin fabric of my leggings. One of his arms came around my stomach, pulling me closer. My breath seized for a second, my own arousal a lightning jolt in between my legs.
With his other hand, he moved my hair over one shoulder and brought his mouth down to my exposed neck. But he didn’t touch, just breathed there, warm air traveling up and down the column of my throat. My eyelids closed and my head fell back into him. I brought one arm up behind me, clasping his neck, while my other came around my stomach, linking my fingers with his.
It was the most sexual dance I’d ever engaged in. I was bold, but so was he. With our fingers clasped together, his hand roamed up my stomach, coming to rest right under the curve of my breasts.
Holy mother fuck.
It was almost as stimulating as if his hands had actually covered my breasts. And with that image, I felt my pussy clench down.
Turning my head to him, I whispered loudly over the music, “Wanna get out of here?”
He didn’t answer, simply turned me around and clasped my hand, pulling me through the crowd. I gave a thumbs-up to Leo as I passed him, the blonde curled up on his lap.
When we hit the sidewalk and the clouds of cigarette smoke, Nathan pulled me down the street, the businesses long closed. The lack of light kept the sidewalks in a shroud of darkness.
“Where are—”
Before I could finish asking, he pushed me up against the brick wall and I saw a flash of heat in his eyes before his lips crashed on mine. He tasted warm, minty, like sin and heaven in one bite.
I couldn’t help it; I groaned, long and deep. His lips nipped at mine and I parted them, allowing him access. Teeth and tongues clashed, his hands pinning mine above my head. I wasn’t a submissive type of girl but damn did his control turn me on. I wriggled my arms and when he let go of me, my hands dug into his hair as I leaned into him, licking along his lower lip before sucking it between my teeth. He pushed into me, his hips rubbing against me.
“Fuck,” I groaned, dry humping him like a horny teenager. His hands gripped my hips and yanked my lower body against his as I leaned my upper back against the brick. My hands slid from his hair down his chest, inside his open jacket. Using my thumbnails, I drew a line down each side of his chest, biting through the fabric enough to bring him to a frenzy. Warm hands glided under my tank, over my stomach, up my ribcage. When they met the line of my bra, his fingers dug in just enough to bury themselves between my skin and my underwire. So close but not close enough.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I whispered against his mouth, the hard length of his cock digging into my stomach. “My place is only two blocks away.”
He seemed to war with himself on whether he wanted to pull away and lose this connection even if only momentarily, or if he wanted to try his luck right here, against the wall, hoping we didn’t get arrested for indecency.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” He pulled back, too far for my liking.
My breasts heaved as I caught my breath and I pinned him with a stare. Gripping onto the lapels of his leather jacket, I stepped closer to him, decreasing the distance he’d put between us. “Fuck. Yes.”
“My two favorite words,” he said, before kissing me once more. “Lead the way.”
Chapter Three
Monday morning, class. I arrived early to guarantee a good seat. Front row, dead center, a pair of Maybach glasses hanging from the center of my shirt.
Students piled in, some still reeking of their weekend festivities: booze, sweat and smoke—of the legal and illegal variety. A classmate slid into the seat to my left, bringing with him a cloud of marijuana. He smiled at me, but I paid no attention, tapping the eraser side of my pencil on the blank paper in front of me. My eyes moved to the clock and back toward the door, waiting for Nathan to enter the room. I took in his clean white board, desk free of clutter, chair set perfectly center behind it.
My phone pinged and I pulled it from my pocket.
Celeste: Are you coming home for Dad’s birthday this weekend?
I pursed my lips. Celeste, my sister and Dad’s favorite. She was sixteen years my senior, and about ten steps ahead of me in caring one iota about my absentee father.
Me: Unlikely.
I waited for her response, expecting her to be her usual bitchy self when it came to the matter of our dear father, a man who abandoned his youngest child, a daughter born sixteen years after his last one.
Celeste: Don’t be so selfish, Adele.
Me: Tell that to dear old Dad on his birthday, won’t you?
I powered off my phone, feeling my blood bubbling just underneath the skin. It was no use; a powered-off phone wouldn’t stop Celeste’s barrage of messages. But it did turn off the echo of everything I’d done to disappoint her.
The guy next to me coughed, a wet sound, and I barely contained the distasteful curl of my lips as I leaned away. The seat on my right was quickly filled by a female student who, unlike her fellow peers, had actually given a shit about her appearance today. Her hair was smooth, shiny, reflecting the fluorescents like a mirror. Her makeup carefully applied, her clothing form fitting.
It was no surprise that Professor Easton had fans. After all, I was one. A big one. It was a running joke among the students that the shorter the skirt, the more likely for Dr. Easton to ignore you. He was known for being kind of a hard ass, expecting a lot from his students, not only in their classwork but in how they conducted themselves as well.
I pulled out the copy of On Writing by Stephen King that had been listed in the course syllabus as required text just before the door opened and the noise in the room silenced.
I didn’t lift my head, but I wanted to. I wanted to see if he recognized me. I was wearing jeans and a crisp white button-up blouse—both a departure from my outfit Friday night. But over the blouse I wore the leather jacket and capping my feet were fuck-me red heels. My hair was piled up in a bun. I looked like the Adele from class last week, nondescript apart from the leather, shoes and eyeglasses that cost more than my first car.
He placed something on the desk, and I raised my eyes just slightly to make out his movements. He flipped open the flap of his messenger bag, pulling items from it and placing them with such control on the desk. His hands moved quickly, but not nervously, as if he had rehearsed these movements a hundred times. When he turned around, I lifted my head and watched him scrawl something across the board.
There was a low murmur across the room as he wrote, the entire class paying attention to what he was writing.
I found myself admiring not just the way his slacks fell off his hips, but the power he had over all of our attention. He wasn’t a man to ask for attention; his very presence demanded it.
I closed my eyes briefly, as the flash of him thrusting above me, eyes piercing mine in the dark, infiltrated my concentration.
The sound of something vibrating across a desk interrupted my thoughts and my eyes popped open, glancing to the left.
All eyes were on the female student two rows back, five seats down, as she hurriedly snapped up her phone and nearly dropped it in her frantic attempts to silence it.
His voice was firm, strained. Goosebumps lit up my flesh when he spoke. “Do you need me to go over Student Responsibilities, Miss…?”
The girl’s face fell, her brunette curls accentuating her pallor. “Ashley. Ashley McInerney. And n-no,” she stammered.
“Apparently you do. Let me enlighten you.”
I touched the glasses hanging on the front of my shirt, feeling like they brought me closer to the man I’d fucked on Friday night, the opposite of the man in front of me.
“All students are expected to turn off their cell phones or set them on silent—not vibrate—during class. No laptop, cell phone, iPad, tablet, etc. use is permitted for the duration of class. This is a writing class. While your final assignments will be typed, you will not be doing any typing in my class.” Professor Easton walked around the room, slowly, completely sure of himself. “In my class you will be learning, as is your responsibility as my student. You are expected to conduct yourselves in an adult manner and if you are disruptive, you will be withdrawn.” He pinned Ashley with his gaze and she visibly shrunk deeper into her seat.
“Now, let’s begin.” He walked over to the whiteboard, slammed his palm under the words he’d written.
Why are you here?
He turned his head, eyes scanning the crowd. His eyes passed over me quickly without a trace of recognition. It was if he was just glazing over us, not really focused on any of us in particular.
He pushed away from the board and walked to one end of the room, his hands tucked into his fitted slacks.
“Why are you here?”
The student he asked looked around him, as if expecting the professor’s singular gaze to be focused on someone else.
“Uh…” The student shrugged. “I needed an elective.”
It was if all the air was sucked out of the room with his admission. Everyone sat still, waiting for the professor’s reaction.
He rocked back on his heels, tilted his head so he looked at the ceiling a moment. And then he brought his head down and pointed a finger at the student. “At least you’re honest.” He walked further down the line, pointed to another student. “What’s your why?”
Her answer came quicker, but her tone was less confident. “Because I want to be a writer.”
“No.” His answer was swift. “You don’t want to be a writer. You either are or you’re not. You don’t take my class and—” he held his hands, fingers balled into fists, in the air, “—POOF!” he opened his fists, “become a writer.” He shook his head and the girl visibly shrunk into her seat. “Why are you here?” he asked, moving down the line, steps closer to me.
“Because my parents think I can write.”
The professor paused with her answer. His eyes narrowed and he brought his finger to the bridge of his nose, made a slight movement. It was then that I realized what he was doing, something out of habit.
Pushing his glasses further up. Except he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Because they were hanging from my shirt.
Ten feet away. Four students away.
He continued asking people as he moved down, but their answers were dull echoes in the room because all I could think about was the fact that he was coming closer and closer.
The faintest scent of his aftershave hit me when he was two students away.
I took a quiet breath in, inhaling his scent and the memories that came from it. And then I lifted my head just as the slacks came into my view.
I stared up at him and watched as his face changed. From indifference to confusion to awareness, he stared at me for a beat longer than he’d stared at any of the other students.
He turned his head to the left, giving me a view of his chiseled jaw and I watched as he clenched his teeth, the muscles around his mouth shifting, seemingly composing himself. His profile was strong, sturdy, and when his eyes turned back to mine they were devoid of everything.
“Why am I here, Professor Easton?” I prompted, my voice soft. My hand came up to the glasses hanging in my shirt and I watched his eyes follow the movement. One eyebrow lifted in reaction and he flicked his eyes to mine again.
“For you, of course.” My words were breathy and seemed to hold him still in my grasp.
Leaning back in my chair, I tilted my head and said at a regular volume, “I heard you’re a good teacher.” My lips curved slightly, a wry smile beckoning. His eyes were twin storms of several kinds of frustration and I lifted my shoulders a half inch, the picture of nonchalance.
The voices around us were murmured, no doubt people assuming I was just another desperate Professor Easton fangirl, eager for whatever sprinkles of attention he’d bestow upon me. He backed away, turned toward the board, erased the question and began the class as if nothing had been exchanged between us.
But I caught him, more than once, glancing at me, to the glasses hooked on my shirt.
